Tilting The Underground

 So… okay. Honestly, I’ll be the first to admit in a long line of people, that I have felt lot more emotions than necessary for somebody of my age (I have no problems in declaring myself to be eighteen). I also will concede to behaving immaturely, irrationally and sometimes over-spontaneously in many scenarios. More than once, I’ve done things that still make me wince when I think of them, and more than once I wish I could undo what I’ve done.

Maybe, just do them better. Redo the ridiculous parts, make them more… mature.

I can’t say the things I’ve done have made me who I am, because I ‘m sure if I‘d done them better, I’d be a lot happier. The things I’ve done with my eyes wide open… it makes me shudder.

Stupid things, funny things, pride-related things, innocent things, caught-up-in-the-moment things… sheesh! The list just doesn’t stop.

More than anything I regret … me. Not who I am. Not who I’m becoming.

I regret not being all those things could be… should be…

So I have hobbies… everyone does right?

Not the way I see it… because my hobbies… all the million things I love to do… I hate that I can’t dedicate more time to them.

I hate that right now I have to be focused on nothing but my studies. I hate that I have to wait to be able to do what I want, and above all, I hate that reality will come crashing in the second I think it’s finally going to be my time to shine.

Believe me when I say, I can make something worthwhile from what I do, it is not my arrogance or ignorance speaking.

I may not be the best, I may not be better than you, but I am good. I feel it, I know it. I don’t need to show it, bur for some reason I crave to do it.

The reason I face problems is because “it” could be a number of things. Depending on my mood, I have to alternate from cooking to drawing, painting with water paints, oil paints, listening to soft music, rock music, writing lyrics for my own song, trying to make a tune for it, sketching, imagining a story then acting it out, writing it out, writing plays, going out for a walk, exercising, working on the computer, reading a book, watching TV, calling up and talking to new friends, coming online to chat with people, catching up with movies I’ve missed, imagining a movie for myself to be in, going to the beach, changing my hairstyle, planning out stuff, talking to my mom dad and sis, meeting my family, meeting my grandparents, baby sitting my youngest cousin, spending time with my aunt, trying to keep in touch with really old friends, writing emails/chatting with cousins, searching for new music, keeping in touch with best friends, playing throw ball, updating my MP3 player and going completely insane in my room, dancing about to some catchy tune. I’m quite sure I missed some things out.

I still refuse to call it arrogance.

Sometimes, like when I’m on stage, I feel this… this… confidence. A great calm. As if suddenly I’m where I should be. Whatever I’m doing – it’s perfectly right. I just can’t go wrong, and if I do, I do it smoothly.

The introduction, then I step on stage, turn to my audience, start with the same dull lines “I stand before you…” Suddenly, I’m not conscious of what’s taken over me. My voice modifies itself; it’s louder and clearer. My vision blurs – I see people but they don’t register. Suddenly I’m comfortable. I’m ‘in the zone’. I magically have a time sense and know exactly when to say what. I conclude- and say the most astonishing things, smile casually and walk off stage. And as I get back to my place I’m thinking “Did I just say that? In fact, hold on… exactly what have I been saying?”

Everyone heard my speech. Everyone. I notice as the eyes follow me. I could probably hear a feather drop. I get to my place, people around me – speechless. I rehearsed in front of them all a dozen times, saying the same things yet when I was up there, it all came out differently.

Especially my parting line: “I may not be perfect, not even close! But, you know what? I like who I am”

Where the hell did that come from?

An applause breaks out; polite, discreet. Hardly anyone’s clapping. Too stunned or didn’t they like it? Naturally, I accept the latter. And my feeling of elation and walking on clouds vanishes. I find myself crashing back to the hard round of reality. I over-did it.

The verdict? Enjoyable, but overdone.

Never mind that I took a trip from here to God-knows-where and back, within 20 minutes flat, never mind that I find myself still shaking, I over-did it and nobody appreciates it. How was it? “Good… as usual. You’re always good”

Hmm.

The same situation is not confined to my alleged skills as an orator. It happens every time I do something that I truly take pleasure in. Sing a song- nobody’s there to hear- but I still go for a ride on my journey to… enigma. The music, the words… I’m singing them but I’m not saying them. They’re rolling off the tip of my tongue. When I write my story – I forget who I am, let alone time passing by. The story unveils itself to me, and I as I write, I don’t exists; the story does. It flows out of me; I’m merely a tool to document the happenings.

Unfortunately, I can’t force this… this… happening. If I try to write just about whenever I think I must, rubbish comes out. Utter, ridiculous garbage. I can’t sing on queue, I can’t dance in the spot light and I certainly can’t sprout out dialogues when the timing suits. It has to be one hundred percent natural – an over powering feeling that I can’t ignore. Once the feeling has passed – I’m pathetic again.

I can’t predict these feelings either.

I awoke from amidst deep sleep one night because I felt compelled to draw. My eyes refused to close, and until the entire drawing was on paper, they remained open. I woke up early another day – and I never do that- at around dawn because a story had come o me, and I didn’t move till it was lunch time, by when I had written a good 80 pages. Once I found myself sprouting poetry during class and spent two hours- as the teachers continued to teach- writing a two-page, 14 paragraphed poem while following a rhyme scheme. And when I want to talk- well, I still have people who call me “unforgettable” while others who I try to impress don’t seem to notice my existence.

I wonder if it’s strange.

I know I’m strange – I get that. It’s just, if I had to pin it down to something and say “Yes well, here’s the problem, I drink too much coffee!”, or something, what would I claim the source to be? Brain damage? I should hope not!

I… don’t really know. No, I had a perfectly normal childhood. No, I don’t see spots. Yes, I’m sure. The only voice in my head is my own. My parents love each other very much, my sis, like all big sisters, is a constant but loyal pain in my side, and I guess I’m happy most of the time.

So no, I don’t think I’m crazy. I might be insane, (it’s something I call myself… ‘strange’, ‘weird’, ‘crazy’, ‘mad’… are just not the words I associate with me. I distinct remember I once ended my speech with “I’m insane… And I like it!!!”) but definitely not crazy.

I guess, until I find someone like me, I’m one of my kind.

And one day, I will be okay with that.

No, one day- I will be proud of that.