Lutalica… and our Identity

You can also read my article at The Huffington Post!

Lutalica (n). the part of your identity that doesn’t fit into categories

Categories abound. When we are born, we are born with a name, gender, nationality, religion, and race. And that’s all right. There are categories, and we are placed into them. There are always outliers; but given the fact that the number of outliers is constantly increasing, there is a sparsely populated identity that they fit into, as well. If we look at the world as a series of canisters that we are nestled in, it may seem like we’re not as unique as we once thought we were… because there are millions of others surrounding us. We are knowingly or unknowingly labeled, and we accept that.

But what about those gaps between the canisters, which are said to contain air and dust particles? What about the water that overflows, or the sand that never gained entrance in the first place? What about the facets of our personality that refuse to conform to a set rhythm, and hence compose their own tune?

I’m sure millions of teenagers write poetry; we are hence categorized as “poets”—a name most of us hold with pride. But I know a girl who writes poems that either attempt to create a new image of a “princess”, or glamorize the beauty of math problems. She writes in sestinas or in iambic pentameter, and has a firm policy of only composing in the margins of her math notebook. Sometimes, she solves math problems by incorporating them in her poems; she says that it helps her integrate the two halves of her intellectual life. She is a poet, but not in the strictest sense. Hers is an interest and talent that can’t be carelessly designated. And if more poets like her were to be labelled and tucked into a box, that box would probably explode—merely because those youngsters aren’t comfortable there. They deserve to drift about space, and to find their niche at their own rate. And given the speed at which the globe’s diversity is flourishing, chances are they won’t take long.

Not everything needs to be labelled. But this phenomenon has grown so dramatically that we feel like a pariah if we don’t experience that sense of belonging. It’s easier to feel sheltered, protected against the wind, than out in the open—before the critical eyes of the millions of people safely enmeshed in their own world. But do those labels do justice to the myriad of dreams and aspirations we’ve developed over the years? Is it right to be merged with the crowd, when we could present the world with something miles more divergent and colorful?

Admittedly, categories keep the world organized. They prevent us from falling into chaos, like a million dots ambling about, desperately trying to find their niche—whether in terms of nationality, ethnicity, religion, occupation…  But regardless of the number of labels that are attached to our name, there will always be that one aspect of our personality that will never find its calling. I am a teenager who loves exploring the nexus between journalism and etymology, and who simultaneously houses a love for engineering. My family is a clan of voracious coders; I, on the other hand, am a poet with a highly mathematical side. Although I’m introverted, I’m still good at communicating with people and working in a team. Despite being a perfectionist when it comes to my grades and work, my desk is fantastically untidy and I never procrastinate when a challenge lies before me. 

These traits ensure that every facet of my personality isn’t carelessly slapped into a box. But that said, I still may be deemed a normal teenager: I go to school, talk to my friends, stress out before finals, and have a few hobbies that I dedicatedly pursue. Yes, I am a relatively normal teenager—but there have always been characteristics of mine that fight to escape that category. Every high school student I know has something incredibly distinctive about them, whether that distinction is positive or negative. And that’s what makes us unique—that’s what makes each person memorable: the strand of our persona that fights to be recognized, and that aspires to leave a mark on the world. The world may seem to categorize us for the sake of simplicity. And it works—it does make the world easier to comprehend, it does add coherence to phenomena too vast to completely understand. It lets us know that there are millions of similar people out there; for after all, humans are social creatures.

But it’s still comforting to know that there is a rebellious side that desires to be acclaimed for its uniqueness… whether it’s an ingredient of our personality, or just something we were born with. In a world that is teeming with diversity, it’s becoming more and more difficult to be recognized among our friends, or even by our family. But it’s always possible to be recognized by ourselves, and to embrace that side of our nature that refuses to settle down and be lost in the crowd. Or to appreciate the fact that no matter how intimidating it may seem, wandering around space may actually lead us to some beautiful destinations. And you never know—it can be heartening to break out of our mold, and to welcome that side of ourselves that never managed to find a home.

Sugared Warmth

Previously published in After the Pause. 

            Warm and snug, cozy and comforting. providing

                respite from a biting chill, to frozen fingers   

              that wrap around it, glad, seeking the warmth

                characteristic of its glazed exterior, around                  aromatic cup

                which lingers the sweet delights of a sound         warm,                    of

                of saccharine rivers, a dark chocolate pond     a                                  fiery

                   melting the glacial shards of ice, a red,                                            sparks

                  amber, golden fire, whose hues conflate                                             of

                to battle the swirling winds outside, all the                                          magic

              spirals of pale snow emblazoned with motifs                                       on

               so intricate, hypnotic, like the hot whirlpool                                      a

               of sugar coated sloughs, of bubbling embers                             bitter, 

             that hiss and steam, leaving the treacly ocean,                        gelid

            entering the frozen air in many fragrant waves,                     night  

             mouthwatering, a pleasure to the visual senses                  of

            that feast on the defrosted strands of chocolate               snow 

            on a glacial night, with baleful squalls, flurries             and    

            of ice- completely defenseless when confronted     ice

            by the heat of a candied maelstrom,  inhaled in 

            cautious sips, inhaled minutes later in gulps of 

          breath, the perfect weapon against wintry nights,

         darkened coals of no more luminosity, diaphanous

          overcoats, and a mind longing for the eternal bliss

           treasured in a cup of eddying, melted chocolate 

Olēka and the Personal Diary

This post was originally published on The Huffington Post. 

Image Credit: http://my-ekonomy.info/article_personal_diary-eng.htm

Olēka (n). the awareness of how few days are memorable (Source: Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows)

I did a mental exercise a few days ago: I noted down the days in 2015 that I truly remember—whether the day was happy, awful, worrisome, or exciting. A few stuck out for me: my first literary publication, going to Disney World, my first day at a new school, the day my online magazine went live, the day I fell ill right before my finals. It was a laborious, mentally exhausting practice, but I managed to come up with seventy-four days I could remember with complete clarity (and if not the entire day, then substantial bits of it). That seemed fairly impressive, until I realized that there were 291 days I couldn’t recall. Those seventy-four days had helped shape me to be the person I am now; they were times I dealt with failure, or made a new friend, or developed a new interest. And that’s why I remember them. But… what about the other days? Did I just wake up, eat, study, write a bit, and go back to sleep—just to enter another day of monotony? Was that how I spent a majority of 2015?

Remembering the memorable days in 2014 was even harder. After several hours of intense soul-searching, I landed on around forty days I could recollect. Naturally, the numbers went down as I went backwards in time… but it was a bit dispiriting all the same. Even more daunting? The realization that five years from now, this day may come under the “forever forgotten” category. My movements right now, the emotions I’m experiencing, the conversation I’m making, the thoughts flowing through my mind may all lay discarded in a neglected part of my memory. It might be as if these moments never existed—because I can’t remember them, and because they seem to play an inconsequential part in my life.

That’s when I realized how precious diaries are. While rummaging through an overflowing drawer, I found my third-grade diary—prettily wrapped in pink paper and written in with glittering green ink. I had found it sometime in March 2016; but I got to reading it only a few days ago. Before reading the diary, I could only recall around ten days of third grade—such as my birthday, a particularly enjoyable music class… But after reading it, I realized that in a hidden corner of my mind, there is a trove of memories I haven’t pulled out in years. While my eyes absorbed the sight of my loopy, untidy handwriting, my mind went back to the third-grade plays, the flute recitals, the surprise spelling tests, and the “unforgettable” field trips. Funnily enough, at the end of one entry, I had written “I will never, ever forget this amazing day”. It’s a bit sad to know that I forgot it so swiftly, and didn’t pay it a fifth thought until then.

We believe that most of our days are unremarkable; but it’s only because we can’t remember them. Our minds are limited in the amount of information they can hold. When we’re in the “now”, we’re constantly inundated by a flurry of information that prevents us from grasping the reality of things. We’re able to process our days mostly in retrospect; for instance, I don’t think about the party while I’m at the party. I think about it and create memories once I’m back home, in the comfort of my pajamas. But it’s difficult to recount every event… The best we can do is take the most dramatic or interesting times, and try to extract as much sense out of them as we can. And consequently, a majority of our days falls into the pit of oblivion.

Diaries are powerful objects. They help me reach out to memories I didn’t even know existed. It’s like digging through the soil and finding a sparkling stream at the nadir—rather than the mental block you had expected. In fact, I’d like to share an excerpt from one entry:

I don’t know why my teacher wants me to write a diary. It’s some sort of school project, I guess. But daddy said that it will be important to me when I grow up. He said it will make me happy when I’m older, and will help me remember stuff. But what do I need to remember? I remember everything that happens in my life! […]  

I found this part rather amusing. But I’m so glad that I overrode me initial misgivings, and continued to chronicle my very uneventful days. Because… that’s what makes them memorable. That’s how we avoid ruminating about our lack of memorable days. Yes, most of the days we live are spent eating or talking or studying; but they’re given a different dimension when we write them down, and record the thoughts that ran through our head when we were doing the most mundane activities.

I wish I had recorded those 291 days in 2015, and the “forgettable” days in the previous years. Because, well, that way I wouldn’t have that dull sense of regret when I think about the number of days that slipped through my mind.

But a part of me still wonders if every day is meant to be memorable. After all, we can’t remember every meal we eat, every excursion we take, and every new person we meet; we mostly remember the times that were especially important to us. And somehow, doesn’t the uniformity of our other days make those important times all the more special? They automatically become diamonds in the rough. It’s easy to find and appreciate a glistening ruby amid a vast expanse of dirt; but what if that ruby is surrounded by other glimmering gems? How precious would that ruby be then?

Olēka: the awareness of how few days are memorable. The awareness may be upsetting to some, or inspiring to others. For me, it’s a mix of the two emotions; but now, I’m trying to make it more of the latter. Yes, I treat my old diary like the crown jewels—but it’s not always possible to keep a handwritten, hard-bound diary once we get busier. And so, I treat those few memorable days like cherished gifts—as remembrances of times that shaped my present personality, rare but memorable.