“Won’t hear a sound,
from my mouth.
I’ve spent too long,
on the inside out.
My skin is cold,
to the human touch.
This bleeding heart’s,
not beating much.” — Wearing the Inside Out, Pink Floyd
It’s incredibly hot. This painfully sultry weather has had me pining for some mountain air. But, this evening, that is the smallest of my worries. I’ve had some serious thinking to do, about me, about us, and the proverbial future, rushing towards me at sixty seconds per minute. It’s worse than reading V. S. Naipaul.
M and i have been together 3 years now. That seems comforting. It is. But, we’ve not been without our bickering and name-calling — odious insults hurled at each others’ ancestors and downward. And, there’s also love. It’s been rather turbulent. It’s insane, actually. Me, like an Indian housewife, seeking constant affirmation. And him, like a nonchalant schoolboy who wouldn’t be troubled by the vagaries of adulthood. Apparently now, i know what people mean when they say ‘it’s complicated.’
Often times, i’m thinking, and wastefully. Staggering possibilities occupy my already cluttered mind — like clusters of squalid housing in suburban Bombay! Thankfully, there’s Pink Floyd’s iconic ‘Wearing the Inside Out’ playing in a loop. I realize that the music is making magic. I’m ecstatic. Floyd’s music does just that. But, the ecstasy is short-lived.
At close to 40, i feel vulnerable. It is the truth. An ominous one. Perhaps i must meet C on my next trip southward, and smoke up some of his happy weed.
This attempt to write is random, though i’m no stranger to writing. Perhaps, i’m in some need for catharsis, and reclamation of a lost interest.