I fear you, 2016
I have the Medium Tab vying for attention, jostling for space amongst other tabs crudely opened so the number of opened windows stands as a direct metaphor to my chaotic state.
My internet is despairingly slow, like murphy hath control it, and this Steven Tyler video I really want to watch refuses to load. Even as I spend my time contributing to already existing mediocrity like most writers my generation.
But speaking of mediocrity, it is New Year’s Eve and I am sitting here vociferously typing this out with little care for form, style or tact. I’m writing two other pieces simultaneously, so if I suddenly start taking about my favourite albums this year, or this festival of colours few have heard of, then fret not. I might return to the topic at hand. Or I might perhaps drift away into a space of no-return. Either way, you’re free to leave when you most must.
It has been my nature, for as long as I can remember, to overcompensate my emotion of underhandedness with an endless string of words. Talk till you see the listener drop. With that comes a good dose of social inappropriateness I’m more than willing to acknowledge. But here, for the first time ever on a social platform, I will speak truly. Not like the writer who uses first person narrative, whilst pretending that the piece is about a fictional character. But as myself. So bear with me, this might be long. (Or not, because I have little idea of how this will unfurl).
Time for honest confessions, then — I have spent a frightfully awkward 2015, and am hence quite worried of how 2016 will be.
It isn’t the kind of worry that sits on my skin rendering me incapable to feel anything else. But the kind that finds itself a perpetual spot at the very backside of my mental cavity, hanging there like a bystander who refuses to leave, despite the fact that the scene of crime has been washed thrice over. It’s much rather the paralytic fear they speak of; that poets have written quixotic poems of, before going crazy and tossing their papers in the sea — the fear that all that had to happen has happened already and there is very little to happen, hence.
The fact that 2015 was a wobbly time-warp and 2016 will most likely be one too, isn’t of much help.
The truth that I hardly remember what I did few months past as well as I remember what happened this moment last year makes me fear that I may have entered a wormhole from which there is no escape.
And then there is the mediocrity.
The constant reminder that the most creative routes have been taken, the most brilliant jobs have been done and the most unique ideas have been thought makes me question every line ever written. Is there anything original anymore? Can I write a purely fictional account without it bearing resemblance to something else? Is that why everybody’s work is fairly autobiographical? But what if my life is not the least bit spectacular to write about? And what if it will never be?
I’ve always been picked out for being too apathetic, too insensitive, too detached. An idea I’ve enjoyed, to be very honest. But of late, I’m often left a tad little emotional on encountering people who’ve let it be; who’ve allowed life to take its chances, and fail and have made peace with it.
For it’s not just failure I fear, but the lack of chances to even try. But if I try, and fail, will I get myself to stand tall again? Does that mean I shouldn’t try at all?
Because, for the very first time in my life, I’m aware of time running out. Is this what it feels like, being old? Sitting in your pyjamas on a warm Winter evening, typing out a post about your vulnerable insides?
I’m afraid I have no solutions to offer, except hope. Here’s to hoping 2016 will not as sucky as I fear it will.
Here’s to a despondently average New Year. Now, scoot.