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I will return to my days of mental hygiene.


Can I stop writing? Can my world evolve without me? What is this uncompromising hand- buried under the rubble that is me is clawing at something sensible. Flushed and relentless, a streak of despair hovers around me. Time awaits me on the other end, dreamily I hand my self to the provocation only to be mocked, for now I am awake. Soon all this will end, and in the end all that I will remember is the heavy numb feeling in my head. It is oily and viscous, as I tilt my head; it slowly follows gravity and settles in the direction of the tilted head. So my life seems to me, a learning that I wish to lay asleep.

Why I write is something of a physical virtue than a mental relapse or relief. Those feelings that are pulled taut and plugged into the sockets of a guitar would produce cacophonies at time. And so my writing as I will remember when I am forty will have been a struggling thick black bulbous heap of alien material that choked me as I pulled it closer to my throat from above.

There is never the reliance but a sluggish authenticity to the reformed self. Awake at night I let my mind open itself to the atmosphere around me, but it is all calm now. Its terribly cold and my mind has frozen, I have no stupor, I am no pessimist. I am turning into a loner once again, I feel old and matured, and around me is a lazy haze of life. Inside me the snake of voluptuous celebration of science and arts is lying with its head buried under its own weight.

Soon I will rise, stretch my feathers away as a bird does, and heave the breath of coquettish reprieve. This is all swell of boredom, I will point fingers at my explored frontiers, release the uncompromising trembling nature of mine towards the sound of doom. For there I was and there I will always be. This life of ephemeral joy and sheer nothingness has bored me, I will return to my days of mental hygiene.

Comments

Lohi said…
me 2...
need to return
April 14, 2011 at 1:31 AM
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