A beautiful phrase I read somewhere - 'introspection is slipping away from me.'
Perhaps there are phases where my subconscious doesn't want me to look into it. Perhaps, it knows in its subconsciousy wisdom, that in order to hold it together, Harshita has to keep looking away, distracting herself, going to sleep as soon as she can.
Perhaps it was reading Foucault in class, how confession is a text shot through with power. I was thinking of my first diary in that class. One that came with a lock. I was in class 8 and I wrote things in it that were worthy of being kept under lock and key, or so I thought. Crushes and little feuds and insecurities and bitching about my mother and wishing life was like a movie. Then I was thinking of 'journaling' as a way to reduce stress. How we give so much power to the written words, to the mess of ink and pixels and an intensity of belief that it will alter the brain's chemistry and life's circumstances. Yeah right.
Oh Foucault, what have you done to me. (said many many college students.) (Butler's next.)
Besides, there isn't much time to introspect these days. It seems I spend my life travelling in the metro. I have stopped squeezing my bum into the small spaces in between women who will ALWAYS make more space than they have, crossing legs and shrinking spines, bless their bodies socialised into accepting, and hearts inured to discomfort. I press my nose to the kindle, and prepare for classes on the one hour towards the university, and gobble novels on the way back. I am reading so many novels these days, stealing time from my Legit Reading. I don't care. Women be legit villainesses and grey heroines yo. Thank you Atwood and Flynn and Hardinge.
I get gaspy sometimes, hearing that I've hitched the next few years to something that's not mine to control (like anything is), to something whose nature is fundamentally uncertain. But I flip it around, and assure him, this is just a way for my adventure to begin, you were just a catalyst. And then I breathe again, careful deceit insulating the inside of my lungs.
Perhaps there are phases where my subconscious doesn't want me to look into it. Perhaps, it knows in its subconsciousy wisdom, that in order to hold it together, Harshita has to keep looking away, distracting herself, going to sleep as soon as she can.
Perhaps it was reading Foucault in class, how confession is a text shot through with power. I was thinking of my first diary in that class. One that came with a lock. I was in class 8 and I wrote things in it that were worthy of being kept under lock and key, or so I thought. Crushes and little feuds and insecurities and bitching about my mother and wishing life was like a movie. Then I was thinking of 'journaling' as a way to reduce stress. How we give so much power to the written words, to the mess of ink and pixels and an intensity of belief that it will alter the brain's chemistry and life's circumstances. Yeah right.
Oh Foucault, what have you done to me. (said many many college students.) (Butler's next.)
Besides, there isn't much time to introspect these days. It seems I spend my life travelling in the metro. I have stopped squeezing my bum into the small spaces in between women who will ALWAYS make more space than they have, crossing legs and shrinking spines, bless their bodies socialised into accepting, and hearts inured to discomfort. I press my nose to the kindle, and prepare for classes on the one hour towards the university, and gobble novels on the way back. I am reading so many novels these days, stealing time from my Legit Reading. I don't care. Women be legit villainesses and grey heroines yo. Thank you Atwood and Flynn and Hardinge.
I get gaspy sometimes, hearing that I've hitched the next few years to something that's not mine to control (like anything is), to something whose nature is fundamentally uncertain. But I flip it around, and assure him, this is just a way for my adventure to begin, you were just a catalyst. And then I breathe again, careful deceit insulating the inside of my lungs.
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