Preamble
Welcome
First, and foremost—thank you kindly, for taking the time to entertain this muse with me.
Firstlings are tender creatures, we have an obligation to keep a nurturing eye on them, prodding them in the direction we want them to go. But it’s at this precise moment, we run into the crux of it—I have no idea where to shepherd these words. Am I to take them to the next pasture, let them graze, fill their bellies with soft grass anointed with morning dew? Or do what I always do, and head straight for your clavicles, the home I always dreamt of?
It's this moment of hesitation that I consistently find myself in—unaware of how to bridge what once was, and what will be. I feel like I was always meant to be trapped in some transitionary state. There are only a few relationships (love, familial, platonic) in which I did not have to don the role of a guide, one who gently grabs a hand, walks them to the border of their next era, only to be left behind, jettisoned to shed extra weight. I have grown to have a complicated relationship with loneliness—I crave it, it’s my natural state of being yet I long for human connection. I consistently grapple with the urge to be seen, to be understood, to have one single moment in time, in which someone gazes upon me, not with the intention of extrapolating all my faults, but rather in the inquisitive way one would look at art, in all its complexity. I tell you this not to elicit sympathy, but to shed some light on me, as a writer, as a poet, as a person. In lieu of a proper introduction, I suppose this will suffice.
That being said, I plan on sharing long-form poems, letters I’ll never have the courage to send out, the odd short-story, and various ramblings/streams-of-consciousness. I hope you stick around.
IN THE MOOD FOR LOVE
I still think, I lack the language to capture you. It’s like you’re situated across a border, I just can’t quite reach, or maybe I’m not supposed to reach that far. I think, for the few people who truly know me, hiraeth (a pseudonym I’ve used on a poetry site) is probably the most apt word to encapsulate me. In a constant yearning for a home that never was / misplaced grief for all the things that only exist solely in the past. I still conflate home with you—reason being, I am terribly empty, and you stirred something in me. Maybe, all of this, has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with my loneliness. The truth probably lies at some intersection of both those things.
I’ve always had an appetite for love, but it’s through you, I find that I share a similar hunger to Tarrare. I wonder if you know that too. Are you scared that I’d consume you, that you’d find my love so over-bearing, highly catered to your needs, you find its air to be ingenuine? The thought crosses my mind too. I’m consistently finding myself at extremes, moderation does not come easy to me. With matters of you, I find myself patient—maybe a little too patient, but I think it stems from my fear of abandonment. I don’t think I could bear to lose you, but don’t let that be your anchor. I don’t need or want your pity. Truly, I expect nothing of you; I cannot be resilient and be willing to depend on others. It’s one or the other.
But fret not, there’s a learned tenderness in absence; with each iteration of loss, you gain a little more humility. You come to accept that your place in the world does not cast a big shadow, and you’re okay with that. In response, you learn to shrink the world to things that matter to you—loved ones, family, friends, the hobbies you enjoy, the innumerable small things that bring you joy. You find yourself a master of your own domain, you learn to reconcile your world with the world. Grief does not have to be synonymous with end.
It's something I’m slowly learning.
AN ELEPHANT SITTING STILL
Stop here, if you don’t want to read about suicide, or see drawn (poorly) depiction of animal abuse.
I will leave you with this quick reimagining of this painting by Nok Chang, a painting for the movie, An Elephant Sitting Still. A film that stirs a lot with me; a three hour, fifty-four minute slice-of-life that delves into the lives of four people who hear about an elephant kept in a circus famed for its resolve to sit still, even when beat by the crowd. What drew me to this movie was the director, Hu Bo, who apparently committed suicide after making this film due to creative differences with the producers who were adamant on cutting the movie’s runtime in half, at the minimum. Not wanting to compromise, or sacrifice the integrity of his art, he commits suicide. At the showing, his mother lamented that he died for ‘an elephant’ but was happy that the elephant was here with the crowd. It raises the question, where would you draw the line for your art?
If you made it this far, thank you for reading. I hope to see you again.
Yours truly,
Prasanna
I’m consistently finding myself at extremes, moderation does not come easy to me. With matters of you, I find myself patient—maybe a little too patient, but I think it stems from my fear of abandonment. I don’t think I could bear to lose you, but don’t let that be your anchor. I don’t need or want your pity. Truly, I expect nothing of you; I cannot be resilient and be willing to depend on others. It’s one or the other.
And this!!!!
But fret not, there’s a learned tenderness in absence; with each iteration of loss, you gain a little more humility. You come to accept that your place in the world does not cast a big shadow, and you’re okay with that. In response, you learn to shrink the world to things that matter to you—loved ones, family, friends, the hobbies you enjoy, the innumerable small things that bring you joy. You find yourself a master of your own domain, you learn to reconcile your world with the world. Grief does not have to be synonymous with end.
It's something I’m slowly learning.
This is absolutely brilliant