29.
That’s the amount of years I’ve dragged my brown-damned ass on the earth. And boy, it has been difficult.
Especially the last decade or so.
The more I became aware of myself, the more I seemed to be lost.
Self-awareness led to confusion and chaos.
I have imaginary battle-scars all over me.
Battles with life. And pain.
Battles with anxiety, loneliness and depression.
Being an adult can be a fucking pain.
A fucking fucking pain.
If I had a chance to go back to the age of seven and write an essay on what do I want from a genie, I wouldn’t take a moment to write that it would be freezing my age.
Who the hells wants to fight it out when you can be draped in your Ma’s tenderness and comfort.

But here I am. With some more decades to live god/devil-willing (too early to decide sides).
And I have no clue where the journey will take.
Will I find peace?
Will I find happiness?
Will I find love that sustains?
Will I have made it?

Even a quarter-life reflection few years ago made me make unceremonious comparisons of my life with others.
I wanted validation.
I wanted to know if I have made it this far.
I wanted to know if I was worth it in the smaller scheme of things.

I didn’t want my perspectives to be as hollow as the never-ending Facebooks posts of people who had little less than zilch of a contribution in my life.
But then what explains my hollowness anyways?
What reason or rhyme do I have of those nervous jitters in a packed hall in the middle of a concert?
Or when I am sleeping alone in my queen-sized bed and getting up all of a sudden thinking I’m dying.
What makes me so weak. And vulnerable.
To unknown. To future.
Nights after nights.
Days after days.

I feel that I am losing a little bit of myself everyday.
A bit of myself.
A bit of my love.
A bit of my hope.
And as I see them crumble and flushed away by the winds of worry, I try to hold them back.
With not a speck of success.

Existential crisis.
Identity crisis.
Survival crisis.
You name it, I have it.
Like beads of despair being threaded into a noose of disorientation.

It’s so funny that when I first heard Beatles croon “All you need is love”, I found it too cheesy.
Now I want all the cheese that’s available.
The irony is you can’t even fucking buy this cheese.
It can’t be transacted or bartered.
It can only be received as and when it comes.

Being adult is a bitch.
And I don’t even have the bite
Fuck this love shit.
I want some ‘bhooter raja’ to come and grant me the boon of feeling loved.
Forever.
That sustains.

Rest, I’ll figure the fuck out as my time (and I) waltz away to oblivion.