Hankering away to the ebb

I emerged from my journaling hiatus with a piece that I ended up discarding entirely after publishing it. It felt raw and imperfect after rereading it. Nobody seems to have prepared me for a time when I would feel my writing was subpar. That’s the underbelly of perfectionism. Maybe I am just being too hard on myself. Or maybe I am really at that point where creativity becomes hard to conjure up. It was a reflection on the dynamics of friendship. It was a treatise on my association with her. I was tempted to redo it. But I’ll try something different.

We are at a historic moment of our lives where how we relate with other people is heavily influenced by our daily situations. In the recent past, it was relatively easier to communicate, keep tabs on each other and commit fully to a functional friendship.

Presently, we have relegated ourselves to the peripheries of the lives of our friends. Doesn’t mean we love or like them any less. It’s more of acknowledging and appreciating their unique personalities and preferences and adroitly growing into it. We have replaced curiosity with overt candor. We have replaced fluid sentimentalism with stoic reverence.

While it is relatively easier shooting straight, it’s never that easy with such people. They come packaged with layers of complexity and with throes of mystery. Therefore, in those urgent moments of fiery eagerness one summarily retreats to the drawing board to recharge for a more nuanced approach. By the time one resurfaces, a balanced but abstruse instinct kicks in.

And then again, I am trying to convince myself that a man of letters can morph into a man of few words. That one can resign from the buzz of painting life colorfully and patiently hanker away to the ebb as a recluse.