To me, the written word has always signified infinite possibility. But it is also my worst enemy, just by virtue of being irreversible. So I tried to stop writing, as an armor against merciless censure, in the hope of a renewed reign of smiles. But of course, the experiment failed. Miserably, to put it mildly. I suffered the loss of my best friend, my sole trusted confidant. I had no place to rush to or to hide in those naked moments of fear. I'm back. I had to be.
Yes, you guessed it right. This space is a chronicle. A memoir written in blood, of endless moments of gut-wrenching pain, of unshed tears and muffled cries, of unanswered prayers and punishing blows. Today I will tell you about rejection.
Rejection, no matter how well deserved, is hard to swallow. It eats away at self-esteem like termites devour wood, almost imperceptibly but with the single goal to destroy. "Why me?" you cry. Everything seems impossibly hinged to the unforthcoming answer. You sink in your own eyes. And in the eyes of everyone else, it seems. Your flailing hands cause not a tiny flutter. The ether remains undisturbed. Your pleading eyes invite no sympathy. The world goes merrily on its way, its wheels well-oiled, its course unaltered.
In good times the cynic comes to the rescue. You laugh at the world and skip on. At other times you decide you were pursuing sour grapes after all. You haughtily turn and walk away. You know it is the worst time when all you want to do is curl up and die. No skip left in your step. No pride left in your heart. All you have left is your deflated self, crushed and discarded.
