No (wo)man is an island

Once we become vulnerable to others, once our happiness, states of mind and levels of bewildermint are hinged on other people, that’s when there’s a fuzziness between where self ends and others begin. And most of the time, I’d say it’s a priveledged position but sometimes it’s a scary place. We don’t choose to make ourselves vulnerable to family, we’re born in these circles and you spend much of your growing up adjusting your individuality with whatever it is your family is experiencing. But friends and lovers are different, they require a conscious volition, a permission, to matter to us. And sometimes our choice in awarding these matterings needs serious reviewing.

I wish I knew why. You see, there’s some merit in being an island. A river island. An oceanic one would be altogether too pretentious. A river island; where the shore is a distant dream. A river island where there is only enough space for one.

But I think it would get lonely, and that’s the only reason I haven’t tried being one yet. But sometimes in some places there’s some merit in trying.

In the words of a good friend:

There is a real world.
It’s where assumptions can be trusted,
It’s in your father’s/mother’s house,
It’s at your sister’s bedside,
It’s at the river’s edge,
The lexicon can move-
I’m not running.

And in the words of Vikram Seth:

…to friends who’ve read this, quickly
Advised me to desist and cease,
Or burbled, “What a masterpiece!”
Or smoothed my steps with sage suggestion.

Thank you for not allowing me to be an island.