It’s never enough.
Everything lies within my grasp- acclaim, fame, name. But I am not satisifed. I know there is more to this life- more than just social updates, wines over dinner, clucks of sympathy and mysterious calamities.
And I see no end to it- this divisiveness created by being online, when something meant to connect always leaves us feeling inadequate.
Pam’s new hair colour, the smell of fresh polish on Amy’s fake nails, Hope’s dazzling new Gucci bag-I can’t take it anymore.
What do I have to flaunt in this cultural wasteland?
Nothing.
My words aren’t enough to capture the ache in my soul or to fashion the pain in my heart into a fabulous piece of art. A poet. Am I even that? Nothing published. Not anywhere. Nobody reads what I say.
Sitting here, by the garden of sorrows, I watch as the flowers bloom, some more in tune with Nature than others. Many of them struggle to survive the onslaught of rain, hail and sleet. A few give up, quietly, without a struggle.
For an infinite second that stretches into forever, I contemplate it too.Giving up. Today, this instant, I could choose to end it all. No family to mourn me, no friends to grieve me and no love to visit my grave, year after year. Like the flowers that turn to dust and blend with the call of the earth’s bosom, my body will find a willing lake that welcomes me with open arms.
With it, I know that Life can end and so will this pain. Will I though?
Nadia paused in her writing to look out the window of her dingy, one-bedroom home and sighed at the irony. The least she could have was a real field with real flowers. The clock chimed, reminding her of her tryst with the publisher, so she hunched her shoulders down into the writer’s stance and continued to pour her soul onto paper.
“Never Enough ” It is human tendency to be dissatisfied with everything. The struggle of every person, their fear of being inadequate, lost, lonely and unsuccessful expressed so well. As long as we pull ourselves back up right.
Yes! 🙂 It’s up to us to find it!
Thank you so much, Ruchira! Welcome to my blog. I am thrilled to see you here 🙂
Thank you Shantala <3
Perhaps. Or maybe it is writing a series of truths under a guise of fiction. Either way, we’re telling a story 🙂
Yes Parul. In everything, there is inspiration, right? 🙂
So full of probability isn’t it, Raj?
Your story? I hope not, Shalini, at least not the sadness part. If you are talking about the writing though, then yay! 🙂
Aww thanks Mithila. Wonderful to know that one will be missed and loved after we are long gone. <3
I hope so too Elly. I really do.
Thanks Vinay. Sometimes, it’s easier to write about the pain than suffer it alone.
Indeed. Such complex creatures, are we not?
This one is beautifully penned. I could feel the emotions that the writer went through.
Good one. They say, writing fiction is the act of weaving a series of lies to arrive at a greater truth.
Good one.. I just read Pixie’s post and was wondering, gosh – is this also carrying the same emotions?
Those flowers are such a great motivation, isn’t it?
Ahh writers!! the world of our imagination can be extremely beautiful or filled with pure sorrow.
“I see no end to it- this divisiveness created by being online, when something meant to connect always leaves us feeling inadequate” – This line really spoke to me !
I also loved the comparison of flowers with people. Beautifully done !
Felt like it was my story 🙂 Loved it, Mam 🙂
Like Elly, even I thought you were writing about yourself! But when I read this part -“Today, this instant, I could choose to end it all. No family to mourn me, no friends to grieve me and no love to visit my grave, year after year.” I figured out it was not about you. After all, even if these people were to be missing, we, the blogger family would still keep you in our hearts! 🙂 <3
The comparison of the flowers in the garden with the people in life is too good! Loved it! 😀
Oh good one! I thought you were writing about you yourself at first! 😉 Hopefully she isn’t “forcing” her writing! 😉 <3
Hmm. I feel the emotions, really. And the irony. We write on what is not near, or only in our imagination, but feel it is real. Maybe it is, sort of. What she’s pouring onto paper is very moving, that’s for sure.
Ah, the writers!