The Pursuit of Capital Letters

Goodbye to my Santa Monica dream
Fifteen kids in the backyard drinking wine
You tell me stories of the sea
And the ones you left behind
Goodbye to the roses on your street
Goodbye to the paintings on your wall
Goodbye to the children we'll never meet
And the ones we left behind
And the ones we left behind

I'm somewhere, you're somewhere
I'm nowhere, you're nowhere
You're somewhere, you're somewhere
I could go there but I don't

Rob's in the kitchen making pizza
Somewhere down in Battery Park
I'm singing songs about the future
Wondering where you are
I could call you on the telephone
But do I really want to know?
You're making love now to the lady down the road
No I don't, I don't want to know

I have been rewatching an old cartoon recently- As Told By Ginger. I don't know if this is a symptom of Peter Pan complex, or the workings of my depraved, undependable mind. But it is really one of the best cartoons out there. The characters are complex, the dialogue is real, the jokes are earthy and funny. I remember feeling like a million bucks whenever I got the timings right and managed to catch it. This, and The Wild Thornberrys. Oh, and there’s this show with a talking spell-book that could transport people from one place and other, and always slammed shut after absorbing them and left pages fluttering downwards. What am I doing at 3am in the morning reminiscing about classic childhood favourites? I don't know, maybe it is a reflection of the desire to return to the times when everything was safe, and hugeeee, but never critical. Been feeling so lost lately. Not a nice feeling at all.

I have a talent for subtracting myself from multiple equations. Cellophane man, komodo dragon and other bad camouflage metaphors. Catch me if you can, because I am good at letting myself fade away.

Recently, my father dug up some old videos from the recesses of cobwebbed shelves. In them, I was a fat little toddler taking her first steps unevenly and clumsily. It feels surreal sitting on the sofa watching myself, while my siblings and parents reminisced about the time when I was adorable and did nothing but adorable things. Like constantly badgering people for milk, going down steps by sliding down one stair at a time and not being able to sit up straight because I was a roly poly ball of chubbiness. I wonder when did it all start to go wrong. Back then, I was a clean slate, brimming with potential and unrealised expectations. I was infinite, I was endless, I could go on to be anything. And I had everything while growing up, a fact that I am eternally grateful for. Why did I turn out like this, despite the opportunities I have had? I wonder if my parents feel pangs of disappointment when they see me settled in for the long haul before the computer. In a way, I am toxic debt, sub-prime mortgage loans, and look, I can't even make relevant jokes about current affairs anymore, because I haven't been reading about the world. Thousands of tuition money for me to blaze through dramas about mythical foxes and folklore? I must be crazy; I am crazy. All I have to my name is an amalgamation of carefully cultured interests and insignificant commitments. My father has bloodshot eyes due to a persistent lack of sleep. My mother has appointments with the chiropractor to soothe her neck-aches. My grandmother sighs gently whenever she sees mud-encrusted boots.

I don't remember this long and often enough.