chicken nugget

Bonjour ! I’m sitting here, listening to sad music and thinking of the poem I thought up when I just woke up from my slumber and now its completely gone away from my head but is still at the back of my throat. I spent my morning brushing my cats while drinking coffee and reading a cool story on tumblr about a caterpillar named “chicken nugget” (that’s him in the photo) as I’ve been following this story for a while now. Chicken nugget was found by a boy “oddity-txt” on his way to class and he tumbled things about him (the caterpillar) and his progress on becoming a full-fledged butterfly and I was captivated. I get eeked out royally when I see caterpillars but there are some very cool caterpillars; like one called jewel caterpillar and it’s fascinating to see God’s creation displayed in so many varieties which this human mind can’t fathom; and then there is me, who meets all these boring looking caterpillars which eek me out. (Photo Credit: oddity-txt.tumblr.com)

So, last night as I couldn’t sleep as usual and I did two things…

  1. Had my feet hanging out of my window, drinking caramel hot chocolate, seeing the moon and its reflection, smelling something, (someone either smoking weed or burning something) and thinking tonight is beautiful and I naturally thought about DHL (DH Lawrence) and his poem Under the Oak. I love DHL and if anyone recites me his poems, they can have me. DHL is famous for Lady Chatterley’s Lover but I love him for his poems first and then this book.
  2. Attempted at baking cupcakes from scratch.. which involved researching online what is needed for the said cupcake making… and while beating the batter I sang, ‘I’m Martha Stewart, I’ve been to jail and now I’m baking’ at the top of my lungs, which woke up my cats and they came into the kitchen thinking (probably) I finally snapped… and I’ve to sadly report that my cupcakes were left half-finished as by the time I whipped the batter, I lost interest.

My heart grew heavier when I read a letter from an old friend yesterday and when he asked me how I’m these days, I want to explain in detail, all of those times I feel and felt as if I’ve been throwing myself headlong into traffic. No one ever explains that courage will sometimes find you shaking in your sleep or that you want to curl up in a fetal position; that it leaves you sun-stung and walking sideways. And that there are variables, unaccounted and come out uninvited and in heaps when you least expect them and startle you. And that in spite of being terrified, I’m meeting life head-on, and under duress and I am willing, not because it’s my choice or anything but that’s the only way left. And I’m determined to give this life what all I’ve got, and left, even when this strange so called “bravery” leaves me wobbly in my knees and makes my chest throbbing and painful. And I’m learning lessons.

I find myself with my hands knotted in tight fists and my knuckles white as if I were holding on to something tightly like a child and not letting go. It amused me when I found myself like this for the first time and I thought to myself, what am I holding on to ? Sometimes things have a way of slapping at the backs of your hands, scolding, like the mother of a careless child (tiny trembling fingers greedily reaching). My knuckles are raw and bleeding from all of the wanting.  I’ve considered throwing myself onto sidewalks and on to concrete walls to encourage the blacks and blues and purples to stay, but I’m learning that, with time, everything, the bruises and the scars, the mosquito bites and hurt feelings, has to fade. Right ? At least I am hoping.. The lessons I’ve learnt and learning out of the life events; understanding that bravery has absolutely nothing to do with comfort and life doesn’t come with guarantees; to tell your story to yourself with all your whole heart requires a lot of courage… when I say a lot, A LOT !; being vulnerable in a strange way can also make one beautiful and that is scary as it intimidates people

My current state reflects the exquisite description of absurdity as Camus (did I mention that I’m an existentialist ? And that I’m in love with Sartre, Camus, Kierkegaard ?), set forth in The Myth of Sisyphus. Brilliant piece of work on the absurdity of human condition. The struggle to have a new beginning, a clean slate; It’s all anyone wants, right ? Camus concludes, “the struggle itself…is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.” So, why am I in pain? All one want is to start anew. Like that’s gonna be easy. Nothing is easy. Rien du tout. In any case I don’t pretend to have a claim.

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