All Tangled Up

Nothing makes sense. 

I used to be able to be calm. To set things aside for a few moments every morning, bow before the little statuettes inside my cupboard, and breathe in the name of praying. Set aside everything to be thankful, or ask for a little bit more, or, usually, both. When I took stock of my life, I found satisfaction in the inventory. I found desire for what I wanted to have, and I found gratitude for what I had. 

When I try to take stock now, I find noise. I try to set everything aside and pray, but the everything pushes back, tells me that the Converse sign on my high-tops has worn off, that the gas cylinder has lasted for a surprisingly long time, that I need to talk to a friend, not fuck up at work, save more, instruct the maid to switch off the lights before she leaves, find time to work out, do this, and this, and this, and this. When I try to think of what I want, I find a blank chit. Even “world peace” doesn’t come readily to mind. I have everything I could need, and want none of it.

I used to be able to make most things fun. When I had to study, I’d sit in a café, look at the people around and talk to my friends, pass or ace my exams and sleep well at night. When I had to pack or clean, I’d put on a playlist and chat with my roommate, find fulfilment in the simple movements putting my life together. When I had nothing to do, I’d switch off all the lights and wander around in the dark, listening to music and spinning stories in my head, of a singer and a princess, love and heartbreak, family and friendship. When I wanted to think, I’d take a walk, and the thoughts would flow readily, gently, kindly. I had grown accustomed to being kind to myself, accustomed to a mental state that allowed me to be happy with who I was and where I was.

Now, I try to listen to music while I work or shower – I don’t have to clean much anymore – and it’s a task to figure out what I want to listen to. I try to sit in a Starbucks and work, and the scent of my coffee fails to untangle my wound-up heart. I walk to work and I look at the trees and the pond and feel the breeze stirring my hair, and wonder how fat I look today. I think about talking to my friends and my family, and it feels like a chore. I switch off the lights and try to listen to music and spin stories, and I hate what I find inside my head.

In January, I considered myself an intrinsically happy person. I was the optimist of any group I was in.

In March, I was flat on my back in a mountain in Iceland, watching the Northern Lights, and filled with an ethereal light of my own.

In December, I am in an office cubicle, putting up my best friend’s doodle and wondering what I’m doing there.

It’s almost the new year, and for the first time in years, I have nothing to say about it.

~Sam 

To: The Universe, Re: The Boy in the Lift

It was 9:30 p.m. on a Thursday night.

I'd been at work since 8:00 a.m., in a small, musty client office located about forty kilometres further from civilization than strictly necessary, surrounded by documents that seemed to have been drafted with the express intent of exasperating some poor lawyer someday. I had just returned to my own office to wrap up the work. I walked in wearily, weighed down by three heavy bags, two dark circles, and the singular certainty of another late night, and noticed, without really noticing, someone entering the lift ahead of me. I sighed deeply to myself - the lift was too far away for me to reach before he left, even if I ran, which I was in no state to attempt in any case. I took it as another bit of bad luck on a bad day, and reconciled myself to holding my bags a little longer and waiting for another one of the lifts to come down, a complex mathematical process that could take anything from mere seconds to what felt like hours. I punched the button and got ready to settle into my discomfort, because obviously, on a day like this in a week like that, the lift was going to take hours.

Except it didn't. Instead, the light on the lift the boy had gotten into lit up almost immediately, indicating its presence on my floor, and an inquisitive head popped out - was I coming in, or not? He had waited for me! I rushed in with a burst of energy I didn't realize I was still capable of, and was overwhelmed enough by this act of simple generosity to breach the fundamental rule of awkward lift encounters: maintain silence. 

"Thank you, so much!" I breathed with, perhaps, a little more effusiveness than was strictly warranted for an act that was ultimately not much more than simple courtesy. He smiled at me, somewhat bewildered by the crazy lady with the strong emotions, and gestured that it was, like seriously, no big deal. At this point, a few things happened at once: first, and most importantly, I noticed him - his plaid shirt and his awkward smile, how wonderfully unassuming and kissable he was.  Second, I realized that I had crossed the point of no return - there were no fucks left to give, he was a cute guy, and I'd already painted myself crazy, so I might as well go ahead and find out if he worked here, if I was ever going to be able to see him again.

No, he said, in a voice and accent as wonderfully attractive as the rest of his being, even as the words themselves shattered my fantasies, he'd come to visit someone, but did I work there? Yes, I replied, and gestured ruefully at my office - because my floor had arrived, and evidently Hollywood had misrepresented the amount of time available for an elevator meet-cute, so all that was left to do was wave goodbye and watch him be whisked away from me.

I never even knew his name.

They tell me, in Bollywood movies and commencement speeches and WhatsApp messages, they tell me that if you want something enough, the universe will conspire to bring it to you.

I don't know if the boy in the lift was a result of all the wanting I've been doing, the personification of everything the universe thought I needed based on my vague, overwhelming yearning; or if he's to be the object of my wanting, to be mine when I've fulfilled the quota for desire and wanted enough to warrant such intergalactic intervention.

I don't know if this should be a "thank you" or a "please" - if it's time to be grateful and count my blessings, or to be greedy and focus my desires.

I do know, however, that the most likely outcome is that I'll go to sleep, drown in some work, and forget that such an encounter ever happened, that it had magical nuances that went far beyond "a cute guy held the lift for me and now I want to marry him".

Which is why, before I forget, here I am. With a thank you. And a please?

~Sam

I spend an unhealthy amount of time with my new best friend, the Night Out [called in some circles as the All Nighter].

There is a routine to the night-out.
First, until 10 or so, is the urge to procrastinate, to distract oneself with every possible distraction.
Then, from post-12 until early morning, there is the frantic spurt of work.
Then the exhilaration at how much you've completed, adulterated with periodic or constant waves of exhaustion.
Then the calm doing of work, the energy having run dry. From a sprint to a stroll.
Then the completion of the work.
Then the inability to sleep because your body has learned better than to expect sleep by now.

And then finally, sweet slumber.


~Sam

The post-work peace.

It's 3:30 am (or was, anyway, when I wrote this, except my stupid phone refused to publish the post). The stars are beautiful tonight. I just finished a bunch (or whatever it's called) of work, and I have three days until the next bunch of work begins.

I've decided I like having nailpolish on my toenails. 

I've also decided that I like long, long-due showers.

Goodnight stars.

~Sam