Me sitting down in this room trying to write this piece is Dunkirk on wheels. The ticks and tocks of life going slow-motion and clockwise rotating beyond the control of mere clockhands, slowly spinning, spiralling, perhaps, out of grasp. I will never find solace for tonight's manic episodes, and I fear for the days beyond tomorrow; where I will end up, in what state would I be in, or how the game plays out, etc. The game with which plays over and over in my head. The game with which there is no winning nor losing. I will never know the truth, and probably it is best for me to keep these thoughts to myself. I have been in the past guilty of so many mistaken intuitions.
The sky is darkening. No stars in the sky could mean rain, and that thought scares me so. The same rain that drenched my flesh from within the hedge I had taken for myself not too long ago. The same hedge from where I waited, and waited, and waited, and waited some more, for a miracle to happen. What if the miracle had already reached its verdict, free from the prejudice of the self, and its end, measured strictly by the constraint of our emotions, but a moment away from now? My fingers stir, my nerves burn, my heart sinks, my eyes blur. Every moment feels as heavy a destructive force with each step. Beyond the sanctity of my space, from the door to the outside, are frightful complications of things or matters that I would rather not associate myself with. The difficulty now rests with the challenges that stand across me, those that trouble my thoughts, boxing with my sanity, thinking of how to approach such anomaly if minute by minute my innards are stretched apart by the anxiety of the possibility that this truly is the end of the road and the miracle that I had waited for for so long is dying or already dead. As if I still could stand up for myself. Standing up for myself was what got me into this mischief at the first place. That stubborn, retarded side of me that never fails to impress my more rational and softer side, the part of me which is overpowered by what I truly feel like wanting, knowing that it [the overpowering side] has already failed me not just once, but of countless times since the beginning of the trials.
For so long I had been disturbed by a single scenario in my life that I could not redo even if I tried. Something that has moulded this version of me now that is consumed by the idea of a love so strong that that should be the only highlight of one's existence if it ever grazes us in our lives. Or so I thought. Until that scenario in my life with which I spoke about. Love, in all its glory, is such an overbearingly overrated piece of bullshit pie. A concept similar to sex that one cannot live without, but only in short bursts. Once you have ejaculated the jizz out, the craving turns to indifference, and from indifference to disgust, and would rather wash yourself of it once the deed is done. But that is not all that comes out of the desire or longing for love or sex. There can be something else more magical. The ability to life. The ability from where all men come from.