2016 was, frankly, a year of extremes for me in this respect. Like it was for many others. It had both dark times and bright moments. Like life itself.New friends were made. Fake ones destroyed. Memories made. More memories made. Try as I might, I couldn’t just forget bad memories. And I’ve learnt. Learnt that trying to forget a memory is like throwing a piece of paper out of the window on a windy day. You may think it is gone, but the paper floats a little, flies up, and flutters back in and settles in the most unexpected place for you to find. And find it you do. You can’t let go.
And love. the only person worth loving in this cruel world is your own self. Because no one else is going to. Damn anyone who tries to convince you otherwise.
Relationships: they’re delicate. Once broken it can be joined together, but the knot will still be visible. They’re difficult. You can never strike exactly the right balance. They’re distressing. After the break. They’re damaging. Giving too much or too little. But they also have depth. Strength of emotion.
This was also a year of dormant loves rising to the surface; waking up after deep slumber to realize that the world may or may not have changed but you certainly have not.
One of them was the joy of tearing through five books at a time over a span of two days, with little or no sleep, forgetting that a world outside them existed, immune to the daily going ons around you, only focused on the book.
Then the pleasure of travelling. Taking in other cultures, other customs, other traditions, other languages, other people and feeling as if, at the same time, that they were so different from me, and yet, feeling a sense of belonging to them. My year began in Odisha, India, and Eid ul-Adha was spent in Singapore.
And then, writing. The happiness of hovering your pen above an as yet clean page or your cursor before your screen and marveling at how the page was yours to fill with your dreams, your aspirations, your thoughts, and seeing the words appear on the screen, almost by themselves. The discovery that I, Anam Shaikh, can actually write! It’s not a fantasy, unless I live in one, made out of beautiful notebooks and amazing pens and orgasm-inducing stationery and the voice inside my head.
For me, this is love. Here, my passions take center-stage.