I suppose all blogs have a first page. A page where they describe who they are and what they are about and why they are writing. I couldn’t really answer those questions. I don’t want people to know who I am so suffice to say that you don’t and won’t know my name. So I might as well start with one of the posts I’ve written in my journal over the past few months.
The relief of writing. There really is nothing like it. Typing is soothing although its a pale comparison to the bliss of putting a new pen to fresh paper in a crisp journal. And that’s what this is, a journal. the first journal since I was a young girl, hiding under a blanket on the top bunk, with a key. Except that I don’t have a key, now I have a password and instead of a fresh new journal I’ve got an internet connection and a free blog page. How times have changed.
I don’t feel a need to hide anymore. I’ve replaced the cover of a thick blanket with the cover of a bustling Italian restaurant. I’ll sit by myself drinking a glass of red wine and nobody will care that I’m sitting here with only my computer to keep me company. And the phone. Yes, despite the fact that I’m not sitting home drowning in sorrow, I’ve brought that damn device with me to stare at me and remind me that the man that just broke my heart is in fact, NOT calling. Its here to remind me that I’m not over him, that I can’t stop thinking about him. And why would I. Each time I find a distraction, he calls or texts to profess his undying eternal love while simultaneously providing all the reasons why we can’t be together or love each other anymore.
Really, this is the stuff of a cheesy Bollywood movie, but instead of starring Shahrukh Khan and Preity Zinta, its just me and the guy I’ll call my Shiva acting out this common place comedic drama. And all to the narration of Elizabeth Gilbert. Why should an author featured in a documentary I watched two years ago be narrating the voice in my head? Because my own voice is too weak. And just when I think that perhaps my insanity has gone a little too far to include the author of Eat, Pray, Love as my Jimini Cricket, my brain goes ahead and switches to Julia Roberts. Because somehow the actress from Eat, Pray, Love is better. Thanks brain.
Maybe, I’m not hiding on the top bunk anymore. Maybe I’m sitting here in public where anyone can see me, but I am hiding from myself. Where is my voice? When did it go missing? Was it all the arguing it decided it couldn’t continue or the pleas falling on deaf ears it couldn’t endure? My own brain couldn’t speak for me anymore and my heart has lost all faith. So why would my voice keep wasting itself?
So, here I am, under a false name, hidden in internet anonymity, with Julia Roberts and Elizabeth Gilbert in my head.