Constipated Optimism: My Meditations on Love Part (5/n)

"Constipated Optimism" - as far as I am concerned, I coined this term (pats myself on the back). This term was coined when one day I was talking to a friend, Rohan bhai. It was coined while having fun, but it gained its true meaning and depth while talking to another friend, Siddhi. Shoutout to both of these amazing people, for without them this concept wouldn't have seen the light of day (also, thanking Siddhi again for telling me about this movie whose photo you shall see in a bit).

Now, to be very honest, this phrase sounds like it belongs on a T-shirt in an ironic gift shop called "Gift? Shop?" (business idea for you MBA grads out there). But, as we shall see in some time, it really does carry the tragic factor of an Indian Idol audition. Because, you see, much like its physical counterpart, this type of optimism isn't moving anywhere (sad wink wink). It's stuck, lodged uncomfortably in the recesses of your being, refusing to come out no matter how hard you push. It's the kind of optimism where one is both, trying too hard and, paradoxically, going absolutely nowhere.

Amitabh Bachchan in Piku- a movie about constipation

Imagine this: you're sitting there, metaphorically, on the porcelain throne of life, trying to cling on to every shred of hope you’ve mustered, channelling it to squeeze out some optimism.

You know that everything happens for a reason, everything will happen in its own sweet time, and that the universe has your back. 

But instead of relief, you feel... stuck. Every silver lining you try to conjure is met with another storm cloud of reality rushing over it. At times like these, optimism, like poop, simply refuses to emerge.

The tragic logic here is that plain ol' optimism isn’t inherently bad — I'll even argue that it is, most of the times even necessary for survival. But "Constipated Optimism" is optimism that is forced. It’s optimism of the sails going against the wind. It’s like insisting that the Titanic was a wonderful swimming opportunity. Sure, you’re technically correct, but, at what cost? [Too many boat related metaphors. Isn't it? Maybe I am thinking too much of water (read flush)]

And then there's this thing: I feel life loves to poke fun at forced optimism. You tell yourself, "This is fine. Everything’s fine". Meanwhile, life, swooping in with an impeccable comic timing of Jimmy Carr, pulls another rug from underneath you. The optimism gets trapped, swirling in your mind, looking for an exit, but never finding one. It’s not that you don’t want to be positive; it’s just that the universe has made it a Herculean task.

And what does this leave us with? The great philosophical dilemma: Should you keep trying to "push out" optimism, or should you just sit there and accept the blockage? After all, isn't life, with all its absurdity, about collecting moments where you accept that nothing is working as planned? Sometimes, the only cure for Constipated Optimism is to stop trying so hard. Maybe, just maybe, letting go of the need to always see the bright side will bring you to a place of genuine relief. Or, at the very least, a good laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

If you've made it this far, I know you're now a little bit seriously reading this blog. All this jest and mirth aside, I fear that someday I might give up on finding love and just be happy knowing that love isn't for me. Perhaps in this song of life, there is no harmony line — just solos; or maybe some people are born to listen, not to sing.

Khalil Gibran once wrote, “Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.” But what if separation precedes even the meeting? The very thought is a quiet tragedy, isn’t it? To be alive, yet so uncertain of one’s place that you choose to step aside and watch love unfold all around you from a distance. I sometimes wonder if that’s the cruellest joke life can play: to instil in us this deep, aching capacity to love and be loved, yet make us doubt whether we’re worthy of it. And over time, I worry that the weight of this doubt will harden me. That I’ll learn to find comfort in the hollow spaces, telling myself, “This is enough”. A quiet life. The melancholy of it all lies not in the absence of love, but in the gradual acceptance of its absence. Perhaps it’s cowardice — or maybe self-preservation — but I really do fear the day (here's to hoping it never arrives) I choose to stop waiting. To stop hoping. To stop telling myself that somewhere, someone exists who could see me for all that I am, and not flinch. And in that surrender, I wonder if I’ll find a strange kind of peace. A resigned peace, not the joyful kind.

But then again, is that peace, or is it just another form of despair? Or maybe I've been reading too much Russian literature?