At the end of the day, like the aftertaste of a bittersweet memory, a thought continues to linger on, humming infinitely in rhythm to our desires, floating like the wisps of a cloud left behind. It beats with a severity strong enough to claw out our own skin and mild enough to let sleep find its way back after the strenuous journey.
It rises like a soft whisper from somewhere within the hollows of our subconscious and saunters its way up when the eyes finally find their pilgrimage in the dark to haunt the last shreds of peace that the heart conjured meekly and to char our dreams with a benevolent promise.
A fragile mind, beleaguered by the monotonous charades ends up cribbing and cringing as his love for travel doesn’t pan out according to his whim but aren’t we all travelling? From one phase to another, from one emotion to a new one, living life one heartbeat at a time, unbeknownst to the adventures of future?
We travel in time, in experience and in age. Leaving parts of our soul in people and places like little souvenirs of our presence. We capture their essence and arrive back at a different phase, exhausted due to the culmination of one journey and slightly ecstatic at the beginning of another.
When you’re struck with tragedy, what is the first thought that resurrects itself firmly in your head? The thought that pushes itself up from the numbness of shock, the one that reverberates inside on an infinte loop? It is of death, your newfound lust for death. Suddenly all sense of reality leaves your body and whats left inside is a silent tale of crippling sorrow. The tragedy runs in your blood now; life fleeting in tiny drops of grief, flowing out facilely because the sunsets have lost their charm and the stars are just inept stones of light. Your spirit has died and the haven of bliss is slowly slipping like grains of sand. Everything you once held sacred seems futile and all love empty; life has faintly donned the hideous white robe of death, barring your soul of colours and joy. But the irony is, even in loss, when you readily accept death, you keep on living because that is the most logical thing to do, accept the circumstances and move on, even with a heart that has been ripped into shreds. You move on and you keep on living, sometimes searching and sometimes hunting desperately for a laconic peace of mind that you lost when the moon still shined bright. Life goes on and so does tragedy. You never forget it, you never leave it behind, you just let it slip from your mind, even if momentarily and find your harmony.
Someone once asked me, you ask a lot of questions, why is that? What are you seeking so desperately? At that moment the question had hit my conscious with such a force that all sense of speech had left my body and I was bereft of any words.
What WAS I seeking?
I had no answer for this question, just like I never had any answers. Answers always meant the end of destiny, the end of the road, and I wasn’t ready for that. This undying thirst for knowledge had gripped me tightly in its arms and the answers seemed like a million dreams away.
I started asking questions to avoid mediocrity, to build a place for my own self from the ashes. The questions define me, not the answers. The questions are the muse. There is warmth in curiosity, the unfounded feeling of having a forever.
So, what was I seeking?
I was seeking my ownself in this gigantic carnival of a world.
I meant to write something long, something from the heart, something to take the edge off, just something, to heal the bruised art. The words had arrived, tumbling in their path, dragging along with them the dripping ink and its pristine canvas. I meant to rip open every portal there was, to let the pain out, to let it all escape me; to be finally bereft of those silent tears and it felt so soothing, at least in my thoughts. I had it all, my muse was back, but the words betrayed me yet again, this time laughing sinisterly at my gaped soul. The sands of time had etiolated the initial enthusiasm of their arrival and my pen remained unmoved, burdened by the weight of the ink of my thoughts. The canvas lies in tatters now, simply because it could not escape the wrath of my frustrated mind. Another day passes and the pain is still inside begging for the words to stop their sabbatical. I cannot end this cycle and the war inside wages on. The words are fleeting but the agony is perpetual.