Red flags.

Dear Zonk,

I’m sitting here in my cab in a jam that’s doubtless going to go on forevermore, and I’m thinking about how I haven’t spoken to you in ages, and about how I’ve grown into one of those people who have absolutely no handle on Time. And so, in order to better utilise these otherwise worthless cab hours, and in order to just talk to you again, I’ve decided to tell you about it all. Right this minute. 

For a bit in 2014, when I was watering my plants, doing a 7-min workout thrice a week, and playing(ish) my violin, and then for a while last year when we did Yoga at Super, I did things Right. Worked well. Slept well. Treated my body with kindness. I felt Productive, and more importantly, I felt Well. And I know that wellness is a thing that’s thrown around too much these days, but I’m going to use the word anyway. Because  the truth is that I know what the other other end of the spectrum looks like. 

And I’m worried that if I don’t change some things, I’ll end up There again. 

There are three problems here. 

One – I’m excited. Things are beginning to fall into place and I’m a little bit hyper these days. Hyper doesn’t go well with reflection. Hyper is also synonymous with all over the place. 

Two – my attention span is in ruins. This is perhaps the most pressing problem of all. I am a goldfish in an aquarium. I’ll follow your fingers around but then I’ll stop and follow something else. I need to get rid of my phone for a while every week. I NEED TO. 

Three – I’m winning no prizes in the health department. I don’t work out. I don’t eat right. I don’t sleep enough at all. I used to have some discipline once. But I can’t find it in me to push myself much anymore. 

I think I need to turn off the internet and really just Be for a while. Think a little about it all. Make some rules. 

And then I need to follow them. 

I’ll see you again, Zonk. And I hope it will be soon. 

Love always,

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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