I am all for baggy pants and bootlegs and wide legs straight cuts even if they don’t suit my body type but I SWEAR TO GOD if dumbshits start advocating thinner straight bodies under the current fashion bracket I WILL NOT FORGIVE THE INTERNET
I think I was 14, when I read Elizabeth bishop’s infamous poem - ‘One Art’ for the first time; after partially hearing it in the movie 'in her shoes’. I remember bawling over it as if the pain from the words were coming from somewhere deep within me. I had just lost a bestfriend due to miscommunication, jealousy,pettiness or simply teenage situationships.
’The art of losing isn’t hard to master;so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.’
My heartbroken teenage self just truly wanted to believe that. That somethings are just found so they could be lost again. I cried over this poem, with a broken heart, an apology I never got, and an apology I never gave.
Years have gone by now and I will be 22 this year. I have grown and grown up. I raised myself to be an intellectual, took the path of the sciences and trying my best to build a life for myself.
But in all the technicalities of my basic existence, competition and speed of the world that we live in, today I found Elizabeth Bishop again.
My eyes trembled upon 'One Art’ again.
And this poor heart cried again.
I have lived and loved and lost and loved and lived and lost again. But the world teaches you, trains you to shove it deep within and move on as you have no time, there are other important things you have to work on.
Feelings, the pain, the people? They will come and go along.
As I read through this beautiful poem again,
I thought of my hostel room keys and the notes I lost, the phone numbers I didn’t gave and hidden glances across the room and the tea which was always hot. The moments I yearn for but are lost.
Friends I made and the great team we were, the dances, the classroom romances,the laundry days, 12 am, a little something about him and something about her.
Year 2020 and the zoom calls. The new internet era we found and some dear ones we lost.
The things I wanted to do, and places I didn’t go. And how 2021 was hardest I had ever known.
My childhood home and the childhood friend. The cities I traveled, lived and left. The plans that never got executed and how we are forgetting each other’s names.
But life goes on, the moments I yearn for are getting lost again.
But losing you, as each face flashes in front of my eyes, just pains.
And how each time I master this art of self deception, a part of me gets lost in translation.
As sad is this poem maybe, I surely admire,
how now i read this as a grown up, i know for a fact, the poet and I are both beautiful liars.
I think I was 14, when I read Elizabeth bishop’s infamous poem - ‘One Art’ for the first time; after partially hearing it in the movie 'in her shoes’. I remember bawling over it as if the pain from the words were coming from somewhere deep within me. I had just lost a bestfriend due to miscommunication, jealousy,pettiness or simply teenage situationships.
’The art of losing isn’t hard to master;so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.’
My heartbroken teenage self just truly wanted to believe that. That somethings are just found so they could be lost again. I cried over this poem, with a broken heart, an apology I never got, and an apology I never gave.
Years have gone by now and I will be 22 this year. I have grown and grown up. I raised myself to be an intellectual, took the path of the sciences and trying my best to build a life for myself.
But in all the technicalities of my basic existence, competition and speed of the world that we live in, today I found Elizabeth Bishop again.
My eyes trembled upon 'One Art’ again.
And this poor heart cried again.
I have lived and loved and lost and loved and lived and lost again. But the world teaches you, trains you to shove it deep within and move on as you have no time, there are other important things you have to work on.
Feelings, the pain, the people? They will come and go along.
As I read through this beautiful poem again,
I thought of my hostel room keys and the notes I lost, the phone numbers I didn’t gave and hidden glances across the room and the tea which was always hot. The moments I yearn for but are lost.
Friends I made and the great team we were, the dances, the classroom romances,the laundry days, 12 am, a little something about him and something about her.
Year 2020 and the zoom calls. The new internet era we found and some dear ones we lost.
The things I wanted to do, and places I didn’t go. And how 2021 was hardest I had ever known.
My childhood home and the childhood friend. The cities I traveled, lived and left. The plans that never got executed and how we are forgetting each other’s names.
But life goes on, the moments I yearn for are getting lost again.
But losing you, as each face flashes in front of my eyes, just pains.
And how each time I master this art of self deception, a part of me gets lost in translation.
As sad is this poem maybe, I surely admire,
how now i read this as a grown up, i know for a fact, the poet and I are both beautiful liars.
I really wish they would stop making gender stereotypical posts : when girls xyz vs boys xyz. Or like uwu girls vs bruh girls. Why put anyone is any bracket?
I wish some things would go old fashioned but with modern turns to it like dating, I want callers and the getting woed by receiving flower and invitations to go on date but this whole concept I not limited to gender or sexuality, anyone can show their interest but in more loving and romantic sense filled with poems and sunsets and books and queerness and without the gender norms. Ykwim???
Thats the thing about playing it safe- it protects you, from harm, people, unsolicited opinions, judgement, society and sometimes even from your self. But the problem is, the more you close yourself, even in a good way, you isolate and one day its just becomes a solitary unit with entry passes for people. You might name it as a private club with only VIP entry but soon the VIPs get cut off even if not entirely but it becomes plain, predictable, frankly just boring.
The non-toxicity of this routined organic life style is predictably boring. You become boring inspite of many books and knowledge and memes and multiple hobbies you adopted to keep you healthy and busy.
How many times will I need to apologize? How many punches I have left to receive? I have fought everyday to make it right, I have settled our score. But the ghost of my broken past never seems to forgive.
