Onism

(n). the frustration of being stuck in just one body, that inhabits only one place at a time […] (Source: The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows)

By the time we enter primary school, we’ve heard all about the planets in our Solar System. As we grow older, we learn that the Solar System is just a speck in the Milky Way Galaxy, and that there are thousands of galaxies out there, peppering our universe with their glow and might. The celestial mysteries that beckon to us are countless, but we resign ourselves to the fact that they’re limited to computer screens and observatories. We accept the fact that the stars are too faraway to take seriously, that Jupiter has a turbulent red spot over twice the size of our planet, that the moon will always be a distant relative.

So instead, we look around… at how far the horizon is and how dauntingly it encircles us. That that circle is just a fleck of life, dotted on the surface of the earth. We think about the number of adventures we could be having, the divergent memories we could be creating, the new people we could be meeting—within the ring that encircles us. When I look out of my balcony, I see an amalgam of towering apartments, faded villas, huts with thatched roofs, green trees beside spires of concrete, people scuttling about from task to task. When I walk on the streets, I see the incredible number of markets, parlours, stalls, parks, and cinemas. Places I would love to visit, and whose ambience I would want to inhale… but there are only twenty-four hours in a day, and seven days in a week. I have only one body, although my mind wishes I had ten.

The world becomes even more intriguing once we extricate ourselves from that ring. For all around us, there are mountains and slopes waiting to be climbed, fields of snow waiting to be shaped into spheres and thrown, peaks that are craving to be mounted. There are oceans with shadowy depths, beautiful creatures, and fish that we still don’t know exist. There are villages waiting to be visited, whose culture is unlike anything we’ve ever witnessed. There are waterfalls, rainforests, and glaciers still unknown to the human mind, foreign sunshine that is waiting to infuse itself into our bloodstreams, caves that yawn adrenaline and excitement. There are airplanes, trains, cars, bicycles, and our own two feet. So what’s stopping us?

The limitations that confine us. The lack of time, money, and flexibility in our schedules. The fact that the seconds keep ticking by, that so much of our time goes in useless endeavours we’ll never remember. And the reality that we can’t be in two places at once. The fact that our two feet are rooted in the same place, that there are millions of places we could be in right now—but we’re always forced to choose one. That when we’re at an airport, we have only one destination to go to—while the other cities flicker like candlelight on a windy afternoon. When we’re driving in a car, there are thousands of alternate routes we could take. And yet, we don’t—because we believe that we’re not meant to deviate from our predetermined routine. In other words, we are unknowingly ensnared.

Onism. The frustration of knowing how little of the universe we’ll be able to appreciate; the impatience of seeing the stars twinkling at night, as if mocking our inability to escape the ground. But somehow, it only makes us dream more. Our inability to traverse the Solar System makes us imagine; it makes us envisage a universe that is probably more beautiful and romantic than what it really is. It’s what inspires us to make movies, to paint pictures, to write poetry and fictional tales. It forces us to create a vision of what the rest of the world is like—a world that then becomes unique and powerful in our eyes. And after all, given the turmoil that stalks a huge portion of the globe, what’s the harm in fashioning our own world? What’s the harm in dreaming?

Sonder

Sonder (n). the realisation that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own

I am a high school student. Naturally, my mind is constantly cluttered with thoughts, worries and concerns—half of which seem trivial by the very next week. But by then, a new wave of stresses and contemplations would have arisen, distracting me from the world that encircles me. Distracting me from my surroundings, leading me into a tunnel which blocks out the rest of the world. On the tunnel walls, I see: unfinished poems, books I've been meaning to read, school work I’ve procrastinated on, the conversation with my friend, the relative I should have called… and hundreds of others. At the end of the tunnel, I only see my future, my ambitions and aspirations.

I live in a bubble made of steel, encrusted with diamonds. I am the protagonist of my own story, and the world is my background.

But one day, I came across the word “sonder”. It was an incredible moment. It is such a beautiful word, with a meaning deeper than any other I’ve encountered in any language. I found it amazing that such a profound meaning could be entrenched in a six-letter-word. It was the word that turned my tunnel walls less opaque, the word that weakened the diamonds that hold my bubble together.

Everybody is living their own story. Everybody is ensconced in their own bubbles. Every person is lodged in a story unique to their own lives—whether that story is exciting, unpredictable, monotonous, or just plain “normal”. Around my figure, unwritten stories are developing, lingering in the air, flaying with the invisible currents of existence. People whom I’ve only seen once, people whom I had met but can’t remember, people I pass by on the streets or whose faces I had seen pressed to windows. Regardless of how insignificant a person may seem to your own story, that person still has a life brimming with relationships, troubles, dreams, concerns, plans, ambitions…

The realisation opened my eyes. It made me question, wonder, muse. Why was that girl sitting on a bench, doing nothing, when it was drizzling out? Why did my friend suddenly start wearing so much makeup? Why was he sitting in his balcony with red eyes and a puffy face? All around me, ideas are being created, stories are being written, new passages are being constructed, pages are being filled up, invisible to the rest of the world yet meaning everything to the author. All around us, hopes are taking form, dreams are cementing themselves into tangible objects—like spirits swirling and looping and churning.

Sonder. The awareness that while we aren’t the centre of the universe, we’re the centre of our own universe. That although we’re just a minuscule dot at the edge of the Milky Way Galaxy, we’re still the most important entity in the universe that was born when we were. That we’re at the centre, while other people—family, friends, acquaintances, passers-by—revolve around that nucleus. That in a way, there are seven billion universes embedded in our planet. And most importantly, the realisation that we orbit the nucleus of hundreds, even thousands, of other universes we didn’t know exist. We are also a family member, a friend, an acquaintance and a passer-by. We are a competitor, a colleague, a leader, a follower. We are a part of an intricate system too convoluted to understand; the best we can do is imagine.

Sonder. 

Anne

A broken smile, thoughts leaking
on paper bound into a legacy. Yellowing
like her confinement, growing like the
spiral of her thoughts. Pure air outside,
sullied by the hatred, the prejudice, the unnatural
bursts of fire infusing the streets, seconds

away from her pounding heart. Hopes glistening
like a platinum ring, the yellow star
gleaming in the sky, a shard of pain. A star
embraced by thousands, contrasted with
the silver glow of those sprinkled at night, of
what is natural and beautiful.

The words that grow with her, the pages that
ripen as her eyes grow darker, as she watches
hopelessness imbue her life. As she watches
the world collapse around her, buildings
crumbling and the innocent falling. But through
the terror, her spirits never falter; praying

for the captured, hoping to see the good of
humanity bloom forth. Holding on to lost
memories, seeing a spark in an infinite expanse
of evil. Believing in compassion despite the
violence raging outside, inside, in her mind. Noticing
beauty, the beauty of trees, love, and the heavens,

when the rest of the world sees sin, villainy,
death. Trusting in the good of people, that was
shrouded by a cloak of fear, poised to improve
the world. And she did, through words burned into
pages and minds, letting us know that purity, hope,
love exist during the worst times ever

to plague humanity.

Stardust

A city that would have been

enveloped by darkness--if not for the

gleaming golden squares that hover

like fireflies. fireflies in a concrete jungle.

golden squares shining through a sheet

of glass, their light more powerful

than that of the moon. than those of

the stars, swirling galaxies hidden under

layers of suffocation. illumination that

can be appreciated if one leaves home, if

she aspires to a place that doesn't depend on

forced chemical reactions, fumbling fingers

trying to define the word "development", 

jealously competing to have their names sprawled

across newspapers. if she hankers for a

place lit by fireflies, lit by a glow light years

afar, ancient luminosity traveling along

foreign wavelengths. emerging from the hazy

realm of stardust, poised to unveil mysteries

we don't know exist. radiance from the meteors

hurtling across the bliss of silence. it is

only dark at night if we seek to create more

light.


(Image Credit: http://moriahhayes.com/weekly-writings/we-are-all-stardust/)