Alas...you face of that cold man - II

so deep you run it, must not it be killed again

Why is it that when I look over up, I fall down into the deepest bottoms of unknown, unrelenting oceans of my own sorrows, fears and ravaging futures? 

Why is it when I look at the bright half crescent moon, I can only see the scars on its face…above that I also see the other half which is blind to the entire set of galaxy. I wonder if it’s also mad at the very way its own existence is. I have to think very hard. In these set of black holes, I feel better equipped to write my feelings. The craters on my mind serve as launching propellants for my vivid imaginations. I feel the rushing blood from my heart into the veins. The pumping valves so inflated with the melancholies that I feel they gona burst up and blood wading its way out of my nostrils? No matter how meticulously you try, once a mirror broken into shards, it can’t be replaced back to the original form. Minute fragments still remain.

This brings me to a very hollow yet vital question on my own existence like the half crescent moon. Why do I have to pass through these phases in my life, some extremely happy, some dead shoots of my brain. It’s not that I haven’t taken this case to the supreme judge of my vitals, my soul…but have I found answers? No… I try and think rationally and all I could collect from these past memories is the extract of it…the happiness. Am I happy being masochistic? No that’s not the word, but literally dragging self to the doors of death? I know it sounds crazy… but is an instant death like being hit by a train or being blown up in a blast is better than dying every second, like drowning, reaching for the surface, some imbecile rope pulling you down and you are craving for every drop of oxygen. It’s all fading from your eyes but you can’t stop it from reaching the wafting, desynchronized ganglions and watching those grotesque pictures. It’s not you but still you can feel their pain coz the mind is yours and the power to feel is anything but controlled.

It’s not that I have the courage to go through all these excruciating moments or I am such a lunatic that I yearn for it…but somewhere inside I also know that my fondness for these moments is to a level of absolute passion and madness. I also loathe them in the end but not as much as I love them. I despise myself for having to fall under their magical spell and the realm of their darkness but it is the only place where I find myself again and again, every single time with a new set of elements of my own idiosyncrasy. It’s where I find new ways to wince my oldest of all disputes within, it’s where anarchies are fallen to shreds and it’s the only place where I find my smile again. I guess it’s to do with my own cycle, where I go through all the miseries and feel lugubrious, dejected in my own microcosm of delusions. Then I rise up, I have to, there is no other alternative to it. I try and captivate happiness in every splitting second of my eyes, like the kids I see, their hands I touch, my mother’s kiss on my cheek, a random puff from my cigarette and even in the almost spherical drops of my own tears. After all this mess, a smile, a laugh feels like the strongest dope of world… even more addictive than heroin. Do I go through everything to be able to have a fling with this addiction? You have to have it once and it just grows like adventitious roots on your face. You want to suck all the happiness around and afar, farfetched. How long would I go through all this, how long should I wait before I feel like another sane man on planet? Or am I sane? I don’t know, can’t see any point.