To Quill the Mocking World
By Somya Tewari
Getting close to someone! We all have done that, or at least tried that, or at least believed that we tried it. We like crossing personal boundaries. We like to attain the forbidden. We like this process of making someone feel that they have seen parts of us we cherished only hidden, and we like to feel the same for others. We like to make things personal. We like creating noises in each other and ourselves, in raising the ghosts inside. We like this process of giving away, yet hiding out.
And closeness, it comes too. It comes sometimes with delightful newness or sometimes with stale realities wearing exciting props, sometimes with fresh lies and sometimes with imposing discoveries about self. We stumble upon seemingly similar traits in each other sourcing from strikingly opposite pasts. And then we try to be dual, or even more, more than one. We try to match the dualities, or parts of it to create patches of compatibility. We try to fit the blocks of these hidden compatibilities in the spaces of our reality and see if it works out. We try to, subconsciously and sometimes even consciously, portray our concealed zones as mirror images of each other, to assure ourselves of the perceived compatibility. We create our own compatibilities by trying to be more like each other, all the time believing our assumptions for each other. And we like going through this process again and again, maybe with breaks, or in continuation, or in combinations.
But, the truth is, as we try to come closer, as we try to enter this process of detangling, we put on one more layer of seemingly real us. We add more realities to the possibility of us. Until we get tired of it and declare to ourselves that it is not working out, or that we know each other way too much, so much that we can destroy each other either through betrayal or by utter boredom. And this seems dangerous. This process of ‘coming closer’, the established protocol of it, reaches its limit.
Coming close is not that easy. It doesn’t have a protocol either. It’s a horrifying process, painful, dark, slow, extremely slow, or suspiciously fast, tiring, sometimes boring, initially exhausting and maybe, only maybe ending in relieving outcomes. Coming closer is when gradually confessions transform into mere incidences and narratives. When intimacy becomes bleak and merges with routine. It is when each move, every moment we spend together threatens to become a leak, a leak of one more fact about self out in the open, when reactions can be calculated to such certainty that predictions become innate. It is when conversing becomes effortless. Basically, special becomes monotonous after a while. It leads to horrors of knowing someone so much that you can build them. And ability of building is far greater a responsibility than ability of destroying someone. It is when matching the blocks amongst each other becomes unnecessary. It is when contraries do not bother, and if they do, then this botheration does not bother.
It doesn’t need to be deliberate; infact deliberation may sometimes kill it. It sits on the sensitive and subtle balance between intention and chance. We might chance upon it and choose to carry it forward, or we might intend to attain it and take our chances with it. Or we may try other permutations.
But sometimes we don’t get to decide. Sometimes, and only sometimes it is our souls, or energies that make the decision, for sometimes these energies sense an old acquaintance and decide to carry it forward. Sometimes they don’t wait for our consent and start with resuming the old interrupted association. And in those times, revelations, closeness, is an inward process, an underlying current. It may overwhelm us, intimidate us, and even disgust us as to how someone could feel so familiar, as to how someone doesn’t require an introduction, as to how someone can see through us. It cracks our entire ego, all our pride that we take in believing no one knows our real self. But it is not our call to take. All we can do is feel either quenched or ashamed or both, for such meetings often extend a sense of insecurity, a sense of unsafe, unreliable guarding mechanism. It makes us doubt our competency to keep up with the ‘hiding of self’ practice. We dread such meetings, yet we feel attracted to them, for it pains the most when connections are made inside out, when souls pierce right through our flesh and embrace our spirits. But I trust in such coincidences. They make me feel easy. They make me feel light. They make me feel simple. They make me feel found.