Days (melancholy)

There are days, unceasing days with relenting chaos.

There are days when I feel like the world is waiting for me, stuck in a momentarily lapse of time, standing waiting for me to embrace the tangled ball of mess and pluck it apart thread by thread, piece by piece. The time is all mine. It’s under my reign.

Then there are days I’m unable to function, like the world cannot stop and wait for me to pick up my pace. A momentum which if will be broken will send me into a spiral of
daunting dread and consequential confusion. There are days when I wake up chirpy, sip down a cup of tea and feel it warming up my insides. Then there are days when I can not bear the cacophonous doom that may exist out on the streets. My body seems to stop working on its own and needs a constant influx of cheery goofiness
to aloof itself of the bitter reality.

There are days when a rainstorm outside seems to match and bellow like my quivering insides, shaking in trepidation of a hellish nightmare to follow, anticipating the wreckage after a mighty sea-storm. Then there are days when the evading rain seems to challenge me of trying something entirely new, an experience ready to jolt me out of my phony shack and blow away the artificial barricades around it. There are days, well most of them anyways, when I feel like I can disappear off of the face of this world and nobody would care; nobody would bat an eye. I’m already half gone don’t you see?

It’s one of those days today; where the actuality makes little sense. When I want to run off and exist in an alternate universe, watch how people would react even if the would in the first place. It’s just one of those days when I feel minuscule bout of energy running in my veins, like an old battered car running on its fuel reserve. Like a bike with its
gear unhooked after a tiring hike in the mountains. Why in this world do I care when no one else does care about caring? About caring about every single thing that
affects them and others and the other’s others and oh the other’s other’s dying dog too. Then there are days when I feel I’m better off without all the attachments-
the attachment of love, joy, being, fulfillment, content, bliss, mirage and whatnot. Days when I assure myself that being independent or independency is an
intoxication all in its own. What if I run to Siberia? No one would follow. What if I decide to camp in the Missouri forest? No one would go along with me. What if I adjourn into the Chateau Marmont? What if I disappear into nothingness? No one would be bothered. And isn’t that more fair? To not bother anyone that is. Then there are days when I feel what if someone I knew does this? Would i be bothered? Would i care? Hell yes. And that is what makes the entire difference in my universe.

Loneliness is not a shroud, it’s not even an unconditional independence, its the art of losing. There are days when I wake up completely in love with someone. Or something. That can be anything, an old book I read, the guy who had me up till 3 am, the smell of pancakes, the shirt I’d worn the other night, the feeling I had resonating inside me when a friend was sitting beside me or the song up on the radio last night.

And then there are days when these feelings would unsettle me into a dark abyss of penchant and an ache of the unknown. Days when I feel nothing inside of me, a state of numb with nothing at stake. Nothing to give and nothing to take. An eluded trance that gives me a high and manages to tumble me down harder when the low strikes. There are days when I feel this ignited fire inside of me that threatens to spill and envelope my
surroundings with a raging thunder. Then there are days that my lungs feel like ice, cold as the night. Every strike leaves an impressionable trace of crack but the
ice-walls are towering high. There are days when it hurts everywhere and some where the ache seems to translate into a bitter sweet symphony.
I’m an immoderation. A lost soul with no end, no fixation, just extremes. No flair for concrete but rather a decisiveness that threatens to spill. I am no one yet I am every one. I am soul and I am the soulless.

© Rushna Imdad. Published October 12, 2016. All rights reserved.

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