Me, and not Them

I see, I analyze, I decide, I conclude.
About me, about others, my life, their lives. I've never really liked myself, never much hated too. But life for me, at any point, has never been a complete bed of roses

I segregate this part of me into a portion I call a 'Psychological mumbo-jumbo.' Comes like, once a week or something. But it does come, and so it has come.

I fear analyzing myself, even though I love it. It gives me infinite possibilites to think, and my brain loves activity. An activity which I know will mostly end up in a result, which might be correct or otherwise.

I fear it because I know that somewhere down in those dark galleries lives a me I don't want to be. A me of lies, deceit, hatred and fear. A me who is obssesed with myself, my ideals, my decisions. I've wronged many and many have wronged me. I fear going through everything all over again. It hurts me, and I cry. Doesn't mean that I'll shed tears, I've learned how to cry without shedding tears. But I cry nevertheless.

I am stupidly emotional. I have always been like this. There is no reason for it. I hate this part of myself. I feel I'm not 'man' enough. Who on earth cries when he sees Gandhi walking semi-naked through the streets of Dandi? Who cries when he sees Ganguly hitting an awesomely elegant century and silencing all his critics? Hell! who cries when a new-born puppy snuggles up with his mother to cut out the cold? I do, because it doesn't stop at just that for me. I think about it further. I relate it to the past, something which did affect me once. And I cry, and this is a ritual. I'm not saying that I love it. I hate being different. From the inside, I hate being different. I'd rather be normal, with all those normal means of fun one has, without those infinite fixations. Without worrying much about the world. Ignorance is certainly a bliss.

I do not like being alone. But I have to. Because I can't be with someone who can't make me feel good. There's no point. That's the problem with me. I search for "points." Someone rightly said, "You're so mechanical, Anupam!" I can't agree more with her. If I can't get my "points" by doing something I don't do it. I am that pathetic perfectionist you watched in sci-fi movies. I even search for perfection in imperfection. It's terrible.

Have you ever experienced strong spasms within yourself? Have you ever found that one shoulder missing from your vicinity, the shoulder which always exists in your dreams, to support you? There is a beginning to happiness, but there is no end to sorrow. Those are the times when you feel that you're the biggest loser ever. And you justify yourself being that. Your mechanical brain tells you that you're a loser, and you can't defy your mechanical brain just because it has given you your "points" to prove that you are a loser. You hang your head low, grounded by failure. There is a faint light at the end of the tunnel and you don't have the speed to reach it before it vanishes.

I know that I think too much for an eighteen year old boy. There's going to be no positive out of it. There is never a positive out of sorrow, whatever they might say in those proverbs. I've seen it, I've experienced it. You just need to learn to be happy. Just mug up ways to be happy, and apply them. There's no concept here, no logic, no mechanical "points." You don't need to be an IITian to be happy. I'm still applying those ways. And they're not my darling "points." I'm happy, but I've lost this battle with myself. I can only try hard and save my identity, because I know it makes me me, and not them.

I'm still me.