It is suffocated. It is gasping for breath. Struggling to exist – its the other Me. The only ‘Me’ that is real.
Not the reformed, choreographed, beautified me, that people see and love.
It is the me I don’t let out – for fear of being hated, for fear of being feared. That me is not socially acceptable.
That ‘Me’ is liberated.
It feels. It gets hurt. It cries. It laughs. It smiles and it wonders.
It knows not how to curb its vein, it knows not how to gulp down anger and fake a smile. It whispers in my ear, “Bash him in the eye! He deserves it. The fuc**ng bastard!!!”.
I know he is right. I know the person is a fuc**ng bastard, but I flash a smile and give an agreeable nod and pass him. My image is saved, but inside I die. I burn. I cry.
I’m tired of agreeing.
BUT HE KNOWS HOW TO DISAGREE!
That ‘Me’ knows. And he disagrees with panache – using the choicest of expletives. He does not know how to tolerate the slightest of compromise with ‘my’ ideals. That ‘me’ is right.
BUT NOT POLITICALLY CORRECT.
So, I don’t let him out. I don’t let him be. Few times I let him out, I felt very powerful. And yes, liberated. I gave a piece of my mind to a senior teacher in school, whose ways I didn’t approve of.
Oh! I vividly remember the day. I felt like Hitler! Maddening power. My classmates looked at me, with awe, admiration, fear, respect. They wanted to be like me, but they didn’t let the ‘Me’ outside.
Since then, I haven’t let him out much often. I miss him. I miss the raw power. I miss the ‘Me’.