I am walking down the cramped street that leads to a place I temporarily call home. The entire lane is bustling with people – people who are, probably, more actualized than I am, for they appear to be completely sure of where they are headed. A part of me feels a tinge of jealousy. I wish I could walk like them with blinkers on. I feel lost and I can’t seem to focus. What troubles me more is the fact that I seem to enjoy being in this state – a part of me is secretly rejoicing at the thought that it has still not been found! As I get in touch with this part of me, another part begins its lament.
I am made up of all these parts. As a whole, I am much bigger than the sum of my parts – at least that is what Gestalt psychology would want me to believe – but if that is the case, why do I feel caught up in this tussle between the various parts of my personality? The voices in my head are constantly at loggerheads with one another – as one speaks, the other one analyses; when the other tries to make a point, the first part slashes it down with a long list of well-defined arguments. Both these parts belong to me but I find it really hard to play referee. Sometimes, life is not about making a list of pros and cons and judging which side outweighs the other.
Both these parts seem to be on opposing polarities. Is it possible for the same person to think on such extremes, I wonder. I am split in two; and each split part of me is sharing its own story. Which story is really mine? Which of the two parts is the real me? I am still to find answers to these questions.
I hide myself behind the curtains. I sneak a look at the mirror and see a reflection judging me. This same reflection is judging others too. I want to be neutral. I want an impartial view of things. But is that really possible? Am I asking for too much? After all, I am experiencing the world through my five senses – my five senses can only perceive the world as me and not anybody else. For a glimpse at another’s world, I would need to make use of their senses. We all make our own meanings out of the experiences that life bestows upon our way. This is the reason why I do not believe in a genre called ‘Non-Fiction’ even though it haunts me by silently crying out to me each time I visit a book-store. I do my best to not be lured into the trap – I know we are all just constructing our own realities; and some of us are trying to give it meaning by upgrading our experience of a perceived reality to an eternal truth.
I find it hard to believe that something is not fiction. I cannot write anything that is not autobiographical even though I have tried to do so a number of times. Detaching yourself from anything or anyone you are connected is not an easy task. I am always dictated by my own perception of realities. You can try rationalizing with me but you might just end up becoming another voice, this time not in my head but in the field of my external reality. My senses will still continue to dominate and in the end, reason might just give up on me. Unfortunately, I tend to be ruled more by the heart than the head, these days.
I pay no heed to the suggestions that are hurled my way. Even though I pretend to shut my ears, I am still forced to listen. Some voices influence me more than others. Yes, I admit it – I am biased. I see no harm in preferring one thing over another. I am not the only one. Even your perceptions are coloured by your past. So, why am I the only one being judged? I admit that I am nothing more than an autobiography. When will you see who you really are?