100th post - Can I be her ?

I started Monologues around the same time I started Backpacker. But while the traveller in me was quick to share, the persona living inside me was not always in a mood to write. Despite that, 99 posts have been written and I feel compelled now  to write my 100th , although I have no thoughts or topics in my mind .

Monologues is not really a monologue...it is actually a conversation . It is between her and me and we share  a bond. We wrote whenever we felt an impulse to say something. It has always been impulsive and personal to a large extent, except that it is often not me , who is speaking .

I created a persona inside me , a " She" who said a whole lot of things and somewhere within her was a bit of me as well. My first post on the blog started with her and initially it was always her, pushing her voice through my fingers, eager to be heard until she vanished inside me. She observed, she dictated, she ranted, she cried . Then one fine day she disappeared, leaving me to deal with my own emptiness .

I continued trying to express my thoughts and feelings, but could never find her..And the thoughts seemed rather forced and deliberate.

I look for her in vain. She is silent, dormant and will not raise a voice. Cold, and indifferent to the world around her now, I wonder if I can possibly recreate her. Until then, I am left with neither monologues nor conversations.

She and I

She tried to sleep .It was a futile exercise .She closed her eyes and she kept hearing her own voice

Everyone was around her …and yet she felt alone . She was loved and cared for and yet she felt lost and lonely , weak and vulnerable, confused and hurt

She felt like screaming aloud. The silence ripped through her throat , She screamed silently – again and again

I could hear her screams ..I tried reaching out to her … She has everything and yet she is on the verge of losing everything

She needs a grip. I am still trying to hold on to her

She ..

The candle flickered . Like her mind. She looked inward for a moment - a captive of her own emotions and actions . …is she answerable to anyone ?

She looked at herself again – another persona emerged. Someone she could not recognize, understand or condone .

The choices were in front of her .She knew that she had to kill the other to live her life again .

Love is a conflict between reflexes and reflections . She had read that somewhere . She read it again in her life now .

She made the choice. She now needs to live with it - to live with herself again

She....

She had no idea where to begin. She was not even sure if she wanted to begin from somewhere. Aspirations flitted in and out of her mind ; nothing strong enough to tempt her, drive her , to make her chase a fleeting shadow. Her life, they said was complete, in every aspect. But she knew otherwise. And yet she did not know where to begin. The thought that was eluding her , refusing to pin her down She paused for a moment and looked inward . The sounds were familiar. Faint and far away , uneven yet continuous. It did not matter. They did not intrude on her thoughts , nor did they bring any memories . It was a reminder - of the cyclic, the mundane , the routine and the mechanical .These sounds do not bother her anymore . Silence does, sometimes , but not these sounds . Three decades of her life swept past her and now it was all eternity to gaze upon. There were those punctuations, some at the right time and some , not always at the right time. The bright mornings, the chirpy birds, the laughter and the gossip came and went like the noisy vehicles on the street below. Faint and far away , uneven and yet continuous . I like that refrain, she thought with a smile. The fingers thrashed the keyboard , a different sound. An unwelcome visitor, a calling that you are not yet ready for . Inevitable , she told herself as she shut her mind and left . The fingers thrashed the keyboard , a different sound . I stopped for a moment and thought about her . So different and yet so similar. Like the sounds . Traveling through my thoughts, I discovered her. I do not know when she slipped into my mind and now, I am searching for that elusive thought that is refusing to pin me down.

Me and my self

I have a split personality. Me and my persona. And she is not me She comes into the scene only when I try to express myself – in writing or in conversation. My thoughts are no longer mine ; she chooses the words carefully, She interrupts my thoughts often , sometimes she makes me think the way she does . A very thin line of confusion divides us. Sometimes, I think I have some clarity as far as our roles are concerned . Maybe its me who does all the thinking and she, the expressing. She is probably a better packager of words, emotions and gestures . She knows what to say, when and how. She does her job well at my workplace .At home, I try to shove her away and my communication suffers , more than often. I am uncomfortable having her about . I also get defensive with her around. I know when she dictates or rather suppresses my views. She says they sound better her way and it does not matter to her if I think like her. That is the dilemma , for its not me who is talking or writing my lines . The expression is wrong , according to my thoughts .But she is right , politically, I mean. I’m not sure I like her. I’m also not sure if I am like her. But she is here with me and has been editing this piece of writing all the way long. I hope I got my communication across