Illustration Credits: Tejasv Mohan
There was a strange silence prevailing inside my room that day. The four-walled room seemed to be quite chaotic. The sofa, which was lying on one side and seemed to be pragmatically dark, was over-crowded with my bag, headphones and some books. The antique wooden furniture quietly tolerated its demotion and became a dumping ground rather than serving its real purpose. There was a jacket, which concealed my unfinished painting, illustrating my futile attempt to become a Picasso and also highlighting my relentless fervour of trying out new things.
The bed, which seemed to be a space hogger, surprisingly was very tidily kept with pillows and a colourful bed sheet which was a testament of my disarrayed and kaleidoscopic mind. The big round clock on the wall was constantly ticking and resounded in my mind, jarring out all the silence of the room. The vexed question of why the third hand of a clock is called a 'second hand' was gyrating inside my mind.
A warm yellow light with a hint of tangerine entered through the window, irradiating my evocative paintings, which outlined my desire to express my mind and emotions in a subtle way. The study table was cluttered with all the knick-knacks, evoking a sense of nostalgia. I looked at the mirror and pondered, ''What must be its actual colour?" The room was congested but had enough space for my room of thoughts with multitudes of emotions flowing inside my mind.
The incidents suddenly transformed into a virtual reality game in which all my embarrassing moments, awkward scenarios where I failed to ‘prove’ my point appeared like different levels and were moving with a speed of 100 km per second. There was me, with the adrenaline coursing through my veins, with all the scenarios whipping my face like wind and I was trying to dodge them with my comebacks that I could have used in the real realm.
I suddenly realised that it's been an hour since I have been overthinking about the myriad aspects of my life.
The questions have started to consume my thoughts and teleported me to a world where I am contradicting my own arguments.
I constantly re-examined what people actually meant when they said ‘okay’, does that mean they aren’t agreeing with the point?
What about ‘maybe’, are they actually confused or just acting with their mind already made up and they just don’t wish to tell me?
I was trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind these simple words, which formed a perpetual trail of stress, fear, anxiety, and frustration where I logically crushed my own creative thoughts. The motivation and zeal to overthink somehow became obscure. Overthinking becomes obnoxious and I do realise this a couple of times and spend ample amount of time thinking about the ways in which overthinking can harm my mental peace.
For some, the art of overthinking is just a piece of threadbare cloth with torn and tattered memories which strikes discomfort and pangs of self-guilt inside one’s body. While for some, it is like a blanket of woven memories, which radiates expressions of love and warmth. It unfolds the countless layers of nostalgia which brings comfort and peace to the mind.
I sometimes feel that overthinking is not completely debilitating. We think of the happy and sad memories and relive the moments, which form a beautiful concoction of feelings, facts, opinions and some unspoken words. It completely depends on the way we choose to act and react in the situation. It somehow prepares us for the worst situation possible as we already have our ‘backup’ ready for whatever the situation may throw at us. We already may have analysed every aspect of the situation vividly, creatively and logically however trivial the possibility maybe.
What we need to learn is to balance this bittersweet art, which helps us indulge in reminiscence.