I could have written this when I am dead, you know, plenty of time to indulge in the thoughts of my life back there. But waiting for the undertaker seems to be too much— not that I didn’t wait for him long enough, still, not anymore— every second passing in my life equals eternity; every sand particle dropping through the narrow escape of my hourglass sitting on the table translates into a mockery of how pathetic my life is. The meaningless whining about ridiculous things that I am mostly ignorant of is a shame; unbearable even for the most shameless version of me.
Death— it’s way better than living in ignorance. But we all are inevitability engulfed in ignorance of where death leads us to— questioning its whereabouts deemed to be a taboo consciously avoided by the man who preaches the beauty of life except when sorrowfulness poisons the soul, rips the heart apart in pieces sucking the soul of its essence like a vacuum sucks the air out of a ziplock bag.
Writing this, I don’t know if I will regret this later, but the joy it brings is worth the attempt. It’s an endorsement of a cheering therapy, emptying the heart out, and finding the solace it deserves devoid of all bullshits. Pondering life in silence, in an abyss of uncertainty— is worth the time invested. Seeing the minor things in life presenting themselves as the most valued philosophy is an achievement enough to be grateful about. Swallowing the intoxicated moments with a deep breath makes the sky bluer; a scene you don’t need to wait for the autumn to behold.
As this continues, I drift afar— moving in the tandem of teetering waves of thoughtfulness, I delved into the ocean of independency where you no longer influence the course of life I foster. This is where our paths separate. Together we ride— towards our individual route, where promises peek from the dark corner of the street and lure us into the dead end like a hustler whispering into the ear and leading us to an abandoned place before taking his knife out and asking for everything in that back pocket. Promises— notorious of them all, a pretentious entity embodying hope, but what dwells inside is the utmost despair and a thick layer of falsehood.
The more I travel down memory lane, the more it pushes me to the verge of dozing off; my heart gets scarred as it falls into the pit of lifelessness until the uneven bottom breaks it into million pieces. Thousands of hours of togetherness seem useless and not long enough to fetch the strings that have broken again even with a gentle touch. The interruption of optimism has no place in this attempt of separateness— for that this shall apart. But I try; and I know you won’t break my heart.
My heart— nobody has broken it, for that it’s already broken. The throbbing pain I feel is the yearning of my heart to reunite again; it’s a tempting sensation I am devoured by every moment as I speak. But it has collapsed more times than it was together; and I have realised love has lost its power to conquer me back— trying to do is as pointless as killing a mosquito and hanging it in the room to scare others.
So long then, goodbye!
