The Cracks Of Comfort

26 Jun

The thought of breaking one’s shell, cutting that umbilical cord, dismantling your roots so they get easier to uproot and opening those supremely sturdy but rusty-hinged doors of comfort is debilitating. There are those who find sources of energy and thrill in connecting with newness, people who are ever ready to pick up and move. However, I think it just struck me down with a bad episode of not just paranoia but of panic and fear. Having been a home-girl all through, there are no surprises why just the thought of change to that extent made me paralyzed with anxiety. It is scary; capable enough to leave you breathless of the bad kind and is totally unabashed in making you feel incapacitated beyond your strongest beliefs. Maybe now you get an idea about just how scary the thought is to me. And I have absolutely no idea how the rest of the world does it. I don’t know where their courage comes from, where the restlessness to start anew stems from and where the thrill of beginning from scratch appears from. And I wish I had just a fraction of that in me. Because at this very moment, I’m still here, sitting in my obscenely comfortable bubble, completely unaware of what lies out beyond the four walls of my house, office and my inner circle. No idea whatsoever.

I feel foolish and stupid. Not because I haven’t done any of this moving out stuff before (for which I should feel very foolish and stupid), but because I tend to live in my own world where everything is just the way I want it to be and life is as smooth as can be with glasses so rose-tinted that they’ve made me blind. I also am aware of just what it means to live in such a closed, perfect, imaginary world and I’m hoping I open those rusty doors of comfort to let the real world in immediately.

So here I am on a Friday evening, struck by the fears and insane web of my own very debilitating thoughts; so paralyzing that it’s getting difficult to make space for some free movement to explore what else my mind is capable of achieving. See that’s the thing of having also turned the volume up so high that it gives you no other option but to cruise at the tide of what you’re listening to rather than be stuck in the stifling compartments of your own thoughts. Music is therapy. Music is escape. As is this.

IMG_2889

IMG_2890

Music. And food. (Yes, I’m a stress-eater, apart from being a regular food lover as well).

So it helps. It helps to just let go. To sink your teeth into hot, crunchy, crispy broon maskas (bun with butter) and let that munching be the only sound that has the capacity to silence everything else, except the music of course.

I guess it’s not impossible to literally pick up and move. It’s scary, yes. But it’s not impossible and hopefully it’ll teach me what the world can give me in writing with its eyes closed; that it’s an experience every single person must go through in order to realize just who they are and just how capable one really can be.

For another time, when I have nothing better to do, it would make sense to navel gaze and figure exactly why everything in my head looks so gosh darn big, impossible and scary. And why this home-girl thinks she can’t do it, just like everyone else has been doing it for generations and more now.

IMG_2891

In the meanwhile, while I go gather some confidence and inner peace over more tea, perhaps, (or maybe it’s time for some alcohol), I’m hoping all those doors and windows are wide open for you. I’m wishing you an insane amount of good energy, positiveness and happiness. Have a lovely Friday, it’s time to let go in more ways than one, today, and every single day ahead.

Advertisements

Comments

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s