Lukewarm

Somebody asked me “How’s life?” and I struggled with the right words to describe how my life has been lately. I failed terribly at summing up and presenting a synopsis of my life that would sound whole and satisfying enough. How could I, when every moment has become like a loose thread, stranded and aloof from each other? I cannot make out if one’s end is another’s beginning, which makes me wonder how everybody is trying to tug the strings together to give it continuity. Because all we have learned throughout our lives is to give form to things, something definite and solid. Nobody likes an undone picture, an incomplete love story, or a half-run marathon. What rule book are we following that has dictated us to think of completeness as the only parameter which decides our accomplishment? Why are half-attempted efforts too painful and shameful to be declared our own? Why are half-measures seen as something that should be hidden, like the stretch mark on a girl’s thigh, while a battle scar is worn with pride even when you were on the losing side?

Somebody asked me “How’s life?”and I replied, “Life is good.”

Because it sounds good, deceivingly acceptable, and oddly pleasing to throw out a concrete answer.

Because old habits die hard.

Because nobody likes to know about the tasks, you can’t finish.

Because it is taboo to talk about a relationship that was too swift to be complete or to become whole.

Because in a world where we are propelled and motivated by the idea of chasing satiety in everything, we overlook the fragments.

Because all that remains unfulfilled is a sin and the atonement for which is silence.