Please, please, please

Human beings can apparently endure an amazing amount of misery as long as there is hope; but neurotic entanglements invariably generate a measure of hopelessness… It may be deeply buried: superficially the neurotic may be preoccupied with imagining or planning conditions that would make things better… The neurotic expects a world of good from external changes, but inevitably carries himself and his neurosis into each new situation. Hope that rests on externals is naturally more prevalent among the young… As people grow older and one hope after another fades, they are more willing to take a good look at themselves as a possible source of distress. - Karen Horney

Before my walk today, I read this thing - “Every morning I wake up and drink my coffee and watch God eating my heart like a pomegranate.” That was especially unsettling as I buy, peel, eat a pomegranate almost every day. Now, I will feel like I’m nibbling on a heart. Whose heart? Mine? Yours? God’s?

That brings me to the aforementioned winter self-care activities I partake in : Walking and peeling-eating pomegranate. And being perfect (of course). Love them all. I wish I did them primarily out of joy and less out of the fear of losing my grip on joy. I peel the pomegranates slowly and methodically, like my life depends on it. On some mornings, it really does. When I eat it, I crush the seeds in my mouth to release the juice, instead of chewing on them directly. For my walks, I usually go around 4.30 or 5.00 p.m. I like to catch the golden sun when it starts getting colder. I carry some essentials in a borrowed Kunzum bag - water bottle, wallet, dark chocolate, SOS panic attack pills, and an apple. It takes me around 15 mins to reach. I haven’t tried running to the garden, though. Or skipping. Or backflipping.

It has been a pretty chilly day today. 11°C. I wore my woollen Sapphire blue scarf. My friend, Reshma, calls the scarf glorious and I think she has ordered one for herself too. There is a jacket I invested in, and it rained today, and the jacket protected me. You know what they call it in the East? Divine Intervention. Let us now, not pretend, that music isn’t the most critical part here. Curation as life. The weather called for a somber song. I, however, wasn’t feeling particularly somberlicious. I started with Drive Home. “Who is driving home? Not me.” Next. Moved to Motion Picture Soundtrack, Radiohead. “Did Thom Yorke just call me crazy? Rude.” Next. Maybe by Joplin. Not today, Janis. Next. Next. Next. By song seven, I was emotionally unbothered, much to my dismay. I was making the environment conducive for my heart to feel sad. It, however, felt the complete opposite. It wanted to dance. Talk to a friend. Run. Laugh. Celebrate. Do the floss. My heart was misbehaving, again. “C’mon! Just feel sad! Isn’t that your default setting?”

It had been 25 mins, roughly. I hadn’t really looked at the trees. I was feeling joyous, still. I wanted to dance, still. It was raining and the air smelled like forest mist. Embarrassing. Annoyed. “Let me listen to Jagjit. He’ll make me sad. No, that one song reminds me of the boy who twitches in his sleep.” By this time, it was really dark. I spotted three boys sitting quietly on a bench, two men strolling leisurely in front of me, and a woman power walking with her phone’s flashlight blazing, cutting through the evening like a beacon of purpose. I smiled. I wasn’t supposed to because I was trying to feel un-smiley. While I searched for some more, I realised I was standing across the main monument. Shish Gumbad. There was one man sitting on a bench next to it, chuckling on a video call. And there was me, wrestling with my rogue happy hormones, disgruntled with my lack of emotional control. The Shish Gumbad was constructed in 1494. Were people back then shuffling through playlists, searching for the perfect lute melody to feel sad? Annoyed at my persistent joy, I yanked out my earphones. I retreated under a magnanimous tree. I saw a bird. It was drizzling. I love the sound water makes when it touches the surface. I could hear the wind. And the man on his phone - he was talking about his new job. I couldn’t see the torch lady. She must have been behind the Bada Gumbad. That was constructed in 1490. Were people doing brisk walks for cardiovascular health back then?

I sat in silence, staring at the weathered bricks of a monument built in a time when girls didn’t need a deepfake of their dads apologising to them, just to unlock the possibility of happiness. One last shuffle. The Smiths. “I said I love the smiths!”, I muttered theatrically, tossed my phone aside, fully committing to this mood. In less than a minute, my alarm went off - Therapy in 15.

Illustrations by Lizi Boyd from Flashlight.