It feels like the laughter died down everywhere. There’s so much effort to just laugh – easy, happy, loud, infectious.
These days that seems to happen only if I am spasmoed and when it really doesn’t matter, or on weekends when those of us still around meet, try to, and succeed in recreating the magic.
There’s too much pressure on appearances everywhere. There’s too much fear and much more anxiety. People worried how the reception will be if others find out they smoke; that they prefer bedding men to women. Everything.
There’s the fear I can sense of someone trying hard not to look deep down into one’s own heart and find that all there is, is apathy. That someone could probably be experimenting with one’s sexuality. The not knowing if we got the job we’d interviewed for; the finalty of the end of a relationship. The fear of not knowing where a relationship is heading and understanding that may be it’s time to collect newer baggage. The fear of the certainty that you are in a job that will always be a job and never really become a passion again. The anxiety that you will not be accepted as you are with the quick wit, the sharp tongue, the heavy-set body.
The world’s become a depressing place. It’s no longer home. Home happens only on weekends. Fleeting. Over too soon.
And yet I thank god there is that person to come home to, people with whom the laughter can be just as silly and incoherent as you want it to be. Just as ridiculous as posing with a cigarette you no longer smoke so you can get a good picture to upload on Facebook and your chatting profile, on a Sunday evening.
Damn, I miss the laughter. Why does everyone explain the joke too much these days? Or am I being too judgemental and finicky? Why does it feel like my family is breaking apart?
That all that comforting love is only in memory because now we are all just shadows of ourselves. I think it’s having been weaned on a staple diet of Eliot that is to blame. Or the fact that you are too intense and you expect too damn much all the time and put up with such little most of the time.
Or may be it’s the beginning of the end.
But that’s still okay. There’s always someone you can go home to when you are all undone. And how many people have that, really? Even if you spend a fortune on international calls to hear that voice telling you all that you need to hear.
It’s there. Still.
If you didn’t understand the post, that’s fine. I’m still trying to make sense of it all too, may be find a reason to smile.