A little while back…
Things were moving back to normal, that is if you could call the aberrant, the unlikely that kept occurring on a habitual basis ‘normal’. But they were indeed moving back to what they were. Somewhat.
There was something wrong.
I’d never learnt to appreciate the meaning of the phrase “Never look a gift-horse in the mouth”. That was very me. I needed to eat the cake, and have it too. A perfectionist who had never known the fine line between perfection and classic obsession.
Not only I needed what I was gifted on my terms, with each and every one of the term met, but with time, with the increasing sense of possession, I also wanted what was never there in those pre-laid conditions. I didn’t exactly ask for the one thing that was still impossible but I had begun asking for the watered-down, modified versions of the same. Not really impossible, but just unrealistic and fanciful. Especially for the one, who would have nothing to gain, and only to lose.
I have always known I can be the ultimate selfless being if the need ever arose. What came as a mild surprise was that I could be equally selfish and cruel, when my back hits the wall.
Like I said, I have difficulty traversing thin lines. Lines between perfection and obsession. Self sacrificing and kind. Selfish and merciless. To know and to like. To hate and to be nonchalant. Habit, compulsion, obsession and love. The list apparently seems endless
I was breaking through the shackles, the ones that even I abhorred and instead of being relieved, I was perturbed. Apparently I have a very short attention span, nothing can hold my interest for long or, what had seemed so real was never true in the first place!
Or, another theory more suited to my style, self-preservation. I was beginning to understand that I cannot give endlessly when I cannot get back in return. One small assurance, one small truth amidst all the beautiful lies, one that would make all the difference. I like this theory better.
Maybe victory will be mine after all.
Note: This is a part of a series that I call “Chapters” because even if I cannot write a novel, I sure can tell a story in parts. While the story, the setting and the characters are entirely fiction, the emotions are always true as are the inspirations (aside from the need to tell a story and I am a master at concocting emotional and tragic pieces of ‘art’, as widely known already!). And writing, as always, is therapy, and there is no better way to channel the darkness innate in all of us than to create from it.