“You can wake up now- the world has ended.”- John Stark
I seem to be making peace with myself at last. I have been told that I am lucky to be experiencing this sensation, even if I am altogether unsure about it lasting. I believe now that
disappointment seems to come in threes and having dealt with my incumbent trilogy of bad omens of late, I am now glorying in what I think is commonly described as the ‘hibernation’ phase. I am simply tired of always 'trying' for something, whether this means desperately chasing my escape out of here; an insight into who I am or want to be or just vying to impress myself and anyone in immediate radius with some notion of dormant greatness buried within my person.
My life is fast assuming the proportions of a road sign: Maria Amir- A Precautionary Tale. Hibernation generally denotes enhanced delusion in my world. Lately it has meant that the first thing I did when I heard about his death was to rent out ‘Ratatouille’ and order an MnM McFlurry. It has meant that my first impulse when I heard about finally losing a six-year probability was to laugh hysterically with Asma and watch Family Guy reruns. It has meant that when I learned that I was not called back for the Chevening interview - which two colleagues whose application essays I had written out were summoned to- I picked up a novel and made myself a cup of coffee to drown out my prickled narcissism.
I have missed reading without an agenda, just random reading with no purpose save ‘saving me’ from myself. The first bind my fingers pulled out happened to be “The Secret life of Bees” and there is a quaint stillness to the overly simplified American South that I find appealing and necessary at present.
However this is not the important part. I like to believe that something tangible in me has shifted. Perhaps ‘like’ is not the correct sentiment. It is an awareness coupled with an intense bout of nostalgia for no longer really believing in all the silliness I rely on believing in. This decapitating realisation has left me stock still and I loathe being still. I have been still and the freezing notion of such inaction is all pervasive, everything comes back to haunt you if you are still enough to let it and since my tangible lethargy prevents me from being active in person, I have always depended on my hyper-active senses to compensate. The stillness within is deadening and given my incumbent fascination with death it is not a place I like to frequent. I know that it is almost always born of a latent lack of belief. It was the first thing that I thought of when faced with my trilogy of tangents: perhaps God is punishing me for my polluting professions. This made me angry rather than remotely contrite. It made Him appear petty and the universe more warped than usual.
But this is not what makes me stumble. The steady crashing of grand pedestals in the past 14 years has brought me to the point where I realise full well that I no longer put stock in all the things I profess allegiance to: my silliness, my inane rituals, my failed grandeur. Even though I continue to chase after them with increasing distraction I realise that I no longer believe in them enough for them to work and only the ritual remains relevant.
I feel altogether too much like Peter Pan at the moment where Wendy tells him she must grow up and that he is ‘just’ a boy. It is not the brand ‘boy’ that kills, it is the inflection ‘just’. As if somehow his entirety does not even merit a spasm in existence.
I find that I am not quite ready to escape my Escapism.
But somewhere along the past two weeks I already have.
I am taking to the park with increasing regularity. Running is a sensation I did not know I missed. It is rather sad, seeing as those of us blessed with motor function can always run, but almost never do. I have discovered that what I enjoy most is anticipating the stitch in my side that appears almost as soon as I cross my first round bend in the park and stop next to a quote post that remarks quite candidly “Respect Women…” the post after that reads “…please!” and I think it is my favourite presence in Lahore because it almost always makes me laugh, especially when I am feeling particularly miserable. Then there is a quote that states “Nationalism is the notion that ones country is the best in the world just because we belong to it”…I often end up sharing a not-so-secret smile with the many senior citizens who happen to chance upon the sign. Running has brought with it a sense of possibility. There are no words to describe the thrill of experiencing the complete absence of thought brought on by physical exercise. I should have tried it earlier, because listening to music without processing it; racing through an environment without observing it and shifting in the midst of people without caring is a respite I cannot manage any other way.
Of course this does not change the fact that when my eyes do happen to flicker off the ground ahead of me they invariably collide with a pair staring at my chest. However, I do not think this can be helped in my country and for once I refuse to be shamed into backing out. So I stare back down at my new Nikes and am on my way.
I think I ‘love’ to run.
And it hits me, isn’t that the ephemeral euphemism for Escape?
I seem to be making peace with myself at last. I have been told that I am lucky to be experiencing this sensation, even if I am altogether unsure about it lasting. I believe now that
disappointment seems to come in threes and having dealt with my incumbent trilogy of bad omens of late, I am now glorying in what I think is commonly described as the ‘hibernation’ phase. I am simply tired of always 'trying' for something, whether this means desperately chasing my escape out of here; an insight into who I am or want to be or just vying to impress myself and anyone in immediate radius with some notion of dormant greatness buried within my person.
My life is fast assuming the proportions of a road sign: Maria Amir- A Precautionary Tale. Hibernation generally denotes enhanced delusion in my world. Lately it has meant that the first thing I did when I heard about his death was to rent out ‘Ratatouille’ and order an MnM McFlurry. It has meant that my first impulse when I heard about finally losing a six-year probability was to laugh hysterically with Asma and watch Family Guy reruns. It has meant that when I learned that I was not called back for the Chevening interview - which two colleagues whose application essays I had written out were summoned to- I picked up a novel and made myself a cup of coffee to drown out my prickled narcissism.
I have missed reading without an agenda, just random reading with no purpose save ‘saving me’ from myself. The first bind my fingers pulled out happened to be “The Secret life of Bees” and there is a quaint stillness to the overly simplified American South that I find appealing and necessary at present.
However this is not the important part. I like to believe that something tangible in me has shifted. Perhaps ‘like’ is not the correct sentiment. It is an awareness coupled with an intense bout of nostalgia for no longer really believing in all the silliness I rely on believing in. This decapitating realisation has left me stock still and I loathe being still. I have been still and the freezing notion of such inaction is all pervasive, everything comes back to haunt you if you are still enough to let it and since my tangible lethargy prevents me from being active in person, I have always depended on my hyper-active senses to compensate. The stillness within is deadening and given my incumbent fascination with death it is not a place I like to frequent. I know that it is almost always born of a latent lack of belief. It was the first thing that I thought of when faced with my trilogy of tangents: perhaps God is punishing me for my polluting professions. This made me angry rather than remotely contrite. It made Him appear petty and the universe more warped than usual.
But this is not what makes me stumble. The steady crashing of grand pedestals in the past 14 years has brought me to the point where I realise full well that I no longer put stock in all the things I profess allegiance to: my silliness, my inane rituals, my failed grandeur. Even though I continue to chase after them with increasing distraction I realise that I no longer believe in them enough for them to work and only the ritual remains relevant.
I feel altogether too much like Peter Pan at the moment where Wendy tells him she must grow up and that he is ‘just’ a boy. It is not the brand ‘boy’ that kills, it is the inflection ‘just’. As if somehow his entirety does not even merit a spasm in existence.
I find that I am not quite ready to escape my Escapism.
But somewhere along the past two weeks I already have.
I am taking to the park with increasing regularity. Running is a sensation I did not know I missed. It is rather sad, seeing as those of us blessed with motor function can always run, but almost never do. I have discovered that what I enjoy most is anticipating the stitch in my side that appears almost as soon as I cross my first round bend in the park and stop next to a quote post that remarks quite candidly “Respect Women…” the post after that reads “…please!” and I think it is my favourite presence in Lahore because it almost always makes me laugh, especially when I am feeling particularly miserable. Then there is a quote that states “Nationalism is the notion that ones country is the best in the world just because we belong to it”…I often end up sharing a not-so-secret smile with the many senior citizens who happen to chance upon the sign. Running has brought with it a sense of possibility. There are no words to describe the thrill of experiencing the complete absence of thought brought on by physical exercise. I should have tried it earlier, because listening to music without processing it; racing through an environment without observing it and shifting in the midst of people without caring is a respite I cannot manage any other way.
Of course this does not change the fact that when my eyes do happen to flicker off the ground ahead of me they invariably collide with a pair staring at my chest. However, I do not think this can be helped in my country and for once I refuse to be shamed into backing out. So I stare back down at my new Nikes and am on my way.
I think I ‘love’ to run.
And it hits me, isn’t that the ephemeral euphemism for Escape?
I enjoyed this post.
ReplyDeleteI think what you are going through, is perhaps a transition into a some sort of adulthood. Why? Well, belive it or not; I once was a bit like you. ( Do not despair however, I think you will do much better than I ever will. - If the young me would hear that utterance from my own mouth I belive he would beat me up. But things and people have an uncanny ability to change, and change again. )
I am glad you have discovered the joy of running ( or cardiovascular exercise to be more exact ). I think sometimes it is the only thing that keeps me sane nowdays. Cycling is my way, but I have also done plenty of running. Running is more effective time wise. You get the high much sooner and feel less drained afterwards.
Ps. About the chest thing, if i understood you correctly. You might solve that issue with a sports-bra. I somehow think would get worried, seeing singns like you see, and not having that issue with the chest-and-running sorted. ;)
Vanity prevents me from refraining to offer unsolicited advice on running. I hope it will be forgiven.
ReplyDeleteThe stitch in the side is a result of irregular breathing. It is a sign that the runner is running faster than they should. It can be remedied by an effort to take even breaths. But it gets irritating if one concentrates on it too much.
'The stitch' can also be caused by eating too close to the time you run. So the food tends to bounce inside your upper digestive system, causing discomfort. You should try waiting 1,5 to 2 hours after a big meal, before going out for a run. Its ok to eat some snacks in the last 30 minutes, but keep it small. This is ofcourse not universal, this is just a guideline; some people can get away with breaking all those rules.
ReplyDeleteM, the mode remains uncluttered and the text, morbidly fascinating. But it is becoming harder to judge what you are passing through as a person. Maybe you are hiding behind the shower curtain to pull off Bates' wig. Or maybe I can no longer read between the lines.
ReplyDeleteYou are growing out of those shoes, and it might be worth your while to stop waiting for your real life to begin. But it makes for one hell of a captivating read and I would not want that to change. So, quit jogging around and get a liposuction at the last moment just as you're sure your real life is about to take off.
nikhil i may just end up doing that, although its funny enough to admit it but i no longer feel i run for the excercise, i have never been known to show dedication for that particular quest!
ReplyDeleteMr Anis:
I am grateful for your advice about the stitch, but i mostly think it is my asthma...i've had severe breathing problems since i was a child, although my doctor said running slowly should be a good thing as long as i kept my inhaler on me. And i am thinking a stitch in the side rather than a nosebleed is progress. i did manage a nosebleed the first day a month ago!
Arnpor: The meals are avoided at most times, but then again...rules.