I am obsessed with life.
But not more than 3-4 years ago, I drove along the national highway with my eyes closed, praying for all that to be over. I was hurting so much that all I thought of then was to end the pain. I used to convince myself that it was for the best. I was hurting enough to put my parents through that pain.
And then, with time, because I never did have the courage or foolhardiness to try anything again, I lived.
It is a lie, when they say that time heals everything. It doesn’t. Time heals nothing. Time only makes you stronger. That weight around your neck hangs the same, it is the same 100 kilos, only your neck now is a 100 times stronger. It has been very long now that I have considered ending my life.
Of course there are moments when I doodle about the pointlessness of everything. With death all around and it being an eventuality, I do stop to wonder why am I alive? What is the point of it? But never have I again chosen to not participate in this orgy of life.
I know that even if life has nothing to offer, but the ordinary and mundane, having this much peace and clarity was unthinkable for me a few years ago. So yes obsession is the best word that I can come up with. Now in the midst of fights, tears, love and laughter, pain and more pain and sometimes even more pain (most of which is imagined and needled by anxiety), I love to live.
I haven’t discovered my purpose to life as such. But I know that writing is what I want to do and what I want to define myself with. Of course I have those lofty dreams of bringing home the ManBooker, and I am yet to figure out how to go about it, but I believe that journey has begun.
I welcome what life throws at me, simply because it makes me a better writer. Not an incident goes by that I don’t feel compelled to pen down. I add my own details to it, my own version of truths, I make it a story that will eventually heal somebody who reads it.
And for every piece that I write, that heals you or gives you hope, only be aware that it broke something in me. Life isn’t to be lived only, it is to be obsessed with. It is to take all risks that you can possibly imagine without successfully killing yourself and then live to tell the story.