It always works. The desire to run away. To fly. To dance when the music plays. To jump when there is achievement. To cry when there is nothing to cry about. To always, always seek catharsis. Catharsis is a dangerous word. Its pursuit leads to evil, forbidden pleasures, to unexplained crimes.
Often, when I wonder why I was even born, I think about catharsis. There is an unrealised potential that lies sulking within and needs an audience, perhaps. Because there is little in achievement that addresses it, I think about catharsis. Someday, it will come visiting and ground me so that I never run away again.
Until then, I run.
I run away on the tracks on my mind where there is music and perfect health, symmetry in the beauty of my plans, and stamina. I compete and often supersede my own expectations. I am tireless.
Last night, I loaded music on my phone to realise some of the running. It's a fantasy as much as it is a reality. It stays on the mind, and it prods. Is Murakami right when he relates running to all things positive, to an exercise that opens a world of possibilities? Will that set of possibilities also include catharsis?
What leads to Catharsis? I am chasing it. Unintentionally, and now that I am writing about it, actively. What can get me catharis and why do I even need it? What is it that makes the heart ache so much? Why cant I just be happy, because there are enough reasons to be happy?
On conventional days, others' measure of happiness are all mine - I want to settle down and present an example of being an example of exemplary grace and sacrifice. On days that define me, I do not want to set an example - I just want to live. Live without being judged, limited in roles, chained in duties. There is so much in the world to tie me down; too little to set me free. Yet, the mind is free and it guides life.
Where is life going? Where it's going is a dark tract of land that I can't see from where I stand. Someday, there will be light to preview it. But I don't wait for it. I am walking towards it, too eager to discover what lies there. But all discoveries are disappointing; they expose the grand mysteries of life and divest us of curiosity. At least, in the short run. I don't want to discover - exploration sounds like a better thing to do. May be, I would.
I often wonder if this particular day in November would stop any of that in the coming years. Would it, because it adds more years to my frame? Have I felt any different over the years? Why does it not address the longing for catharsis, of all things? But I love this day - it sounds exotic, and stays my most original claim to being exotic.
With this claim, I traverse literature, diverse universes, multiple assumptions to make sense of my own being. I read Plath and I aspire to die like her. I read Angelou and I find her within me. I read Eliot and often wish to cut a tragic figure. I read Shakespeare and I find him too grand, yet too close to my expectations in love. I find impossible echoes of self in decadent voices; I keep going back to `Wuthering Heights' for a feverish pitch at impossible loves in the kingdom of my mind.
``Are you in love?''
I was asked once. I smiled. I have always been in love. Without a man. With a man. Strange things have happened. Miracles and tragedies - they have walked hand in hand. How do I explain? What is love? Courage to embrace love as it happens or security of comfort? What is love - staying hungry or feeding each other? What is love - protecting or setting each other free? These are questions that have always stayed but happy spells of belonging have solved much of the dilemmas. Yet, it hasn't addressed catharsis. Heart still travels through the quicksilver desert of aspirations. I love the gold that sand dunes wear, and I wish they would fix my restless feet in a grave of comfortable addictions someday. May be, I shouldn't seek so much because my prayers are answered. Especially when I pray in love.