I will admit though, that in all this search for love, to some extent it isn't so much about being with someone as it is about trying to prove to myself that I can make someone stay, which is insincere. That is why, late at night in this pool of tears, there is also a fair amount of relief that floats to the top, which is sincere. And the balance is restored.

I did not anticipate that dating could get so emotionally wrecking. Or maybe it is that I am easily broken. I'm growing really really weary of all of this. After the abrupt break off with Reddy, I deleted my account for my own sake. This I did after drawing to the conclusion that I am inept to date the modern way. People move briskly from one person to the next without so much as a thought and this is all too fast for me. It is not like I'm asking for any promises of the future but some stability maybe? Most men do want to remain friends however. I can't see how that can work. Everyone wants to be on everyone else's loop. Like I should be allowed to text you on the nights I am lonely. Or at least have the option of doing so. Is it just me or is this really fucked up? We all want intimacy but cannot bring ourselves to commit to anything.

Suddenly dying alone seems like a better alternative. At least I'll have my peace.

Chapter 0

The problem is where do I start? Do I set off with narrating one of the highlights of my life to get you to think well of me or do I lay it out in the open right at the beginning? Do I reveal something personal in this very first exchange and fabricate a kind of intimacy with you? I'm not sure.

I've always taken my time to warm up to people. While most writers will worry if their readers will believe in their narrative, I doubt if I will believe you to be a faithful reader. Did you actively suspend your judgement to hear my story? Did your mind keep flitting away into the arms of an enthusiastic lover? Were you thinking about today's lunch? How do I know I have complete attention? See, that's why I keep hesitating in opening up.

The thing is I don't set out to tell a story story, you know what I mean? I know all writers keep talking about a skeleton you need to have at the onset. Otherwise both the speaker and the audience end up gaping at each other like fools. But see, I tell the best stories when I free myself of the baggage of having a particular style. My best friends tell me I utter the most profound truths when I'm no longer in control of what comes out of my mouth. I lose myself so heavily in the act of communicating something right from the heart - something so raw, powerful, and with a necessary conclusiveness about it that my audience sits back with amazement and goes home thinking someone revealed something essential about their lives.

But I can't do that now, precisely because I revealed that technique (or lack thereof) to you. I showed you my most vulnerable self and so now you will most certainly use this against me, if I actively get down to business. That's why I will have my doubts about you and you'll not get to hear my story today. 

Walked past a cat run over by a car and realised
What's more sad than seeing something dead
Is seeing something dying
And while each day most of us live
Others die trying

A habit can be made out of anything, don't you think? Tara walks this part of the park in circles and soon these circles are a part of her. Since she sees the same things over and over she finds too many faults but makes too few stops to change things because she doesn't want to spoil her pace.  Plus breaks don't look good on anyone, she's told.  You need to walk with powerful strides that reek of intent.  Sometimes when she does that people stop and stare in awe. Most of these times she does it just for the reaction. In truth, she'd rather be like the child who runs around plucking flowers and chasing butterflies but then everyone would think she's bonkers. 
  
All this while Tara does keep thinking and thinking however. Thinking of how she got here. Thinking of what she might find if she breaks out of here. Once in a while a thought trips her and she falls down.  But then gets back up to complete her circle because everyone's looking. And she always feels like everyone's looking. 

On Writing

The longer in the day I wait to write, the dirtier my paper gets. Thoughts seem to pour from everywhere as soon as I'm up and threaten to spill out. I can be my most unbridled early in the morning, with fresh thoughts pouring out of me like a magical fountain. There are colors too, though you'll only be able to see them in the nighttime, when you're exhausted from your day.

I find coherence as I write. I allow myself to spit out the senseless first and try not to judge myself as I go. (All of us need to learn to not be too hard on ourselves) Later on, when I run my eyes over what I had previously written, the meek voice inside of me swells up, now suddenly awake upon running into a treasure or two. That's how I find my voice for the the day. 

The stuff that transpires between two people, keeping social beliefs and perceptions locked away safely in a box, is the only real kind of communication there is.

But no one teaches their child to trust more.

That's why you and I  have grown up with feelings riddled with doubts.

Which is also why you and I need to try harder to love without conditions.