My head has been constantly throbbing for the past twelve hours now. The aching pulse of my temples, strained bloodshot eyes and troubled restlessness have coerced me into writing a few final strung out words. Euthanasia much? Cabin fever is just not a plausible excuse for my body. And I’m not steered by the winter blues either. The only event that toned down my writhing was watching Liverpool beat City on aggregate for the Carling Cup, otherwise known by many as the Mickey Mouse Cup.
John Milton: You sharpen the human appetite to the point
where it can split atoms with its desire; you build egos the size of cathedrals; fiber-optically connect the world to every eager impulse; grease even the dullest dreams with these dollar-green, gold-plated fantasies, until every human becomes an aspiring emperor, becomes his own God…and where can you go from there?
Money bought be materialistic distraction with no real fruition. The pandemonium of my heart is set alight. A feeling of congestion among these four vacantly white walls. The consolation I sought after is no longer there, hence the amplified suffocation of my immediate surroundings. I want to scream into the wild. Scamper into the discrepancy of shadows. Absolve into nothingness. Redeem my innocence and diffuse into space. I feel nothing.
I gambled. Still am. I stuck my neck out, tempting fortune and favour. Where do I stand now? In the midst of platudinous mediocrity. A run of the mill. A moth-eaten prosaic of which I feel nothing of. Did I not settle for such terms myself? Did I not dispose myself to such notions? I did. When did I run out of passion? That rapture the enthralled and spelled out my life? Age and time convulsed my vigour. I am all but beat. I still recall the morning I woke up to an exhausted eagerness to walk the line I had sketched for myself. The night I resumed a daily routine of potheadedness, leading nothing but a less than usual lifestyle. The day I quit pacifying myself and settled for mediocrity. I look around me at the accelerated world; like a candle burning at both ends. I look at me; I’m nothing but a moments wick.
"Let’s forge a secret. Together, contemplate silently. Morbid is the imagination of the unknown. I write."
The social media has been quite nagging lately. One status update followed by a share and the entire fraternity seems to have a know-how of a particular subject/incident. Information gathering has stunned us emotionally to a level where knowledge seems vacant and most of the times completely unnecessary. I talk about me, myself and alone. A few months ago, I came to terms with the beetling difference of defination between ‘information’ and ‘knowledge’. The two terms as variant as ‘want’ and ‘need’. What helped me get through the angst and actuation of trivial matters was a neutral stance. For many, I might have employed myself in a catalyst of cold arrests where nothing rivets my emotions. Or Bitch, in slang. Yes, so be it.
It’s bizarrely inappropriate for us to ridicule sentiments; be it with the Shamsul Anwer case of recent, or the Arfa Karim tragedy. Everyone is terribly ill-informed, yet the curiosity to budge in a few sympathetic, dedicated statuses doesn’t take a minute of withdrawal and thought let alone sincerity. Why must we indulge in a demonstrative charge, gambling on emotions?
Don’t have an opinion just because influence overpowers conscience. I rest my case.