I wrote my first proper poem sitting in front of half mutilated cadaver. I still remember how vividly I could recall that dream of mine and put it down in those almost perfectly rhyming lines in a room where six hard from preservatives and mummified bodies laid. Wasn’t i relieved a little? A lot. In a long time I felt like I did something asked to be done.
I still remember all he said was ‘why don’t you write a poem?’ Not in very serious tone but just a friendly advice while his gaze was focused on the road in front as he drove me back to my hostel. Of course I didn’t take it seriously because all i did was a little shrug in response. I didn’t know his words could impact my subconscious outside his office equally as they did inside during those sessions.
It was effortless to be honest. I didn’t do much except for the putting up rhyming words at the end of each sentence. It was relieving and rejuvenating to have myself do something in completely spontaneous manner. More than half a year had passed since I actually had done anything even miles close to that. I named that poem Dilemma. I named it more than a year after I wrote it. Because it was more than a year after I realized why I had been depressed. That is the thing with depression. Even after you are fixed from it, it might take you ages to know exactly what lead you there. Its like a revelation.
I wrote many poems after that. One after another as I paved my path away from the unhappiness with his help. I am not a very proud person. I am glad I let him help me. His help had been the greatest blessing nature gave me. He is like my godfather who help me come out to this world again but this time I was free and in love.
And may his soul rest in peace, whose cadaver I was supposed to be studying to get through my anatomy class. I did pay attention eventually but only when I was ready to learn from that life less teacher.
My roommate has been prescribed traquilizers and dopamine medication for the panic attack and anxiety. I found out when I was going through her stuff looking for my comb that she never puts back in the place after using. She is hell of a good singer and very creative young lady. No wonder she has no choice but to take the drugs. Let me put light on the fact that we both are med students and I know that taking clonazepam for four weeks makes you go dependent on it.
She is not the only one paying toll in the form of her her mind, heart and happiness I did that too. But I took help. I want to be a therapist now. Wasn’t my friend who told me that philosophy is very interesting but it spins you in circles and drives you away from reality right? Her creativity is philosophy and her grades are reality. Well then again one of my friend once said and I quote,’So many people write deepika, that doesn’t define you. You are gonna be a doctor, that is going to define you.’ Only that there are 149 other kids in my batch becoming doctors with me.
Just liked philosophy is cherished, read and talked about but not consider real enough to live by it. In the similar manner creativity and talent is clapped upon, gets patted on the back and displayed often yet its not encouraged enough to become obsession of a teenager. Unless ofcourse it helps to add up on your college application.
This sin, this crime of being loyal to your creative side is punished with insanity. And if you go to a doctor my friend then let me tell you that he is only trained to give you anti depressants and anti psychotic or any other pill but a piece of advice. But then of course if everyone becomes trippy and a hippy, who will pay taxes for the government to fly in private get planes and construct nuclear plants and make more schools to institutionalize the kids to plant the spider of copied reality to form a thick web of morals and belief system he could never escape and if he tries to….Well we have tranquilizers, don’t we?
Me and the dark demons inside me know what we had been through when it came to the first impression we leave! It had always been far from good impression. It had been crude, like a raw apple from some poor man’s garden who couldn’t afford to plant exotic hybrid seeds so the apples when they ripe are sweet but by the looks of them they don’t even attract the kids next door to steal by throwing stones at them. It had always been awkward, like the other person for a second believes that I am possibly retarded because they take moments before uttering words as if choosing the right ones for what if for my retarded looking self they won’t appear polite. It had always been without connection because it never followed the basic routine of conversation and why would anyone connect with someone who doesn’t know how to a smile, show glistening teeth at a stranger and wave the hand with extended joints giving away an aura of fake belief that clearly whispers in the air, ‘Have I not known you forever?’
I had been a sucker but then when I was young, I read somewhere that ‘keep it real’ and it did make a lot of sense back then. I don’t know what happened now. Maybe the rules changed the moment I entered the game.
One thing still makes me stay up whole night is that why the impression we leave on others is so important? why I take the guilty pleasure in getting a good impression on someone? Why it makes me feel so validated when I pass the standard set for a good impression, when I smile the eight extent, make the right gestures and choose the right words?
Even our genetics couldnt manage to create identical finger impressions in identical twins. If nature is failed to set a standard for being an eligible human being, how come I strive so hard to pass the test of standard good impression on others?