The Final Cut

Red. Black. Blue. Swathes of colour storming away before my eyes.

My mind has been reeling since morning, since I heard. It's unbearable. I am barely at the fringes: the epicentre is far more devastated. But I cannot bear to think, to feel. It is too much.

Life should not be quite so bleak to good people, should not take away even the last shred of hope, the very point of their existence. I have always found questioning these things fruitless, yet, today, I am grappling for answers. There is no soothing soliloquy to be found in silence.

There is worry, of course, worry that stems from tragedy hitting so close to home. I have someone to lose. Hence, I have something to fear.

The truth hits like angry waves crashing upon rocks. One moment, the icy whiplash stings you awake, and the next, the cold dulls you into forgetting what it was like to feel in the first place.

"Through the fish-eyed lens of tear stained eyes
I can barely define the shape of this moment in time
And far from flying high in clear blue skies
I'm spiraling down to the hole in the ground where I hide."

I cannot imagine, don't want to. All I can ask is why.

Sleep

Sleep, when the tragedy of life becomes too much to bear

Sleep.

It will come, it will come.

Forgo a turn, bring out the urn

Sleep.

The only path to tranquility.

Sleep, when only ashes stare back

Sleep.

It will come, it will come.

Shut out the voices, shut out the light

Sleep.

It is gone, it was never there.

There is no need to feel, when coldness is so welcoming

Sleep.

It will come, it will come.

Forget.

Let go.

Soar.

Sleep.

Prelude to Silence

The stinging always stops too soon. I hate that. I wish it would last longer so that I could enjoy it a little more. And yes, I would love to see some blood, but not the kind expected of today. Heh. I guess I am just too dry. For everything.

Insight and maturity are two things that I wish to be rid of at the moment, so that these do not cloud my senses. How could throwing a tantrum be possible otherwise? I wonder how some people get away with such and others do not.

It is always that which I can't help at all which puts the little visions I have to pieces. And I can't complain because I know it will not help me at all. Or anyone else, for that matter.

And then the stinging stops too, after just a few seconds. Not even long enough for me to remember the last sensation of it.

Today

Date: 04.03.2008
Time: 9:35 p.m.

I will not write today
What good are words
When they make me cling
On to bitter life?
I will not speak today
Ears should not bear the agony
Of listening to a fool —
A deluded idiot.
I will not cry today
Let my soul be trapped within me
As it revisits those triggers
Of the times I died before.
I will not bleed today
Who wants relief
From tears of old and new
For a fresher tomorrow?
I will not die today
As the shell that is me now
Had been lost to bleak ignominy
And unspoken comedies and charades.
It matters little whether the freak breathes
Or walks on two weary feet
Caressed by aching muscles,
Whispering its predetermined lines.

End: 9:42 p.m.

A Deadening Quiet

Date: 23.02.2008
Time: 11:25 p.m.

As I shut myself in once again, thinking over possibilities and trying to pin-point what is upsetting me before I go to sleep every night, I reach an answer — the past. Fragments of my life left behind like discarded glass shards. They prick and bleed if you touch them. And if it is your misfortune to walk over those remains in a half-hearted attempt to recollect, to feel, you leave a trail of blood behind you along with your footsteps, adding colour to your gait.

It is something of a mystery, how much importance a person gives unfulfilled wishes. They visit you in your dreams, providing you with cruel reminders of what you lack. Is it not more practical to leave what has happened or has not behind you and make a fresh start on a new canvas? Who wants old stains marring the picture? New lines are called for ... fresh and strong, and perhaps, a bit of colour too. But alas, a fresh canvas is nigh impossible to come by and you are left with the one you had from the start. And no matter how much you erase or try to over-write with new lines, those ugly stains stay to haunt you when you look their way.

What is most surprising is the abruptness of the intense perceptions — they overwhelm you when you’ve let your guard down, when you are certain of your mastery over them. They come upon you from behind and place a stifling hand on your face, choking you and leaving you in a state of panic. And then, you are flooded with guilt and regret … and fear. After these feelings pass, your mind is too drained to house any other feeling and you go about your present life like an automaton — smiling when it is asked of you, speaking when required, being polite and looking cheerful, all the while harbouring a sense of hollow emptiness inside.

The past — my past and that of my world — encompassing those many lives that I once led, the fragments of myself that died in the process and the depleted self that I am left with now .... I have nothing to offer to the future. The ghosts haunt me and control my responses to hope. And of course, I do not have the faculty to take contentment with both hands and make it stay with me.

I still feel lost. I continue to bury myself within me, and lose my hope and drive after occasional ventures to the surface. The world of remembered yesterdays never fails to catch up with me and draw me into the quagmire of despair. And I remain afraid of letting myself go, worried about consequences and mistakes that I might make or am already making without realising it.

End: 11:50 p.m.

Unleashed

If it were possible to shut out every individual I know: family, friends, acquaintances, everybody, then I’d do that, lock myself somewhere remote and never venture outside to see the light of day again. There would be no need for masks or facades to disguise a face contorted with misery or disgust and I wouldn’t have to bother with sugar-coating my words so as not to hurt people’s feelings EVER again.

The truth can be used brutally and cruelly. Sometimes, at present for instance, I want to hurt people with the truth, knowing the full extent of the injuries that I will cause. I want to be devastatingly and cruelly honest and destroy something with uninhibited rage that, for once, I shall leave unchecked.

I want to live. Not be restrained by the norms of ‘civilised’ behaviour, or considerations for people I care for. I don’t want to care. I don’t want to feel remorse for any of my well-meaning actions that have not turned out the way I expected them to. I don’t want to feel guilty for being unresponsive to people I like when they’re only trying to reach out to me. I just want to be aloof and forget all about existence and get a chance to live in my own frame of time.

I’d like to feel the full potential of my anger ... and every emotion that I’ve had to lock away to keep myself in check. I want to shout till I am hoarse and throw a tantrum like a small child who yells and screams when denied something. What is the point of having the faculty of speech if you have to guard your tongue constantly?

I would like to feel, without ever feeling sorry for myself or the fact that I feel.