Have you ever forgotten your ATM pin? I did once. I have had
been using the same combination for ages now, so I didn't need to put it now ,
I had thought I was immune, that I would never forget it.
On second thoughts, the thought of forgetting about it never
crossed my mind. Like the thought of forgetting your mother's name never crosses your mind,
you never forget it you never put it down somewhere to remember it.
I called up my dad and
asked him if he had the original docs and if he could help me with it. He told
me it will come to me, to not hasten it. He told me to allow my fingers to
remember it, go to the ATMs and try punching in the sequence. I laughed him off
at first but my unrelenting trust on my father's way of life took over and I did it, once/twice a week and
one day, it just came to me.
That was my eureka moment.
We live life like this, being used to things, getting
comfortable. Letting our bodies, learn our language. Letting our bodies speak
our language. Makes me scared, makes me think, how important it is to be
mindful, how important it is to be aware of what language we are speaking, and
what language our bodies in turn are.
In other news, discovered Paolo Nutini last week, told a friend about it and he says he has been listening to him since a long time. late bloomer me.
in anticipated anxiety, the need to cry. forgotten alive and awake, the need to be seen and heard . forgotten existing, pretending, coaxing, stifling, hiding. FORGOTTEN. like a rolling stone I'll walk alongside, like a vagabond I'll leave you surprised. a penny for each thought unsaid, a penny for every memory that fades. every single penny you earned, don't forget, that is for every notion I burnt. in ashes are those memories, those fantasies soot. every desire famished, every lover moot. the need to prove yourself myself; writing in third person. forgotten.
forgotten for what is ever gotten the desire to make sense. forgotten.
I came across this list of cues for poems. I am trying to do all of them..
this is one from the list (Write a poem about Forgetting)
How much and how little has the time passed? tick-tock-tick it whiles away.
There is an urgency to live and and urgency to die, but all that is to be done on my sweet time.
Tick-tock-tick it messes with my brain; staring, straying, hounding and barking, forever and ever.
P.S.was sitting in drafts too long, had to be out. incomplete, but there it is.
Planning, shielding walking or rafting. Whatever it takes. Finding a sweet spot in your own life where you can comfortably sink in and watch the world go by is difficult. It is not the finding that is difficult, it is, it is difficult, but it is not the only thing that is difficult. It is also difficult to keep it.
It is not difficult to keep it because of the obvious reasons, it is difficult to keep because you don't know how to stay in the place. You are not used to doing the right thing; not used to being nice, not used to being happy in the right place at the right time.
You are not used to being happy, not used to being content. Trying. TRYING. whatever it takes.
Sing me a happy song and I wont turn you away. At-least for now =)
I am not jumping-on-a-trampoline happy.
No, I am not in the most
‘perfect’ stage of my personal or work life. I could do with a better paying
job, a lean-toned body, but that’s only so much wishing can do. I know I can do
with a lot of things different; but, I am in a place where I know that I couldn’t
have done without the things I have now.
Maybe, that’s what quiet satisfaction
is (no, I have not given up on controlling things, yet) It is just that, I don’t
have difficulty sleeping and my mornings are nicer, crisp almost.
The broody, intense, passionate man with Jesus hair and song
in his fingers is absent. I have instead a tall-ish, lank-ish, goofy man, who
always smiles when he looks at me, hums a song when he is happy.
He doesn’t make me weak in my loins with his looks; but yes,
his embrace is my spot, in everywhere.
He doesn’t make my emptiness go away, I still withdraw at
times, cry and feel less than I should. He cannot fill me in ways I want…but he
fills certain empty cold places with a warm glow, he holds the light up,
un-knowingly most times but earnestly. He doesn’t want to search me, he is
waiting, patiently, for me to come around.
We do things that keep us connected. My husband reads the newspaper, even if he gets only 10mins to do so, while he brushes his teeth; I cook, even if I do that in the only 'free' time I have aside from the working and traveling-to-work hours. It keeps us connected, connected to our homes and thus to our mothers, while we make a home of our own.