I can’t start...there is nothing that attracts me to the hilt that I open my computer and start molesting the keyboard. The orgasm of jotting it down on a paper has been lost. Whatever I write today or that I’ve been writing upon doesn’t make any sense — at least this is what I’ve started feeling.But, there is something that urges me to mount again and slowly but painfully get that erection. I look around. I try to find peace and salvation in faces, memories and events. And somehow they’ve been abound. But there has been nothing amongst this crowd that has been pulsating enough to massage my lost sense of pain. I want that wound to remain evergreen, slowly draining out any sense of pleasure that I may derive from any worldly thing.
It is not the existence which oppresses me, the will to keep this lean body moving is the real pain that hounds me day and night. I don’t know to what extent a person can carry his own burden of an unsuccessful past and probably a more unsuccessful future. But as the same time I’m surprised at the energy which I feel that pushes me to get out of the self-created black hole.
There is no end in sight. But again, I know the end. And this is what which enrages me and tempts me to revolt. But revolt against whom and what? Isn’t this a self-created dungeon, where ants are slowly crawling at my ankle. I know they are moving up. I can feel the sensations. But I still grip the dead soil to climb-up and out of this slippery ground.
I can keep on writing. List down what affects me. Put into perspective, the art of self-annihilation. But how will it matter? Will that change anything? And if not....then shouldn’t I stay buried...unsuccessfully?
