Well, I am one of those cynics who don’t believe in the concept of celebrating one’s birthday. I see the ritual as pointless and extravagant. Far-off relatives would get a chance to shower formalities, people I barely know would post on my Facebook timeline, and random acquaintances would wish me, perhaps to get a birthday treat, in the middle of a stupid class or on a sidewalk.
This time, however, it feels different.
I don’t actually care about what others do for me on my birthday. It is important what I feel on my birthday. This is the day when I came in this world; it reminds me of my boring existence. The sadness of my past life culminates into an agony that would loom right above my head the entire day, like a devilish halo. Regrets rear their ugly head and so do those stupid mistakes. The chickens come home to roost and every unethical thing that I ever did makes me feel bad.
That is the sad part.
On the flip side, I feel weirdly ecstatic. I don’t know if I have ever felt this way or if I shall ever feel the same again. But this is what I feel now, it is precious for me. I revel in my own awesomeness, the narcissist inside me surges from those deceitful depths. I realize my importance. I need to be a part of this world. However insignificant I may be; I am needed by people. I am a tiny gear in the intricate and vast machinery of humanity. Without me, it all might fall apart. It also reminds me of someone.
Someone who studied a lot.
He was impressed by Science and intrigued by Language. Geography and History were his guilty pleasures. Mathematics was hated and loved by him. Those subjects meant a lot to him, they were his life. They were his solemn refuges from a society bustling with extroverts. English was something he felt he was born to learn. Literature and fantasy made him release himself into an ethereal plane.
A plane where he felt accepted and dignified.
He started writing poetry to pen down what he felt and what those characters felt. Those people in his mind, constructed when the mind idled around in boring school-bus journeys or during busy lunch-breaks when other children played their games. Games he never understood, and perhaps will never understand.
He felt he had to record those feelings of his. The random mood shifts or troubled introspections. Maybe nobody would ever care for those things. It didn’t matter, he would write it. Writing calmed him down. He dreamed big. He was and is over-ambitious and desperate for fame. He wants to help others unravel themselves. He wants people to explore literature. The spark hasn’t died, it is still there. His profession might not support it but he will put down his thoughts and make the world read them. He may or may not have an audience; fame and money may or may not be his, but he shall write.
Hypergraphia isn’t a disorder after all for him, it is his gift; a birthday gift. That someone is important. So are you, we all are. We may not feel important all the time, but trust me; there will always be a need for us in this world. You may not choose your birthday as a reminder of your awesomeness, but do choose a day or a moment. You may have succeeded or failed in life, it doesn’t even matter. What matters is your existence and what you have given to this world. All this may sound like eerie psychobabble. But do give it a thought. I and many others would be happy if you realize your importance.
All the best to you and happy birthday to me!
~Syed Adil Husain | Edited by Nandini
Image source: pixabay.com