Amorphous

My heart is of an amorphous nature. It yields and bends, sometimes unnecessarily so. It has been this way for as long as I can remember. Growing up, I don’t remember having strong likes or dislikes. I would willingly accept others’ ideas or suggestions. My interests and behaviour would change depending on what or who was around me. In fact, my father would joke that he could guess who had come home that day, just by looking at me and my behaviour that day!

This tendency to want to be absorbed into my surroundings has never been conscious. I am driven by a need to fit in, to blend, to forget who I am. I have my own set of values and principles that I follow, yet, I am always tempted to please. I work tirelessly towards keeping a person I love happy. If you occupy a big place in my heart, then I am sure to dedicate my waking life to you. I never saw this as a weakness, though I have tried hard to overcome it. I did not want to be considered a doormat, or come on too strong. Falling in love or even having a crush is still a major catastrophe in my life, where I am desperate to figure out the object of my love. I take on the persona of who I love.

My tendency to please has never stopped me from having my life, as strange as it might sound. All these battles happen within my mind, sometimes nary a ripple will show on the surface. I have spent many years trying to curb my amorphousness using external things : books, people, music. I hold onto something material, in the hope of finding emotional tranquility. The onslaught of passion and the intensity of my own feelings scare me. But of late, I realize that my contradictions are not for others to handle and that material things are as amorphous as I am. They change, just like the way I do.

If my heart is like water, I want it to be curbed not by a dam or shaped into pots, but by something natural, like a rock or a tree. I want to move, blend, turn, yield and disappear into the distance — just by myself, and for my myself.

If my heart is like time, I do not want it to be organised into minutes or seconds, but into endless afternoons of reverie. I want to give in to the emptiness of time and lose myself into its dark tunnels. I want to be drawn into its blankness and made obsolete.

My heart is just fine, and so am I.