Thursday, January 22, 2009

I'm not quite local, not quite a stranger. I'm either a local stranger or a strange local

I am going through a particularly hedonistic phase in my life. No, make that mental frame of mind. Right now, all I crave for is comfort, beauty, luxury, greater materialistic gain...the total works. It's like running through a fashion magazine catalogue, ticking the dresses that you want and wondering if it will make you look just as pretty and perfect as the models sporting them, do.

The ground reality is slightly removed though. There's comfort and beauty, but not quite in the same way. There's comfort, because everyday, when I go home, to the house that we have both so lovingly done up, it's like being back to my own space. It's my nook, my corner, and in a strange way, I never thought possible of me, my world too. I don't mind at all, for days altogether, to stay at home, pottering around, reading, listening to music, or just doing nothing. There's beauty in being reminded everyday that I belong, and that I am cherished, something which fills me with wonder every single day, even now.

So why, when I am so happy, am I craving hedonism? A friend of mine, quite given to living life on his own terms, has this to say. "Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather, to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming, woo hoo, what a ride!"

I am not that adventurous yet, but I suspect, it's got something to do with the thought at the back of my mind that time's running out. I am in my late twenties, and there's this feeling somewhere that I haven't done enough so far. There's this whole new world out there, waiting to be explored, waiting to be touched in to life, and I am doing nothing to make it happen. I am stuck in a professional status quo, boring, but comfortable, and I make no effort to change it or better it. I am coasting through life, superficially most of the times, in pursuit of the fruits of here and now, not knowing when to stop or where, all the time looking for a cure to my restlessness, in places where I know they don't exist. People have been suggesting motherhood, but I am not sure if I am prepared for that either, yet. I feel flustered sometimes, not just at the lack, but at my failure to do something about it.

And so till I find my way, it's the catalogues I am looking to live my life in. Hoping the labels fill fit. Or I'll grow out of them.