It has been a long time since I have written anything for my own pleasure. There was a time when I used to keep my screens on for 8 hours a day only to write anything and everything that came to my mind. A thought exists, thus I must write about it and that was me, not so long ago. Like I vaguely remember that I spent dusk till dawn one day only to write about a mango. I was sitting down on a park bench for the better part of an hour, looking at a mango tree with a single solitary mango hanging among the leaves. It was a dead park. By dead I mean the trees were dying. Grasses were the first to go, exposing the red soil underneath it. Then the trees started to wither out. All because of a freshly started construction project of a metro rail right besides this half a century old natural sanctuary of wild lives.. The dust and the chemicals that spewed out were killing all the living things around the roads. I am certain if you were watching from a bird's eye view, to an eye that recognizes abstract skillfully, it would look like the road was a cancer of the greens. What fascinated me was even amongst all these corruptions against nature, against all odds somehow a single mango managed to hold on to its dear life and almost matured. Fulfilling the cycle of mother gaia once again. And that is how I think it all started. That is how life must have spawned. From a single cell in an open womb.
But, I do not enjoy writing anymore. It is not like I am blissfully good at it. Yet I used to write to my heart's content. I had found grace in it, found it therapeutic. But now, I feel like a beached fish who somehow is not dying. He was supposed to leave this world of the living long ago, yet he is alive. Sometimes he lets others know that he is alive with swift movements of his tail. And instead of helping him with mercy kill or letting him back in the waters, they just cheer as if his turn of tails were entertainment supreme, for some twisted reasons which are soothing to the eyes of the beholders.
Only moments ago, I was contemplating life. you know, the questions like “ what is the purpose of life, or why i am here” etc the usual cringe filled question that you ask yourself when you are sad and depressed. Well, once again I was doing that. Usually in times like these, after the hormones or events that trigger depression wears off, I usually always find a make believe answer to it. But this time, it is not going away like it always used to. It is persisting and almost blinding, obstructing me to get back to my “usual” reality. I can not see the light at the end of the tunnel anymore. All I see is bludgeoning darkness and whispers coming from all around. The voice on the right keeps murmuring “blood demands blood”. The one on the left shouts in response “civilizations ask for discourse, blood letting is for cowards”. Though I do not understand what they talk about, but they seem wise. Their choice of words seem far superior than I have ever known. Would it be terrifying if I say I am enjoying it? The foolish debates of two completely unknown personalities. Would it be too weird? I only ask because the answer to these I am having difficulties finding.