Hope

I probably read my old journals a bit too much. It is an unhealthy habit- to flip through the pages, read a few sentences and lose myself in thoughts about the past and the present. It is not good to delve too much on the past, but it is tempting to seek comfort in words written at a different time, especially in times like these. Even the teenage angst that is spilled copiously onto paper seems nostalgic and inviting.

Somewhere in there, I find my attempt at a somewhat cliched literary experiment- a letter to my past self. It was written to be performed, in the form of a free verse poem. My eyes scroll through the stanzas, they are littered with gratitude, stabs at self-deprecating humour and general regret at chances not taken. The poem is even self-aware of its own futility towards the end, a final touch that I evidently believed would round it off nicely. There are highlights and underlines here and there, meant to guide me on tone, emphasis and enunciation. The rush of performance suddenly comes back to me- the nervousness before stepping out and the euphoric relief after. Snippets of a bygone life flash before me- I see carefree grins cast towards pleasantly familiar faces. I see dancing and laughter, a quiet exhilaration that seemed to overflow from one passing moment to the next. As I reach the closing lines of the poem, a sardonic smile slips past me and creeps up on my face. That innocent idiot. He has no idea what would come for him.

What if I repeat my experiment today? What if I had to write a letter to the boy who wrote that poem? Shall I tell him of everything that would go wrong, which was in fact, every single thing- the pandemic, the fear, the separation, interminable longing and bitter acceptance? Shall I tell him of the mass funerals, corpses still hungry for oxygen waiting in line to finally burn in peace? I imagine his eager, hopeful, self-satisfied smile slowly melting into absolute horror and disbelief. I’m not sure if I have it in me to lay waste to his dreams and break the poor boy’s heart. Besides, who likes spoilers?

I guess he and I are both saved by the unidirectionality of time. Otherwise, it would have been hard to resist the Schadenfreude, however masochistic it might be. With the same sardonic smile, my face turns to the window. A blanket of clouds nestles the dying light, a solitary bird belts out a premature eulogy.

Is this one of the tragicomedies of life- that the days we fill to the brim with hope are doomed to be looked upon as the ones of foolish naivete in retrospect? The cynic lies crouched on the earth he once loved, seeing only too clearly the shadows cast by his blinding ideals. It is a cold feeling to look at smiling children, watch their games and mischief and see only the impending murder of their joyful innocence by life and its circumstances. Maybe it is colder still, to deride one’s own hopes and dreams, that were once so dear and cherished.

Soon enough, I find myself in a storm of thoughts. I can make out only the rough edges of the world and its people. Staring blankly at the black, flowing words, my mind wanders far away from my old journal. Overwhelmed, I draw in a sharp breath and snap the covers close. I really must stop reading this. I wonder why I keep coming back.

It never crosses my mind to destroy these pages, however painful the spiral I might stumble into while reading them. I could never tear them to bits, or even more dramatically- light them on fire and watch them burn. I remember doing this to poems and letters I thought to be too embarrassing or cringeworthy- I would shred them and put them into the bin with a sigh of relief. But not today. As unbearable as it is to read those words, it is just as unbearable to imagine them as illegible shreds or ash. Some sentimental, childish part of me rebels against this cold darkness of rationality. Battered and worn as it is, it still longs to leave caution to the wind again and be blissfully ignorant of all that could go wrong. I will keep coming back to these pages and nurse this parasite- just to remind myself of what it felt like to be carefree. Journals will carry memories of a stolen life carefully, until this longing finally ripens into nostalgia. Some day perhaps, my future self will write a letter to my present self, telling me how foolish and naive my despair is. Or atleast, that is the hope.