I’m not going to start with my usual line. Neither am I going to whine about how my creative instincts seem to be in the clutches of despair and morbidity.
But lest I forget that I was…still am, capable of creation. Of expression. Of reaching out to the very essence of the person(s) witness to my craft.
Strange that the thought of being able to do so still drives me, in midst of being absolutely convinced that few would try and do the same with me.
It is my fault, after all. No one tries to break through a shell without a vested purpose. Or so as I believe.
Disappointment turns to disillusionment…to impassive acceptance. Reality has changed colours – from being wholesome to revealing ugly sides to going back to face-value status quo. To a numbing realization – what’s the point of it all?
Save for that flicker of hope, defying every attempt at vanishing. A hazy thought here, a vague outline of the future there…but I soldier on, one day at a time. I’d stop and think why, but there is no answer to that.
Just as there is no answer to what awaits me ahead.
So I fly blindly, mistaking denial for equanimity. Just giving into impulse, not thinking about the consequences…relying on the sole belief that nothing earth-shattering can happen to me anyway, that as long as I don’t kill myself or jeopardize myself irretrievably, nothing else should matter.
To admit all this is to risk being called a martyr, to be held up for being insufferable. And yet, I can only write what I know, what I feel.
I would ask, but I wish for little. I would think, but it is futile. I seek to be left to myself, against the naivete of my very core, longing for affirmation.
I wait, even though it was never my wont to do so. I watch as my life unfolds and unravels.
And I dream. Not of salvation but of strength, of unbridled courage. Of renewal.
After all, I never meant for anyone else to pick up the pieces.