Single and Writing

30^th October 2008

Day 1: Potentially Prepossessed Prose.

I’ve just received potentially devastating news. But that’s what I like about the word ‘potentially’. It has a deceptive sense of dynamism like when the teacher used to tell anxious parents at those dreadfully morbid PTA’s—“ though he lacks basic discipline, is detrimental to classroom decorum and his attention span is the size of a shrivelled pea, James has achieved perfection in nose picking and is a potentially good student.” There it is! The perfect way of saying that your child needs to make some drastic changes if he wants to be anything significant in life. The automatic positive connotation attached to the word is a psychological aberration, which when simplified would be called ‘wishful thinking.’ You could either soar to fame, success, wealth and all those words that make you wake up and tend to your monotonous life OR you could plummet into an abysmal hole, forgotten and alone. But judging by they way we love to throw around verbal rays of hope, ‘potentially’ is a laudable prediction that makes you believe that you can reach an invisible but desirable plane in the future provided you make the right the right choices in the present. So in the spirit of keeping things ‘potentially’ favourable, my out-of-the-blue ultra sound posits an array of choices that I need to make in order to steer upwards away from an erasable existence.

Before you begin erecting your stonewalls and push me away as a character not worth getting to know, I should burst the bubble and say that I’m not dying. I have been diagnosed with anything that might become the emotionally charged foundation of this book but I won’t refrain from including tear-jerking moments that I might come across n my life. After all this is a journal in progress and I didn’t opt for a one-way medium for nothing! I’m spilling the beans without the risk of burning them with the fierce judgemental eyes and heated tongues. I was scared, for the first time in my life about being alone, like someone lying semi naked on the sterile bleached hospital sheets with no outstretched hand to hold, no reassuring eyes to look into. It was a definite void that could only be filled by someone to have and hold. And not having a phone number or a face in mind, the uncertainty of ever finding that special someone frightened me. So now I write until I find a reason to babble incoherently and giggle incessantly, rarely making sense to anyone except the one babbling right back at me.

I’m single and I’m waiting till I find butterflies that won’t leave my side. Just like the tattoo embedded on my left hip—committed and totally worth it!