The best advice I never got was to map out my bizarre life. Take every thing down from those triple dimensions and put them on a flat floor, chalk out my locations and most importantly, get my landmarks in order. But my life adamantly refuses to be mapped. The demarcations that are supposed to be stark and simple, are a mangled mess of smudged ink. There are mountains of issues and rivers of sorrow, and then there are mountains inside the rivers. I live in a town in my head, one which has every road to Nowhere land but none, for Somewhere land.
The erasers won't work on the ink. The only choice was to build a new map, which is easier said than done. I neither had a concrete canvas, which would be sturdy enough to etch my dreams on and neither a good pen, one with a strong willpower to never distort.
So naturally, I adopted the age old artist's solution: I simply flipped it to draw on the other side. There is something so unnerving to be on the flipped side of your sole sheet of paper. Your second, final chance. It never fails to illustrate the idea that you're out of options. You'll never get a fresh sheet to work on again. If you get it wrong this time around, there is nothing changing and a messy life you'll always have.
While drawing I realized that the entire basic layout of the map remains the same. There is absolutely no difference, because, stubborn as we are, we hate to admit that some our decisions might have been wrong ones. They lead us to the place where we wanted to be, and no matter how much better it would've been to pick the road not taken, there is nothing you want to change about the only thing you're absolutely sure of- where you stand with your choices today.
Then how can this map be different if I can't change my routes?
That's where my failed cartographer met a smart one. She took the tiny red dots that marked the capitals of my cities and gave them different paths to follow. I saw The Book You'll Never Write be the capital of Why Not? from Haha No. Initially, it was hard to forcefully accommodate Apologize in the Ego Box, but now it easily drifted towards Love and Relief, as if it belonged there.
I realized I could make a difference in what I decide my landmarks are, on this map. Embarrassment was an ugly red one on a shady street. Fearing not being good enough and overdoing things was the first sharp turn on the entrance, with jagged rocks that harm a lot more than just your flesh.
The best I could do was to view the shady street as an unexplored area, which may contain a candy floss stall for a better landmark. The best I could do, was awaken a desire to not let Embarrassment take precedence and to watch my step on that sharp turn.
However, nothing comes close to the importance of a ghost town. A little thing that stuck with me after reading a particularly interesting story by John Green. A ghost town was a little something that I put on my map to make sure no one else plagiarizes it. A town, a part of me that I never meant for to exist. But there were people who came along, read my map and tried to find their way around me. They dogeared the portions which intrigued them and disappointed themselves at some elaborate signboards which promised a greater experience than what they got. They marveled at how intricately some barriers were built and how intensely it could rain sometimes.
They also reached my ghost town, and tried to find the place, which the map assured them exists. All they found was a barren ground with nothing to see, a blade of grass here and there. Some turned back and left. But a chosen few stayed. They set up a mini gas station and got some bricks and mortar. They built tiny little shelters for themselves, watered the land and grew some flowers. Built a flourishing diner which served the best steak you'll ever find. Above all, they defined a place within me which was one I longed for, but was never supposed to be there.
It's not up to us to choose the path we take. We've been told otherwise, and have been lied to. Most of the times, you have to do things because necessity rules over emotions.
Years later, I'm climbing a steep hill, a journey I chose and whose consequence I await. I can't decide how to make the climb easier or the hill a bit kinder to my legs. But I have power over when I want to rest and take it easy for a while. When I want to replace the fancy wording in the Book I'll Never Write with simple ideas. There can be no alteration in inevitability, but there can be strong one, in favourability.
I have a choice when I want to escape to my little ghost towns, sit, and take a drink. Refuel my old car. Buy Snoopy pajamas. Watch a rom-com. Eat fries (without sharing). I have a choice to love what I do. That's what lends the ink its will to stay permanent. That's what makes all the difference.
The erasers won't work on the ink. The only choice was to build a new map, which is easier said than done. I neither had a concrete canvas, which would be sturdy enough to etch my dreams on and neither a good pen, one with a strong willpower to never distort.
So naturally, I adopted the age old artist's solution: I simply flipped it to draw on the other side. There is something so unnerving to be on the flipped side of your sole sheet of paper. Your second, final chance. It never fails to illustrate the idea that you're out of options. You'll never get a fresh sheet to work on again. If you get it wrong this time around, there is nothing changing and a messy life you'll always have.
While drawing I realized that the entire basic layout of the map remains the same. There is absolutely no difference, because, stubborn as we are, we hate to admit that some our decisions might have been wrong ones. They lead us to the place where we wanted to be, and no matter how much better it would've been to pick the road not taken, there is nothing you want to change about the only thing you're absolutely sure of- where you stand with your choices today.
Then how can this map be different if I can't change my routes?
That's where my failed cartographer met a smart one. She took the tiny red dots that marked the capitals of my cities and gave them different paths to follow. I saw The Book You'll Never Write be the capital of Why Not? from Haha No. Initially, it was hard to forcefully accommodate Apologize in the Ego Box, but now it easily drifted towards Love and Relief, as if it belonged there.
I realized I could make a difference in what I decide my landmarks are, on this map. Embarrassment was an ugly red one on a shady street. Fearing not being good enough and overdoing things was the first sharp turn on the entrance, with jagged rocks that harm a lot more than just your flesh.
The best I could do was to view the shady street as an unexplored area, which may contain a candy floss stall for a better landmark. The best I could do, was awaken a desire to not let Embarrassment take precedence and to watch my step on that sharp turn.
However, nothing comes close to the importance of a ghost town. A little thing that stuck with me after reading a particularly interesting story by John Green. A ghost town was a little something that I put on my map to make sure no one else plagiarizes it. A town, a part of me that I never meant for to exist. But there were people who came along, read my map and tried to find their way around me. They dogeared the portions which intrigued them and disappointed themselves at some elaborate signboards which promised a greater experience than what they got. They marveled at how intricately some barriers were built and how intensely it could rain sometimes.
They also reached my ghost town, and tried to find the place, which the map assured them exists. All they found was a barren ground with nothing to see, a blade of grass here and there. Some turned back and left. But a chosen few stayed. They set up a mini gas station and got some bricks and mortar. They built tiny little shelters for themselves, watered the land and grew some flowers. Built a flourishing diner which served the best steak you'll ever find. Above all, they defined a place within me which was one I longed for, but was never supposed to be there.
It's not up to us to choose the path we take. We've been told otherwise, and have been lied to. Most of the times, you have to do things because necessity rules over emotions.
Years later, I'm climbing a steep hill, a journey I chose and whose consequence I await. I can't decide how to make the climb easier or the hill a bit kinder to my legs. But I have power over when I want to rest and take it easy for a while. When I want to replace the fancy wording in the Book I'll Never Write with simple ideas. There can be no alteration in inevitability, but there can be strong one, in favourability.
I have a choice when I want to escape to my little ghost towns, sit, and take a drink. Refuel my old car. Buy Snoopy pajamas. Watch a rom-com. Eat fries (without sharing). I have a choice to love what I do. That's what lends the ink its will to stay permanent. That's what makes all the difference.
