Onism

n. the frustration of being stuck in just one body, that inhabits only one place at a time, which is like standing in front of the departures screen at an airport, flickering over with strange place names like other people’s passwords, each representing one more thing you’ll never get to see before you die—and all because, as the arrow on the map helpfully points out, you are here.
(from The Dictionary Of Obscure Sorrows)

What if you had become a painter of signs instead? Or a chemist. Or a lighthouse operator or a teacher or a monk. What if you’d married your first love? What if every single choice you’ve ever made that has led you to where you are right now was actually second best? And floating around somewhere out there is another version of you; a version that always chose wisely and well and is unknowable and therefore, infintely better.

There’s got to be a better way of going about this business of living.

Love always, and a touch of consternation,
K.

 

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Author: Kirtana K

I paint and make music and blog like a maniac. These days I try to run. But I have chicken legs and lungs the size of two-rupee balloons. I fail. I like pajamas and striped socks and books that read like song and songs that sound like poetry and strangers who read this page. And Maggi when I'm sick or cold or sad or celebrating. They'll find noodles in my veins if ever they cut me open. And potatoes. And maybe a tiny bit of whiskey. I'll be an Unidentified Living Object and they'll put my insides on display. It will be crazy. It will be awesome. It will.

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