Cross-talk. It happens every single day, where I
live. From where I come, I’ve heard cross-talk ever since I was old enough to
decipher what people were talking about. I like calling it cross-talk. I don’t
like calling it arguments. Arguments make it sound like I’ve had a bad
childhood, and I still can’t really say whether my childhood has been good or
bad. That’s a judgement call – one that I have no right to make, quite as yet.
But still, I don’t think there could be any harm in telling people that I’ve
FELT like I’ve had a bad childhood because of both the presence and the absence
of money.
Suddenly, I don’t feel very uncomfortable about
putting up stuff about my past on my blog. It so happens, that I’ve discovered
that there aren’t too many people reading what I put up. Earlier, I used to
restrict stuff like this to my journal, but suddenly, today, I feel like
putting it up in here. Maybe it’s because of the convenience of my laptop
sitting right next to me. Maybe it’s because someone might just understand what
I’m ranting about, and empathize. I don’t really know. I do not that I’ve not
had the worst of it, that I might not have even faced anything compared to what
so many others might. But hey, to the average person, their own problems always
do seem bigger than another’s, doesn’t it?
From 21 years of life, the one thing that I’ve
learned so far, which people cannot go without is money. I wish I had loads of
it. Oh. I don’t have any fancy dreams about money anymore. Those castles were
razed to the ground by the sonic booms of clashes for money. If I had loads of
it, I would give away enough of it to keep people’s mouth shut, and donate the
rest. Maybe keep some for myself, to get my own life started. And earn whatever
money I needed to keep going. Debts, and mad-rushes to make ends meet, and
nasty, screaming money-mongers at our doorsteps, night-long arguments about
money owed and money given, and relatives bitter from the impatience of waiting
for money owed to them – people have always thought that I have paid no heed to
all this, sitting in my comfort zone. It’s probably because of the way I’ve
waded through life so far, giving people the impression that I’m carefree about
all this.
Truth is, I have been carefree. And I wish now more
than ever, that I had done something about it a long time ago. It took me this
long to realize that I’ve made more mistakes that I could possibly bargain for,
and that’s sunk me a long way down into a sea of problems. When I’ve come to
this side of it, from where I can get a glimpse of life, I realize where I
stand, and now, I can’t help but suffocate on the fear of what could happen in
the morning, every single night as soon as my room fades into the darkness.
There is that constant urge, that incessant temptation to fling everything that
I have, and brush away my life – to run away somewhere, and start afresh, even
if it spells a whole new world of difficulties. At least then, I won’t be
nagged by the consequences of all my mistakes. But then again, I’d just be
making a new mistake.
If there are things that have bothered me even more
than these arguments, it’s the aftermath. That eerie silence – that plunge into
a cold war where the lack of words spell despair and desperate attempts at striking
up a conversation lead to futility. Try as I might to steer things away from
the tension, the grasp at this cliff’s edge seems inadequate. Somehow, the
sense of humor and curiosity seem which could once bring truckloads of laughter
are always submerged beneath all that anger. And this silence clasps my head
like ice cold hands, dragging me further away from everything else that I could
possibly do to salvage what little good is left of the situation.
Coupled with this is the fact that somewhere down
the line, I seem to have developed the knack of making mistakes even when I
intend to do something good. I wish that I didn’t. Nobody could possibly hate the
fact that I keep messing up more than I could. It’s not like I don’t try. I
try. As far as I can. Even when I’m careful, I keep messing up over and over
again, and the fact slices me like a very sharp knife. I wish that I could stop
it. I wish that something, somewhere would offer me the help that I need to
keep going, because as of this moment, life seems like it’s at a stand-still.
All of this did give me the perspective of who I
need to be, and what I need to do in order to avoid this brutal beating that I keep
taking inside. Because, the sort of person that I am, I tend to take it in
quite deep, and then I forget to exhale. Maybe things will start to look up.
Maybe I’ll get my chance. Maybe someone, somewhere would read all of this and
not think of me as a nut-job. Maybe there's a bit of solace they could offer. Maybe.
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