the extent to which i have gone quiet
it's haunting the extent to which i have gone quiet. last night i opened my instagram after a long time. it's purely an exhibitionist platform, but that aside i've some threads in there. most of them begin to grow quiet around 2018, gradually deafening in 2019 and coming to complete silence in 2020 - when i quit. i've messages the length of this blog post, deeply engaging with the other person, deliberating philosophically, weighing moral options in actions and throwing some humour in between. the energy on that one, i tell you. i was even more expressive before the first heart/break/up in 2017 ~ comforting others, asking questions, caring about stuff. now it's like i'm on an empty beach. i am by myself, and there's no one on this beach. people come and pass by. i give a smile, a nod, a comment and that's about it. it's been like this for some time now. i was growing consciously aware of it myself, thanks to my excellent meta cognition superpower, but last night's conversation history slammed it in my face.
i am emotionally lethargic, i guess. few hours ago i was on a walk and wondering about it. one possible answer was, there's just too much worry in my heart. not family or personal worries, but the worries that break a poet's heart. the cause of wrinkles in Ghalib's brow. like the collapse of society & international order, the death of hearts around, sectarian and identity hate, past injustices on loved ones with no recourse.
if i didn't give so many fucks, my heart would be lighter and i'd be so joyful. but how to turn a blind eye? if there was a puppy dying before you you'd feel awful, now imagine the puppy was the very soul of human existence.