Stoppage.

It feels so good to be able to write again. I feel so free. It is as though I've been released into fresh air from a vacuum dungeon. It feels like having wings again. It feels like being in touch with my inner-self again. It feels like expression. I stopped painting as well. I wonder if I will be able to paint now. When I left India my mom asked me if I wanted to take my art kit with me. I told her I didn't. I gave my entire collection to my sister. She was delighted. For years, I forbade her from as much as laying a finger on art material. I'd get wild if she went near the art cupboard. I would buy her new stuff, but would never share my material with her.

My art material was precious to me. My faber-castle pencils. Once my sister took my 2H pencil. She was perhaps 7 years old. She didn't just take it, she sharpened it. I went totally berserk. I yelled at my mom for allowing her to meddle with my stuff. She didn't understand the importance of not sharpening pencils. I had carefully shaved it to suit the piece I was working on. It had the exact blunt that was needed. The first ever lesson one learns at art school is the right technique to sharpen one's pencils. My pencil was ruined by my sister's whimsical obsession with wanting to sharpen every pencil she ever laid her hands on. These things mattered to me back then. Expression was the most important aspect of my life. It still is. It stopped in between - but when it did, other people's expression became important to me. I stopped associating myself with people who couldn't express freely. Those people scared me. They still do. But I am not as phobic anymore. I respect them. But, in essence, I was scared of myself because I just stopped expressing.

Suddenly, I was unable to do it. I didn't even try. I built a stone wall around me. It all stopped. I often visualised myself trying to break the stone wall. It was always the same tight stone wall that surrounded me. In other variations, it would stand in front of me. I had something in my hand. Some sort of weapon. I couldn't say what it was - but I always failed. I never could break the wall. These are visualisations that popped up when I tried to express or was put in a position where I had to get in touch with myself. It became tougher and tougher. I bought a blue city when I moved to a new city. It remained empty. I moved to another city a year later. It still remained empty. I slowly started coming to terms with reality. Earlier, I just brushed it off as insignificant. I told myself that I was busy.

For two years, I tried to express, or perhaps didn't try. I don't know. But, for two years, I stopped all expression. I was scared of expression. Of violation.

I stopped art. I stopped music. I stopped writing. The expression came to a stand still.

I turned sceptical. When I did express, it was for work. When look back now, a lot of my work shows undertones of anger and emptiness. Of course, my readers would never be able to figure that out, but I understand my vocabulary and language usage better than anyone else.

But it is all rushing to me again. I wish I had a sketch book and my pencils. Maybe I would be able to express through art again. I wish I had my oil pastels. My oils. I want to smell linseed oil and turpentine again. I want a dirty palette and a colourful canvas again. Or do I not? Will I be overwhelmed? I am not going to buy anything. I know this is just a fantasy. If I start again, I know I am going to have to blurt out at first. It might never settle. I might never have that seamless flow of thought. Will my brush listen to my thoughts? Can I translate my thoughts into expression? On canvas?

Maybe I should stick with writing for now. I shouldn't be over ambitious. I should keep art and music for later. I took my keyboard to Bangalore from Chennai. I hoped to be able to play it. I never did. I tried at regular intervals. It was as though my keyboard yelled in pain every time I touch it...

I don't know... It is a relief I can write... at least I have a part of myself back.

There is just one person who is responsible for this. And I think I am falling in love with his ability to give me wings. I feel exhilarated. It feels so unfair to even put it in such a plain manner, but I feel free. I feel beautiful from within. I feel like I matter to someone and that is a very important thing for someone like me. There was a point in time, immediately after my marriage broke, when my mother made me stand in front of the mirror everyday and repeat to myself that I was beautiful, smart, intelligent and a nice human being. My self-esteem hit such a rockbottom that I was unable to come to terms with my own feelings and hence express it.

Today, I can write. Being in touch with my feelings has been an integral part of growing up for me. Now, I feel like I've slowly started unravelling a brand new me. A me that I have been hiding under a shroud all these days. I feel nice about myself again and that is a big personal achievement for me.

For me, being in touch with my feelings means doesn't just mean expression. It means allowing myself to respect my thoughts and emotions enough to express them fearlessly. And only if one is in touch with themselves can they feel, understand and make an emotional connect with another person. To be so contented and connected with oneself that it becomes possible to admit another person into their horizon. To give and to receive. To share and to cherish together. It is a scary thought. But I am not scared anymore to be in touch with those scary thoughts. I just have one thing to say to this wonderful warm person - Gracias.