Late night reassurance

So there are these two articles of clothing I now own that have become the adult equivalent of a Blanky to me. One happens to be my Dada's old collared shirt that has become soft and beautifully shabby with age. It is blue and has white vertical stripes and a breast pocket. The collar is still a little stiff, a remnant of the times when Dada used to wear it to office, I suppose. It's absolutely huge for me- it comes down to a little above my knees, and my hands get swallowed up in the sleeves.
The second is this paati ganji I filched from my boyfriend on an impulse. It is literally innerwear, and I wear it at home on anxious nights, when I'm dreading looming deadlines and scary tasks ahead. Weirdly enough, it's a snug fit, despite the fact that the aforementioned boyfriend happens to be about a foot taller than me.

Anyway, so I have this exam tomorrow, and a general tense feeling in my shoulders. I did laundry a little while ago, and the ganji came out smelling of fabric softener, and warm from the dryer. Obviously I'm now wearing the ganji underneath the shirt (yes, it's cold enough to wear layers).
There's just something about knowing that the cloth that touches your skin now has touched theirs as well, at some point. It's a strange makeshift sort of intimacy that conjures up the safety you feel with someone you love.
In other news, I'm a sentimental fool. Possibly aged thirteen. Or sixty three.

*Dada is my paternal grampa who passed away when I was in the 9th grade.
**ganji means vest. I'm just not a fan of the word 'vest'.

Observations

1. The Byrds' cover of 'Mr. Tambourine Man' sounds like the stoned melting version of Dylan's. Sort of lazy trippy.

2. Things that have been bothering you cannot be wished away by ignoring them and will find an outlet somehow, no matter how mature you are.

3. Big name universities operate on the principle that everyone will be their bitch. They're generally correct in this assumption.

4. Men and women differ (leaving aside all obvious biological implications and the whole trans-gender identity issue). A lot of the cliches and stereotypes are true.

5. Smooth Reese's peanut butter cups are vastly superior to the crunchy variety.

6. People try to rationalize whatever path they have chosen as being the right and only way they could have chosen and will spend extensive amounts of time convincing themselves that they're good and doing the right thing. We spend the maximum amount of time justifying ourselves to ourselves (even if on the surface, we're explaining things to others).

7. The repercussions of the breakup of a friendship can be as painful and long drawn as those of the breakup of a romantic relationship.

8. People tend to remember who you are, and it is not always intelligent to assume that they've forgotten that they met you.

Warning: Navel-gazing in excess. The mopey sort, shoo.

I wish I could be happy, but I can't. I wish I didn't crave reassurance, but I do. I wish I didn't constantly find myself with my forehead already scrunched up, but there it is.
The only thing that makes me consistently happy, it seems- the only thing that has me going about everyday like an idiotic puppy- is impractical, inaccessible, transient, and unsustainable.

I find it hard to believe people, things, feelings, relationships. Every so often I catch myself going, "seriously, this is real?" in my head. Most of the time I cocoon this disbelief in routine, tell myself it's completely usual and not out-of-the-ordinary in the least. Defeat incredulity by reducing things, or at least normalizing them to the mundane. Maybe then I'll ground myself, and stop feeling like this is inevitably going to slip away, like it's half-unreal already.
I'm not sure why exactly there is this need to downplay things, but there it is. As soon as something happens, something awesome, there is a knee-jerk reaction to making it feel completely normal, instead of reveling in it. Is it about being cool? "Oh this doesn't faze me 'cuz I'm awesome"- who knows?
Life could be simple, it could. I feel empty. When I was little, I would wish I was a different person, with different problems and less of a destructive whirlpool for a brain. I would go to my tuition teacher's house and look at the brightly coloured family, eating pakoras and smiling big apple-cheeked smiles, and I would feel like an anomaly.
I was not made for distances, or the cold. Or stress. These are all things that I have embraced on my own. At the time I thought they'd take me somewhere better, at the time I thought it wasn't a tantrum. Most of the time, I still do. Part of the time, I drop the compulsion to look happy with my life, and act like a normal human being, and stare into this foggy path that is the future. I have no idea. I have no effing clue. What do I want? If only, I knew.
I cannot find my ambition anymore; all I feel is weary. All I want to do is let go, and rest my head on a shoulder for a while, without feeling guilty about being unproductive. I cannot remember the last time I did that- not for the last 3 years, at least. My wants are changing, my desires are changing, my plans are becoming less clear. I'm not entirely certain at this point whether this is weakness, and me being pathetic, or tiredness and me being weary, or simply me growing up. The thing is, I hadn't taken emotions into account.

What is this about? Far too many things, all of which are a tangle in my head, and a knot in my stomach. What am I going to do about it, you ask? Well, right now, I'm going to procrastinate on my lab and a couple of calm-upsetting emails, and go make some chicken-noodle soup.

This summer I discovered in myself a propensity for hedonism and happy contentment. This seems to be carrying forward into real life. Quite alarming.