Winter is coming

The winter season is just around the corner. It is the time for the fortunate ones like you and me to open the box that contained the woolen clothes all through the summer, and revel in the smell of wool. It is time for those misty mornings, fog laden air and cool winds sending literal shivers down your spines. It is also, in many ways, time to embrace your vulnerabilities.

Not that summer is benevolent, but the fear of looming disaster and death seems more likely when you find everything around you either frozen or freezing. When life draws itself into a cocoon, when late mornings and not so late nights resemble deserted warships, you realize that you're vulnerable. You realize that all through the spring, summer, monsoon, and right up till autumn, you were free- in body, mind and spirit- but the moment you step out now, you're greeted with hostility. It is nature's way of reminding you of the springs, summers and autumns of your lives and telling you that there has to be a winter.

Winter shows you the mirror. It tells you that your hands that might have worked ceaselessly throughout the year, mending lives and breaking them, are capable of trembling themselves. Your lips that would have mended a broken heart or broken a soulful one are capable of roughening up. Your feet might have trodden all over the world but are capable of going numb. You don layers upon layers upon layers as if to cover yourself and your frailties, in a hope that the winds won't pierce you like an open dagger does. But, they do, and all of a sudden you realize that you're human and you can bear only so much, that the knell can sound anytime and if it does now, you're more than likely to give in.

Winter sets the clock, the clock against which we race, the clock that ticks, the clock that's beating out of time. But, to what end? To know that when the buzzer goes off, we'll be treated with something that we have no control over? To know that there's a force more powerful than the powers that we display to our inner selves? We might as well tread and not run, keeping in mind that we don't run over something that's just as alive as we are.

Winter is karma slapping you in the face to remind you that you're only mortal. Winter is eternal just like death and there are only so many winters in our lives. Every year, the clock is set, and every year you run against it. Chosen wisely whether you want to embrace something that's eternal and unforgiving, panting for breath, or shouldering arms. Because if you manage to come out to the other side, to see another winter, you're one hell of a lucky person.

Things that I'll have to be

How do you fight depression? At 2 AM, when the world is drunk on sleep- the most addictive yet pacifying drug of them all- I ask myself this question. The kid sleeping next to me doesn't have a worry in this world. He has an innately mundane routine, yet the most rewarding one that one can have. He has silly jokes to kid himself on, no real purpose to pursue, and most importantly, a day monotonous yet busy enough to reward him a proper night's sleep. He isn't depressed, but I am. Maybe I'll have to be mundane and monotonous enough to be fine.

The boys from my grad school are as carefree as ever. The world doesn't seem to have bothered them much. Chivalry and machismo surround them like moths surround lights. They just seem to have a magnetic connection. Smiles plastered along their faces resemble a childish grin on the reception of a toy. They're still young boys of five years back and not grown men of responsibilities- rough and rustic- sporting bright shades and even brighter eyes. They aren't depressed, but I am. Maybe, I just have to be a little old school tomboy to be fine.

The girl I loved doesn't matter much now. The years I wasted don't either, notwithstanding the knowledge of the prime that I missed. She's as indifferent as ever, busy making her own merry ways, making more acquaintances than friends. That's how she does it, I think- not carrying any burden at all; people coming in as fellow passengers with the luxury of leaving as and when desired; feelings too few to hurt, too restricted to matter, too selfish to give away. She isn't depressed, but I am. Maybe, I'll have to be a little selfish to be fine.

My parents are content- not necessarily happy, but content. Happy within their means would be the correct phrase- no fancy wishes, no extravagant spending, yet never short of anything. Mother doesn't remember a sorrow for too long, neither does she remember a smile. Errands, be it small or big, make up her day, home being a surreal respite, the kitchen- a hell within. For father, it is all about priorities- striking the proper balance, like a master administrator, between need and greed. Routine for him is as pious as God himself, and work makes the best nexus. They are cliched, just the way the world wants them to be. Maybe, I'll have to be cliched to be fine.

So, how do I fight depression? I become the world to do it. I become the tomboy who doesn't give a fuck, or a sixteen-year-old not really knowing how to give a fuck? I become a selfish girl, too selfish to be felt for, or the age old cliche of live and let live? By being any, or all of these, I become the world- the world that doesn't care, the world that doesn't ask these questions, the world that right now is too drunk on the life-altering drug, and that would spin mercilessly again to have some more of the same. Who's the depressed one now?

Photo courtesy- berlin-artparasites