Maelstrom

A quiet moment of gazing at the glowing sky was all it took for her to lapse into rumination.

After all, moments of deep introspection didn’t occur to her unless she was facing a vista. It took all of nature’s breathtaking beauty to still the chaos within her mind.

Chaos, or mere numbness? Her life seemed no less convoluted than a tangled ball of yarn, but she felt more like the needle entwined in the fibres, inert, unmoving… trapped.

Cornered, up against a wall like a frightened prey…unable to rationalise, one step away from lashing out, even as she awaits the killing blow. 

She can’t even remember the chain of events which got her to this unpleasant state of being.

But like everything, the cause didn’t matter either. Futile – everything was so bloody futile. Why was she even trying?

Her own reflection was nothing more than a carefully crafted mirage, vanishing in the realm of solitude to nothingness.

There had been something…someone, even, but the anchors had been torn away long enough for her to lose herself to the distant horizon.

And she didn’t know where to look.

Like broken shards of glass, beautiful yet merciless, her feelings lie scattered before her, wounding her with every step.

And so she trudges forward, leaving blood in her wake. A hazily marked trail, indeterminate yet significant to anyone who would bother looking for traces and yet she sought no salvation, no knight in shining armour.

Just a tiny little spark of hope – that damned double-edged sword – of being sought after regardless. 

Languish

She sat by the window, gazing out as was her wont to do. Her gaze languidly searched the sky for patterns amidst the myriad hues that the clouds seemed to take on with the setting sun. The quiet chill of twilight brought about a strange stillness to her being, afraid even to breathe.

Lost in a reverie she was, yet alert enough to discern another presence in the room. Her gaze did not shift; she remained where she was.

Quiet, breathing. The hand barely touched her shoulder before it was taken away.  She didn’t look up, only murmuring a ‘yes’ to convey that she was listening.

She couldn’t miss the oddly half-sheepish, half –rakish smile in his voice as he asked, “So, what are you up to?”

And she smiled, despite herself. “Waiting for you, sir, so that I may be graced with your honourable presence.”

“Stop playing the princess.”

“Says the one who acts all high and mighty himself.”

“Oh, as if! I’m a person of humble means, you see…”

The mindless banter went on back and forth, while the twilight continued to fade, vestige by vestige.

There was this and there were other moments. Of unspoken understandings, shared insights and common inspirations. Her vehemence would cross paths with his anguish – the only time they would. Those few moments of togetherness,  revelling in the way they were so alike beneath the veneers.

Those few moments were all that she could allow herself, after all.

…

But they had more than those few moments, didn’t they?

Long talks, hands held, kisses stolen in the dark. The rare occasions where they willingly allowed inebriation to break their walls. Only to revert to their otherwise impenetrable fortresses, nursing old wounds, on the lookout for yet another battle which would, hopefully, not be their doing this time.

They were both fighting the same enemy, and yet unwilling to come together, preferring to be distant allies, keeping their endeavours as less intertwined as possible.

He dreamt of the one person he couldn’t be with; she grappled with her fear of never finding anyone else again. And as hopeless as these quests seemed, they were all they had to fight on for. Quests that brought them dangerously close to a single path, but it takes more than shared interests to keep one bound to the other, doesn’t it?

And that, the crucial element, was dearly missing.

For she reached out to him against both their wills, and his response, while comforting, was nonetheless marred by the bitter realisation that even that couldn’t be to her claim, let alone his heart.

It was another question - a question she refused to acknowledge – whether she truly wanted to claim him in any respect to begin with.

…

She leaned by the parapet, her gaze resting on the gently rippling waters of the lake, her body heaving with the measured breaths she forced herself to take. It had been a long, excruciating walk and climbing low hills worryingly proved a challenge to her decreased stamina. Her somewhat fragile health was on a long list of things she didn’t find to be all right. And as always, it was bound to give away to more pressing matters.

Matters which existed in her head. Anxieties and fears none too real, but acutely felt within the realm of her dreams.

It did not help that the only way she had known to fight them off, all these years, was through an anchor.  An idea, a motive…but mostly, a person.

Something she had failed to find well over a year now, the last attempt succeeding no better than the others.

Her eyelids fluttered to a close, her senses focused on taking in the sunlight that warmed her skin against the light breeze. She stilled herself to take in the moment as much as she could, knowing that moments like these were substitutes for the lack of a veritable safe haven, however poor.

What she didn’t anticipate was to feel a hand brush against her shoulder, starkly reminiscent of the previous times and unwillingly she looked up to see him standing there, the same slight smile gracing his countenance.

She thought she was dreaming.

"I’d say, what a pleasant surprise, but I’ll forego the pleasantries – the startled look on your face is a little humiliating, to be honest-“

“What are you doing here?” she cut in, having little patience for his ramblings.

“I could ask you the same, princess.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Can’t a person have a little peace and quiet some times?”

“Eh, no one’s denying you that,” he remarked, not failing to take note of her impassive expression which was only betrayed by impatience flashing through her eyes. Impatience crossed with anguish. “I know that look very well, you know.”

“I know you do.” And much as I may have wanted it to be, it’s none of your business.

“So tell me. Why are you here?”

By this time, she was already on her feet, almost shaking with antipathy. “How does it matter?”

He shot her a narrowed look, but said nothing. To which she almost smiled. Of course, not your place to say it matters, right?

The forced mirth was replaced by quiet seriousness as he asked again, “Tell me.”

But he remained where he was, and she was only too aware of the distance.  Mutual understanding be damned; I refuse to partake affection and concern from afar.

She crossed the gap and walked past him, but not before stopping to lay her hand on his shoulder. ”It’s nothing. You may go.” Time you did. 

Noesis

I miss writing. I really, truly do miss it. It’s something…to feel the clatter of the keys beneath your fingers, to see that image viewed in your mind’s eye come alive word by word. Or the times when I bother to take paper and pen, to see black ink scrawled across a pristine white background. [I hereby admit that my handwriting takes on a life of its own, compared to the neat, precise letters that I otherwise maintain.]

For now, I’ve decided to go the stream-of-consciousness way. My muse refuses to humour me, you see.

Strange that it does, considering my current environs – I call it my own English manor; this house atop a low cliff overlooking the sea, in midst of torrential rains that abate for only a few blessed hours during the day while the sky continues to remain overcast, making it a permanent twilight. Monsoon is my favourite season, and nothing calms me more than the rumble of the ocean. To see the two combined should have brought out my artistic ability in oodles. But all I see is a blank slate, with no colours around that I could even splash on it for random effect.

[Maybe I never had any artistic ability in the first place. Cue more randomness.]

But when the rains finally ceased long enough for me to venture out, I walked all the way down to the jetty. The clouds were there, all right, and the sea was as restive as ever.  The jetty was crowded with silly tourists getting themselves photographed at a dozen spots - none of them differing any more substantially than the previous ones – and corny souvenir shops. I lingered around just long enough to take in the sight of the waves crashing against the pier, and walked back home.

The next day, I venture towards the city, stopping short of the main beach. The place from where the coast began was thinly populated with hutments and fishing boats. The sky was shroud in myriad hues of grey, steadily overwhelming the pale rays of sunshine which broke through from time to time. Except for the sea, it was quiet. I wandered onto the wet sand, with the waves occasionally reaching up to my shins. The stiff winds had thrown my hair asunder, but I bothered enough only to rake through them to ensure that they didn’t get into my eyes.

And I stood still, the water lapping at my feet and the sea breeze rippling through my clothes, my gaze settled on the horizon, almost indistinguishable in the grey haze.

I felt nothing.

[Maybe this soul-searching business is overhyped, after all.]

There was a time, when the mere sight of the sea lifted my spirits to a state of joyous abandon.  It symbolized an inexplicable sense of freedom which I so often envisaged in my daydreams. A lot of my writing did have the element of water in the backdrop.

[And strange that I should be writing about not being able to write about the sea – it is still writing after all, isn’t it?]

However, to stand there today amidst what I considered as one of my infallible sources of inspiration…and not be stirred in the least, it was disconcertingly puzzling.

And yet the gale was inescapable as was the sound of the sea, thrashing about in the distance, its waves appearing no more than white jagged lines to my eye as I would idly sit by the balcony railing.

[Looks like that is all my consciousness is filled with at the moment.]

Maybe I am not able to appreciate my surroundings as much as I would like to do, considering that I am present in them to begin with. Maybe this serenity which I seemed to have taken for granted will come to me when I go back to my desolate, landlocked city.

My notions stand changed – some recrafted, some simply annihilated – and I rummage about in the remains, looking to see if in the process my creative ideals have been laid to waste as well. But I hope and I pray that they will resurface in due time.

Just as how some things wash up onto the shore, thrown forth by the ocean. 

Cognizance

Spare me the rhetoric, the meaningless diatribes.

She turns halfway from the window, her gaze resting at the silhouetted hallway stretching before her.

Hear yourself. You are here, now…living, breathing. Why must they forget?

A hand lies against the glass, misty with the rain. Dark clouds sweep the skies, bathing the world beyond in a permanent twilight.

See yourself.  Can you?

The chiffon folds flutter away in the breeze, settling against her slender frame now and then.

How long will you run away for?

She stands still, keenly aware of the quiet which surrounds her, the silence permeating into her very being,

You know who you are, don’t you?

The hand clenches against the glass, belying the restlessness tearing through her…capable of shattering the surface into a million fragments if it were a force of its own.

There is no other way of knowing the world.

Her gaze now settles at the sight before her, taking in the cold yet invigorating picture that the clouds seemed to be painting, enlivening her surroundings with that infallible sense of just being – the essence of being one with the universe gnawing at her very core.

Burn those shackles down.

She thinks of fire. A conflagration, raging and blazing its way through, tiny flames sparkling and dancing in the wind.  There was something about elemental fury – water, fire, air, earth: so very essential to existence and matter.

Is it a reflexion or a paroxysm?

Her imagination gives way to mighty waves lashing over sands, only to shift to a raging storm kicking up dust everywhere. So in tune with her conflicts…that mental turmoil, driving her mad with equal parts exhilaration and agitation.

But you fight on, one battle after the other.

Even though they were fought in the vivid landscape of her mind. Alter egos would spring to life, repressed desires would come to the fore – each instance scripted as close to reality as possible as if it could be brought alive in a parallel universe.

And realisations beckon you.  

Her gaze is fixed at the play of natural forces before her, while she continues to mould herself, dream by dream into an instrument of expression, attuned to everything that is characteristic of this world.

You have always sought creativity.

Coveted it to the point of vandalizing her psyche, only to realize it lay in her hands, in her will and courage to be.

The world awaits your glory.

She steps beyond the glass walls, breathing into the winds…dreaming of that fire setting her core aflame, alive.

Tribulation, Avowed

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. 

Stifling Abstractions

Oh, it has been a while. A long, long while indeed.

So long, that I can all but rant, unencumbered and unthinking for once, driven merely by this sense of…frustration, I suppose? This inexplicable yearning that gnaws at me, suffocating me, making me want to run.

Run and run, and not look back. Run to the very edge of the abyss and jump into oblivion.

But I can’t…I won’t. I’m here out of my own volition. I made the choice, didn’t I? Everything is nothing but my creation – the world my mirror, a painful reflection of my helpless beliefs.

Nevertheless, shadows shall follow me to the death. I cannot obliterate light; neither can I wipe away the scars of my faults from my very being, not till I give up on pulling the scabs off time and again.

Then again, patience has never been my virtue.

…

“I can’t write.”

It was a mere statement, made quietly but unequivocally. He looked in her direction. As always, she didn’t look up, choosing to stare away at the sight before as she sat near the window, curling up in a manner that struck him as deliberately despondent.

He shook his head. “Of course not. You mean you can’t write prose,” earning him a glare from her.

“Yes, unlike for some lesser mortals, journal entries and random scribblings do not suffice for writing, you see.”

“Now that’s more like it. Why don’t you pen that down as a line to start with?”

The intensity of her glare only grew. “Stop being a wisecrack for once, will you?”

He raised his hands in a giving-up gesture. “I’m saying nothing.”

She sighed, frustration evidently wrought in her features. “I want to write, you know? And yes, for all my eloquence, for all the words I know, this is the best I can do.” And the voice was quiet and matter-of-fact in its tone yet again.

He almost smiled. I know you’re not looking to be empathized with.

 “Say if I ask you to write a letter to me.”

“…I won’t be able to write one. It’d be half-hearted at best.”

“And why do you say so?”

“I can’t find my expression.”

“Writing is not something that can be unlearned, is it?”

“I can’t seem to remember it.”

“If you look for something that is not there anymore…but has taken on a different form, you won’t find it either way.”

She threw him a leveled yet wary look. He held her gaze. “Tell me if I’m wrong. Tell me if it is something as simple as longing for what you knew…”

“…or what had been hidden for so long.”

And just as abruptly, she walked out of the room.

He waited, knowing it wouldn’t be long till she internalized what she had otherwise been unwilling to face. You can’t expect something to come your way if you keep running away from it, can you?

Apocryphal Gleanings

 It was nothing less than a veritable storm. Amidst the howling wind and the cold rain, she trudged her way towards the cliff. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ was all she had said. Was what she would say, every single time.

No one in their right minds would choose to do so in such inclement weather. Then again, was she ever one of them?

(Times like these were when she was free to imagine and envisage everything possible about herself, including the very distinct possibility of being mad. You see, a thin line separates an oddball from a lunatic.)

But she plodded on regardless, taking a somewhat masochistic pleasure in the way the rain cut her to the bones and the wind made her shiver all over. The idea of catching a cold (much less pneumonia) was something she refused to entertain.

(Enough with the weather already, anyway)

The cliff looked over an ocean, equally restive. Nonetheless, it broke away from the constricting woods, enough to give one a semblance of a vast space. On a given day, it would be enough to remind her of the immense universe that she could glimpse through the distant horizon.

Today, even the roaring waves seemed to make her feel claustrophobic.

She walked over to the very edge, barely ensconced by the low fence, broken in various places. It was her wont to do, as perilous as it was – to stand at the edge and peer down at the sea crashing against the jagged rocks. One would think she was about to take her life…and sure enough, that would be the very thought running through her head as she would stand there. However, each time, she came back alive.

The point of this otherwise futile exercise being - to reaffirm to herself that her life was in her hands…quite literally, as long as she stood over the edge. That she was free to jump and put an abrupt end to her existence (quite meaningless in her eyes, either way) but she consciously chose to not do so.

That she further chose to get back to living, for as long as she was meant to be.

The thought both sobered and enlivened her. This little ritual, while not doing much to calm her demons, certainly reminded her of her inability to hurt herself to such an extent. That she would snatch back her power from others to whom she had unknowingly surrendered the same, from time to time, only to be affronted by her destiny.

Only to be reminded of how her own creation overpowered her. And so it was – the unceasing struggle, which she would try to defer and avoid, but never quite coming close to ending it altogether.

For, perhaps, that was the only meaning worth being pursued.