Saturday, November 21, 2015

Imaginary Friends.

Posted by Sunaina Patnaik at Saturday, November 21, 2015 0 comments Links to this post

When I was a child, I was popular for having imaginary friends, or as sane people would put, popular for not making any real friends. As a child who transferred seven schools throughout school, I had a trouble making friends and relied on the imaginary friends I had in my mind. It was quite comforting, though!

My mother tells me that I had my first imaginary friend when I was two. Yes, that's right. It was a spirit, that was as amicable and adorable as Casper. I had this friend till I was in the second standard, and in those years, he would help me with my homework, walk me to the school, and gulp down the orange juice my mother would give me every evening. I distinctly remember writing and narrating stories about this imaginary friend to my parents, cousins, grandparents, and anyone who would  lend me an ear. My conversations and inside jokes with my friend would go on and on, and I made it a habit to break down my daily events into funny stories while narrating them to him. Like some friendships that break at a certain point, ours did too. I was heartbroken and took to writing a journal after that.

In the years that followed, I have made a bunch of imaginary (fictional) friends, I have had an imaginary pet, and an imaginary library too. As children, we tend to be utterly sensitive, we can never completely comprehend why we cannot make friends at a new school or a new place that we move to, we cannot entirely understand why we are treated as an outcast at places we are unfamiliar with. We fail to decipher why there are a lot of regional disparities.  It was totally normal to face issues while making friends at a new place, but it was even tough to make and maintain friendships when you transferred from one school to another in two years. We did not even have the internet in the 90s, and by the time it arrived, it was a hassle using it.

I took a lot of time and effort to make real friends, and after I did, I never had to look back. I kept on making friends, I kept on making memories, and I kept on cherishing the time I'd spend with them. I have realized that unlike imaginary friends, real friends respond, they are concerned, and they tell you about things that you wouldn't know otherwise. Real friends stay up late in the night talking you, they bunk work to come meet you when you are down, and they accompany you on your shopping trips. Unlike imaginary friends, some real friends that you make might prove to be unhealthy for you and you are driven to a point where you push them out of your life. Real friends are cooler. But sometimes, I do think, what if I never made real friends? Would I still have relied on the solace my imaginary friends offered?

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Melancholia.

Posted by Sunaina Patnaik at Tuesday, November 17, 2015 2 comments Links to this post

One of the most mundane attempts to get over boredom is to browse through Facebook aimlessly. At 24, I think it is a crime though I am guilty of doing it. As it turned out, I opened Facebook today when it welcomed me with 'What's on your mind?' For starters, a lot. An unimaginable amount of incorrigibly ridiculous nonsense. I wished it asked me 'What's not on your mind?' That would have been an easy question to answer.


I am a slave to my emotions. Sometimes, I arrive at a point where I think I am an emotional masochist. While I definitely do know that I am not one, I also know that I am an insanely sensitive person. It doesn't take much to make me weep. I weep even a TV series ends, even when it is not Friends. I cried when Entourage ended. Who in the world cries for Entourage? I do.


Let's talk about what's on my mind for the day. I was having a conversation with one of my friends who has been complaining that I am being constantly absent from her life. I apologize to all the friends who are experiencing my sudden disappearance, but you'll see a lot more of my absence. So my friend was asking me why most of my writings are centered around sadness. I failed to answer her question then, mostly, because I wanted to get back to reading but here's the thing about sadness. It gets to us, and not even the strongest and the mightiest of us are not spared. Talking or writing about sadness is not showing your vulnerabilities. If anything, I believe it's all a part of acceptance. The irony about sadness is that it transforms us in a way that happiness doesn't. I am not saying happiness is a bad thing. It is an end goal of EVERYTHING we do in our life.


A person I knew once told me that some of the best, world famous works by musicians, artists, writers, painters have been produced out of melancholy. And some of the lesser known works too, of course. When someone asks us, why sadness? Why choose that? We have to tell them that there is nothing disdainful about it. It is an emotion everyone goes through. Some choose to talk about it and put it in the open, some don't. It's alright, however, one deals with it, but the definition of sadness is never altered.

Wednesday, November 04, 2015

My Rain.

Posted by Sunaina Patnaik at Wednesday, November 04, 2015 0 comments Links to this post

You were my rain. Maybe you still are.


I know I met you in the Summer, but you were never my Summer. It was on a rainy Saturday morning that we watched our first movie together and it was the first rainy Saturday evening when you held me close to your heart. I've lost the count of the number of hot cups of coffee we had every time it rained or the amount of my pictures that kept occupying the nooks and corners of your phone. It was also during the rainy season when we made tall promises to each other, breaking each of them in the following season.


Maybe it's true. I can never picture you against the background of another season. It's only on a rainy day, you walk into my thoughts, in your warm, black jacket, holding the cup of coffee with both your arms and laughing at my rather silly jokes.


You were always, and will always be my rain. Just like the rain, you were always mine, but never really mine.
 

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