#Idk about anyone else but his move ignition switch made me think

[machabre]

u guys think Drag is just wearing motorcycle gloves for kotif or does he actually own a motorcycle

[justmehr-blog1]

there is something

about mediocrity that makes me feel ILL. Like physically sick. The idea of potential unachieved. That there is this electric energy whizzing inside my body, waiting to be launched in any particular direction. But the mechanism to shoot it off is broken. There is nothing to send it spinning into motion. I’ve just been hanging on, sort of lifeless, dragged by the rhythmic trudging forward of time into each day, coming away at the end with nothing. I’m not falling behind, but I’m not moving forward. I just sit, stay.  I’m good enough. It makes me want to puke. I’d rather be spiraling toward the rockiest bottom, because then maybe someone else would do the work of lifting me back up. 

But because I rest lazily in the middle, just getting by, medicating my emptiness with a hit of calculated social interaction, I present as neutral. No one knows. No one cares. 

My dadi ji passed away on Sunday. Her life could have been great. But it wasn’t. It was mediocre. It’s funny how you can be set up for such vibrant success and then hold yourself back from realizing it. In a way, that’s what happened to her. She was, I am told, a golden child. She had everything. And then, because of severe mental illness, she had nothing at all. She slept away the last two years of her life, in a dusty basement. She didn’t struggle too much, but she didn’t overcome. Mediocrity. Her days simply dragged on one after another because that was the only option. There was something extremely, inexplicably special about her. In her eyes, in her language, in the way she looked at you, in the flavors of her cooking, the way the most ordinary spices could fuse into warmth and love and nostalgia, if those were flavors. And yet, nothing. She left this world and that was it. Not many people came to her memorial service. The hall wasn’t empty but it wasn’t full. Mediocrity. 

The official story is that she passed away in her sleep. But I know that she didn’t. I know that the story is different. I know that my dad found her crouched, tangled in her walker, by the toilet in her bathroom, no breath left in her body. I know that the EMTs instructed him to unfurl her and lie her down on her back on the bathroom floor. I stood right outside the bathroom door, heart pounding, and listened to him groan a little as he lifted her. I wonder if he had any hope left in his heart. Maybe there is not room to think about that when you are turning your dead mother over onto her back, into her final resting position. I know that he was instructed to push on her chest in a last attempt to revive her. I peeked in and watched. He only had time for two compressions before the EMTs arrived. I’ll never forget her shriveled gray face moving up and down uselessly. I made myself known. My dad said “Mehr. I don’t want you to be here for this.” But I didn’t go anywhere. Three days later I was the one to hit the green button to ignite the sad, industrial looking oven in which we had just placed my dadi ji. “My daughter will do it,” my dad said. I held my finger over the switch longer than I needed to. Maybe to make sure the job was done? Idk. 

I’m sorry dadi ji. Look at this. You lived a whole life. And in death, all you get from your granddaughter is a hidden tumblr eulogy about the truth about your death circumstances and your mediocre life. I’m sorry. But 

I am so. Deeply. Afraid. So disgusted. By the possibility of continuing my life in a way that is mediocre. I feel unfulfilled and absolutely worthless. I have SO MUCH more than anyone should. I am so privileged and yet that privilege has amounted to nothing of VALUE. My stomach churns at the idea of being in second place, of being second in command, of not fucking finishing anything I set out to do. Of settling. I wasted myself and my heart and my money and my INNOCENCE on a relationship based on the fact that no one had ever wanted me before. I never fight, always back down. I dream but never act. I am a narcissist without qualification. 

One day I will be pushed into an industrial looking furnace in some of my best clothes, the cosmetic styrofoam wedge removed from underneath my head. I hope I am pushed in by people that are really proud of me. I hope I have a family. I hope that by the time I have exhaled my very last breath I will have come to terms with my own end because I am satisfied by the scratch of love I have left behind on this beautiful and terrible world and that in the crevice that is left behind, flowers will bloom in the colors of my dreams, with the fragrance of my legacy. Of brown, gay, performative, charismatic, loving, tender, funny, understanding, sharp, soft, thoughtful, groundbreaking excellence.