When I was young, I believed happiness was a prerequisite for life. Now that I am older, I understand that it is only an elective. I also presumed that my parents were perfect. Ergo, I was unable of forgiving them. I quit wielding my indignation once I accepted that they were just human.
I considered my mother to be a beautiful woman, like flowers, butterflies and sunsets. I still do. But beauty, like gender roles, is a construct whose primary basis is childhood impressions, this I conjecture. I used to be considerate. I still am but only if it suits me.
Goodbyes have never been easy. But if I have learnt to leave so ruthlessly then it’s only because of those who claimed to never leave me. My tremors are noticeable. This homeopathic doctor once claimed that, like my hair, my nerve endings were frayed too. That’s what’s been amplifying the tremors, apparently.
I think art is how things occupy space. And, deprivation leads to hunger only if consumption is the eventual destination. Otherwise, deprivation becomes default. It defines a part of you. So, maybe, this need for you is a part of me.