This one word is capable of posing the toughest question to whoever is willing to be asked. Why are we here? Why do we live the way we live today? Why must people pretend to be heartless and ruthless , individualistic, always pushing others aside for the sake of what is being asked of them; even though all anyone, everyone wants is to love and be loved? Why?
Why must I, like countless others, suffer the agony of this ill-conceived world, always bound by limitations and restrictions?
A lone girl’s incoherent wonderings, you may say. You may even go so far as to put to the whims borne by the sheer insularity that I must bear with, day in and day out.
Go ahead, look down upon me with your merciless stare and cruel smile as I writhe in anguish of my incapability to express myself, to articulate the torment in the deepest recesses of my soul.
You are no different. I was…I still am the same as you, always careful about not pressing my needs, my desires upon others, holding back words and thoughts that could wreak havoc on the delicate and yet shifting balance all strive to achieve; despite being pained at the very farce being made out of my life as well as of those around me.
Do not gaze me down with the veiled superiority that you possess…that you moved on with your life, held yourself together while I miserably failed. For a day will come…oh, whom am I kidding? It is there everyday, the mirror to haunt you in your dreams, the few moments of solitude that is always thrust upon you where you are face to face with what you really are and what you ended up becoming.
Why do you think people choose to throw themselves to things which will serve them no lasting purpose?
Look me in the eye and tell me whether you are truly happy. No…don’t give me all those nonsensical excuses – I’m contented, but I don’t have this…I can’t be happy until I achieve that…my relations tend to get troublesome, otherwise I think I’m fine - is your physical, materialistic life the measure of your fulfilment? I wish it had been so: it would have spared me the gnawing vehemence of seeking to tear apart my world, if only to discover it was real or not.
You and I, we are both besieged by demons of illusion. You cannot deny this – it will take me a little while more to work on your scripted persona, to delve into your equally distressed soul.
Do not sigh that way. Call me a heretic, for all you are worth and you will still know that I never meant to embellish my realisations, painting them as true for everyone else. Is it a crime, for me to show you my most vulnerable, perhaps deplorable side? Am I not allowed to practice the cherished virtue of honesty, even within these confines where there is nothing else to lose?
Or are you wondering, hell, worried that I will drag you down with me in the withering comprehension of our duly chaotic existence? That I will strip you of all you held dear, deemed necessary for survival, to your original, raw form?
I dare you; go on and shake me out of my delirium, knock sense into me, if you will.
But you know I am right. I always will be.