life – Page 8 – untitled atm

028b – flights

Adding this picture here since I think it has some interesting things worth noting. I love how it has things related to the pandemic as well as the fact that it’s the pride month – something else I wanted to talk about it in this piece, but didn’t end up getting to. Still worth it, though, I think.

I’m stuck in a five hour flight. Two of the five hours have passed and I’m slowly starting to enjoy it. Had a terrible night since this was a 6 am flight, and why past me thought it’d be feasible is beyond me. Spent the whole night in the “too anxious to fall asleep” and “too sleep-deprived to focus on anything” loop / limbo. But.. I’m here now, and not unhappy nor frustrated. The airport was terribly packed, by the way. In a way I’ve almost never seen before. It’s not completely unexpected since the pandemic is sort of coming to an end here, or at least a pause (who’s to say, really), but still took me a little by surprise.

I was trying to write a little bit earlier too. I was thinking about how it’s been difficult to sit down and focus on writing coherently. I was thinking about how inspiration has been fleeting lately. How it does knock on the door from time to time but flees before I can invite her in. But it’s interesting how a medium-long flight offers exactly the right kind of an environment to focus.

My body is, admittedly, quite uncomfortable, but I’m sure my plight is nothing next to that of the very tall boy sitting next to me who seems incredibly uncomfortable in the middle seat.
This got me thinking about the economics of shared but unequal travel, or in general… shared but unequal experiences. It’s been quite a while since travelers have been able to afford various privileges for an additional cost, but it’s one of the first times I’ve been on the more privileged side. It’s a weird feeling, I didn’t expect so much guilt around it. I wanted to let him know to let me know if he wanted the windows up or down, and for a minute I’d even felt like offering him my seat if it were slightly less uncomfortable. Then I remembered I’d paid more for my seat and there was no reason for me to have to do that. So yeah, the guilt around privilege was and is very real.

Anyway, my time in the States will be coming to end in around 7-8 months. And it’s weird how that changes things so much. I’ve noticed how ever since I got the confirmation of this news my perspective on my remaining time has shifted quite significantly. Every experience feels retrospective even as I’m living it. I was thinking about the people who made the last three and a half years worth recounting. Some of them were people I knew from before I moved, some I met once I got here. So, so happy and content with this last phase of my life. I think I’ve grown a significant amount and learnt so much about myself and what I want from life. Of course, I don’t know whether I would get everything I want or not.. but it’s still nice to feel more aware.

Flights always bring up a lot for me. Something I can’t stop thinking about is the first flight I took when I was moving here. I was seated with another girl similar to me in age, and a married man probably in his 30s. The three of us had ended up talking a lot and having a great time (flights from India to the US are terribly long), – and it just warms my heart to remember that experience. It was such a great welcome to this place, and I’ve always been so grateful to both of them for providing me with that. Hope I can pass that on to someone else at some point.

021a – bridge the gaps through personal conversations

Something new I’ve been realizing is that I’ve been intellectually starved. When you’re not talking to enough people who care about similar things as you do, you can forget that it’s a major part of satisfaction. I spend a lot of time thinking about things like gender, sexuality and mental health, stories and narratives but many people around me don’t. The sad thing about some of these topics like these is that they often come up only personally or when someone seems to be demanding things or pushing an “agenda”. And that’s maybe the unfortunate fact with anything that has a history of stigma associated with it, or a “minority” topic in general. For example, nobody questions anyone talking too much about travel, or money, or grades, or games or real estate or family. These are perfectly acceptable dinner table conversations. And yet, these other things can often be “too heavy” for most people.

Talking to a couple friends yesterday about my personal history with anxiety and my sexuality, I realized that I enjoy talking about these things. But I also realized it doesn’t always have to be in the context of me or my history, I would probably enjoy talking about these things even “generally”. But I had to pave the way for these conversations through my own context. It makes me realize how much of “bridging the gap” might have to be done through personal conversations. Social media can be so loud about all of this in this day and age, and yet perhaps people end up paying attention only when they’re more involved, when they’re almost a bit personally (?) involved.

“Finding your people”, then seems to be an important pillar to keep in mind while navigating life. It takes time to realize how much you’re missing until you find the good stuff. Nilan has posed a nice question that caught my eye recently. What do I want my life to prove? Currently, authenticity is something that I really want to swear strongly by. Right now, I really want my life to prove that living authentically (more than we think we can hope to) has no limits. Calling a spade a spade doesn’t make you socially ignorant, there’s reasons why people don’t do it, and those reasons deserve to be questioned.

And while wanting to live authentically should need no justification, it seems like finding our people would also be 10x easier if we did operate extra authentically all the time?

This also seems to me like a nice spin on vulnerability. What is vulnerability if not simply being authentic? Let’s normalize being authentic. It doesn’t need to be an act of courage. It doesn’t need to be a conscious effort. There’s no limits, and the benefits seem worth it. I don’t think it always needs to happen through social media or the internet but I think these mediums make it easier to reach or find the people we wouldn’t have found as easily in our own limited circles.

Also, one thing I’d like to tell you if you’re someone who’s practicing authenticity but feel like it’s not always reciprocated – keep at it. Often the seeds of such efforts bear fruit only a few months later, but know that there’s always someone who’s noticing it, and getting themselves ready to reciprocate.

015a – a rainy summer San Francisco afternoon

It’s a rainy afternoon. She looks out the window towards the buildings and the skyline she’s been seeing for over a year now. She can’t help but think of how it’s only been a few months since she’s started associating them with the feeling of “home”. For the first time in months today, she sees them from a different angle. For the first time in months, they catch her eye and invoke that feeling of newness, the feeling she thinks one can only get in hotel rooms in new cities. The feeling one can get if they were to look out of windows of such hotel rooms. It’s mysterious, adventurous, inviting, all in a single frame. She thinks the mystery comes from what she’s looking at, not from where she is. It’s mysterious because she’s not there, because she can only look at it. There’s a part of her that feels anxious about stepping out of the house. She might have wanted to walk towards the buildings otherwise.

There’s one in particular that stands out among the others. Brick red in a sea of beige and grey. As the sun steps out to test the waters, her feelings fade away a little. Almost as if they don’t want to be examined in good lighting. Almost as if they’re afraid of being seen. She thinks they faded since the former gloominess had reminded her of a certain few days in Italy. A certain few days with her parents a couple years ago. It was the last time she remembers being awed by the newness of a place.

Things had changed quite a bit a few months later. She’d started feeling much more anxious much more often. She would almost always feel less present in situations. Less focused on the things around her, since a big part of her attention would almost always be on herself. It was the result of what her anxiety was centered around. Or so she thinks.

It’s still beautiful outside, yet she notices herself coming back into her own thoughts. There’s been no visible change, but she’s transitioned to a different person in a single moment. A moment ago she was fully consumed by the beauty of everything outside of herself. Now she’s only interested in everything related to herself.

She notices how her window (that she’d earlier propped fully open to capture of a picture of the said view) is now stuck and doesn’t close. She notices how she’s wishing for some food to make the observing experience better. She notices how her room’s cluttered and suddenly she’s disillusioned. Or as some would say, re-illusioned.

She feels lost in thoughts. She doesn’t feel like there’s a point to what she’s seeing or doing. She knows the feelings that had come up were precious to her, and there’s a part of her that wanted to stay in them, understand them, and maybe even share them. She wishes she could make someone else feel the same way. She thinks that’s crazy, she doesn’t think she has the skills to make that happen. But there’s something that’s not letting her move on to the next block of the day. She’s trying to write and she doesn’t want to stop, she doesn’t want to get up and order food or whatever. She wants to stay here. She wants to go back thirty minutes in time and feel all of this all over again.

She’s grateful for the circumstances that have allowed her to stay home this week. She’s grateful that her anxiety didn’t come up everyday for a whole seven days, she thinks that’s what allowed these feelings to come up at all, and for her to notice them, and for her to be able to stay with them. She’s amazed by how she’s been overwhelmed by a “positive” emotion after ages. She knows this was happiness, though she also knows that it’s gone, at least for the time-being.

She almost wishes the sky would be gloomy again.

008a – appreciation for the sea

She stands at the edge of the pier, staring into the water the surface of which glistens brightly under the evening sky. She wishes the waves would meet her eyes and bring answers to questions she doesn’t know she has. Another lost soul makes its way to where she stands, but she doesn’t turn around – she fears she’ll see herself in them. She doesn’t turn around, she fears she might have to acknowledge their presence, she’s not done grieving the lost ones yet. She stares into the sea, hoping it’s her desperation that’s making it talk, and not the moon that’s barely visible tonight.

She hears voices float towards her from a little far away, a family of four out for fun, out practicing, trying to catch fish. She hears the voices but she doesn’t pay attention to them, she’s hoping the ripples and the waves will somehow fuse to make the sound that she really wants to hear. The sounds of the lost ones.

She’s been coming here for the last seven days, seeking and saying goodbye at the same time. She fears being recognized. She thinks if someone saw her twice they’d know what was happening, they’d know she’s been grieving. She’s shared her grief with everyone who’s listened, yet tonight she doesn’t want to be seen. Not unless that can bring her comfort.

She’s listened to Atlas Hands for hours and she’s found comfort in the idea of a shared external world. She cannot reach the moon or the stars but she can get pretty close to the sea. This is the first time in years she’s glad she lives near the water. This is the first time she’s fully appreciated the sea and all it can be and everything it can mean.

She is falling in love again. She is transferring her love for another heart into the sea. She tries to draw the meaning out of the memories and pour it all out into the sea, where it can dissolve with the water and free her a little bit. She’s been doing this for seven days, or seventy, she’s not really sure.

She starts making her way back to her house, there’s real life she needs to get back to. She doesn’t really want to go back, it’s peaceful outside. There’s a homeless man sleeping near a sidewalk, she wonders if she’d ever survive a life like that. She sees a group of homeless men talking and laughing. She wonders if, in this moment, they’re happier than she feels. She pays attention to people on her way back. She feels drawn to them, in ways she can’t always describe to other people. She moves slowly, as if in a movie. Everything she perceives feels beautiful. Every noise musical, every movement graceful.

She’s making room for the new ones and she doesn’t know it yet. She doesn’t know she’ll be thinking about this night a couple months later from now. She’s found meaning in life all by herself and she doesn’t know it yet.

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