00:36 Monday September 12, 2016

Tossing and turning for so long (or was it earlier?), he finally got up. It hardly took a few seconds to toggle the light switch and flip open the laptop screen. The pate was loaded with reverie that marred his slumber. Roll of an eye away, the colourful wall décor threw away motivational quotes and stuff about not giving a fuck about the world. His gaze traversed across John Lennon, Harvey Specter, Einstein, Tyrion Lannister, Jobs to Che Guevara – honestly, all seemed to be laughing at him. Maybe his fantasies were too superordinate. His goals too incredulous. The ambitions he always failed to fulfil. What was wrong? He knew something was, since a long time – but that night he was desperate for answers.

He often self-pledged about living the life he found in his favourite fictional characters, movies, art and books. Yet the three month long gym membership only saw a week of sweat. ‘What the hell? I should delete all this and go back to sleep,’ reality struck him. Realism paradoxically contradicts miracles and fantasies, by letting hope coexist with it. He didn’t even know whether the thought emerged at the cor or the mentis, the thin line was all a bit of a blur to him lately. To the third person he was just a twenty something juvenile – struggling through life and the fast world. But he seldom reckoned himself with the usual mortal judgement and arrangements. To our honourable third person again, that politely sounds like a loser. He never had so far been able to take the egg at any game, deliver the next big thing, sung the symphony of the decade or let’s say be a regular mortal somehow.

Normalcy never fascinated him. Just like this sentence. He always hated following the suit, yet longed for collective authentication. He was impassioned to realize his dreams, but contrarily gave up against the associated sequestration and impediments. Yet, never thought of himself to be just another loser. Nights were getting more and more difficult these days. He was desperate to win but not to sacrifice. Frustration – the offspring of what you want and what you know – threw up bad dreams. Known faces showed up amidst the zizz and told him he was a loser. The mornings were obviously delayed and ‘tomorrow onwards’ became the usual excuse.

‘It’s 01:04. What the hell am I still doing?’ his brain shouted again, or maybe the heart. Rules, discipline – they had all been the will-o’-the-wisp to him ever since post-highschool. He knew everything. He understood the reality. He knew he was making a fool of himself yet again. Oh murderous fancy, you take reason prisoner. A writer? Even he didn’t know what he was doing. ‘Tomorrow morning I’m going to wake up and feel all poked up about it.’ He not really remembered how and when pursuing melodramatic and dippy endeavours became his thing. He never even talked much before undergrad college. Maybe a person who feels grows weaker day by day. ‘That’s it’, he thought. ‘Art, patterns, nature, fantasies, colours, emotions – oh stupid – they all weaken us. They introduce passivity, start controlling our lives. You are no longer a doer, you become a dreamer. And the world is not kind to those who imagine, who take their time or for that matter – be good.’

‘This is stupid,’ he was giving up slowly. He couldn’t umble-cum-stumble upon his thoughts, the debris of his bizarre imagination, yet he believed he could create the next literary masterpiece out of it. He knew the truth, but always let his imagination cloud over it, intentionally. Attention? Is it too direct a word for what he wanted for himself? Maybe wrapped in his musings about not dying as a nobody was the desire to get noticed, by others. Paradox, huh? Oh life, you ironical bastard of the head and the heart. He had grown up a lot in the past 4 years, mentally. Life was not that bad actually. He had built his empire from scratch. Yet he never felt like a conqueror. Oh come on, just another wannabe story. Everyone weens about meaningless pursuits and rebellious notions when young. His thirties would heal him, as per the honourable third person thought – of course, fly rinks indicate stability. Or do they sign defeat? Giving up? Paradox? ‘Maybe I’m going mad. Nothing makes sense. Whatever I wrote so far, it’s just another fad day for me. And it’ll again kill tomorrow’s plans.’ Plans? Oh he was good at them. Looked too closely, observed minutely. Oh his head was a fifteen puzzle at that instant. And he felt lost, obviously.

He knew he never lacked wits, knack or whatever you call it. Physicality, yes maybe. And yes that’s usual for thinkers, not leaving the comfort zone. Drunkards, junkies, artists, poets and philosophers (whole of art) – all revolved around the same tether. Or was it all about letting your imagination run away with you? Paradox? ‘Courage? Will? Oh not my things’. That made him feel more wretched. He was somewhat plodding, but got things done he immersed into – started out well every time. Loved diversity. But was yet to face a happy ending. Or hadn’t he? Damn these contradictions. Paradoxical paradigms. ‘It’s all scattered. My thoughts, the sentiments. None of what I write makes sense so far. I think too fast, can’t write.’ Just while he was writing this line he had scrolled up, thought of the people he was going to send it to and went blank, all in the blink of an eye. ‘I’m going mad’, he slipped forward – a pillow supporting the neck, fingers still wandering aimlessly on the keypad over his tummy.

Deep thinking – a boon or a bane? It helped him many a times doing things he never thought he could. Few reached completion though. Motivation dies a natural death, obviously. So, was he inconsistent with the lesser mortals? He always wanted to believe that. Hate the crowd but want to be lauded by them. Paradox? Yet again? His whole life was. He was hard to understand, difficult to make sense. Just like this tale. Crap. Story – that’s the word he wanted to end the previous sentence with. Tale? An attempt to be different? Is this a stupid pursuit? But then no regular mortal could understand him or this piece of crap writing. Or is it even writing? A copied text beautifully captures this – People can only meet you as deeply as they have met themselves. Does this make sense? Does this make him – ‘different’? But copied is oppugnant to rawness.

He felt his voice was decent enough recently. ‘Some edits above. Oh I lost the chain of thoughts about voice,’ he murmured. Singing maybe? Maybe, just maybe, he never really wanted to make sense of his thoughts. Rawness – he loved it. At times he felt someone would make sense out of him and explain it to him, yet he never listened to those who tried. Ended up doing what he did, whatever he would anyways. Or what fate made him do? Contradictions. Paradox. ‘Finally, some signs of drowsiness.’ 1:51 AM. He wanted to sort out his life come next morning. He had been trying to, since ages. So no big hopes. Got the morbs? But no he really wanted to. Try and end this frustration once and for all. Do what he couldn’t as a kid. He could. But oh cruel spur – always betrayed in the middle, ended up a meater. Loser. ‘What the hell am I writing? Sentence forms are babelled, sudden jumps, no proper storyline, maybe some grammatical errors creeping in now’. See, he always knew what he was doing. But somehow, never wanted to stop. He pretended. Or did he want someone to stop him? Paradox. Was he just a stupid kid? Wait. A grown up who refuses to believe that? Want some pampering, huh? No. That would make him not abnormal. Well loser, again. The vicious cycle continues.

‘Take a deep breath. Think for a moment. ACs temperature says 25 – digital display down there. Holy shit, look at the flow of thoughts. Isn’t my head a doomed place? Seriously, what the fuck am I writing? Breath. Eyes are heavy, the siesta is a distant dream still. I’ll miss gym again in the morning but I don’t want to believe that. Wait why am I writing in the first person? People are naturally going to think I am high or something. Judged. Stupid.’ Oh dear me, he was just a normal, frustrated kid. Writing crap believing he would rise as a literary hero next morning with whatever crap he is writing. That’s never going to happen. Yet he doesn’t believe that. Or what if he indeed wasn’t a lesser mortal? Para…think, just think.

‘I am writing more crap. Stop.’ All the writers, all the legendary fables – how are they so perfect? They make sense. It comes from following a pattern. A plan. But he was good at planning, no? Paradox. If you could pen down the whatever ratiocinated thoughts in real time – he thought he did. Far from perfect. But then why did you hang on till this point? He did a great job don’t you think? I mean how many writers write their raw thoughts. Bam. Spontaneity. Yes, but still it’s crap. It’s all crap. But that’s how thoughts are. Emotions, feelings, the world. Art. Raw. Crap. Unplanned. Sometimes wrong. And if he could see it, and to some extent make you believe his ideas – however crazy – isn’t that a gift of some sort? He probably wondered self-appraisal from a third person view at this point would ruin all the build-up so far. But yes the thought passed his mind. Raw. Paradoxical. Wait. ‘Why repeating so many words? Paradox. How is it a paradox? Maybe there is. Deep people would figure that out. Oh shit.’ Why’d he write that? Raw thoughts. Goddamn it, we never realize – what thoughts pass our mind every second. But if we did – wouldn’t life be too much dramatic, too full of spikes of happiness, sorrow, surprise. Fear. Well that’s a reference to the opening lines of David Swan – the short story he loved in school, much more sensible than this. Or wait, is this even a story?

Raw thoughts are crap. But he could observe what many couldn’t. So, was he normal? Did he just want collective judgement? Certification? His lost mortality? Childhood? Identity? Who cares? It’s all a bit of a blur, eh? Is this it? But wait it’s all so confusing. But that’s what makes him pretend he’s not normal. That’s how life is. That’s what thoughts are. Or at least his. Maybe he made sense. Who knows? Or was he just stupid? Probably, he knew he wrote crap. But didn’t want to believe it. Why should thoughts always make sense? Or maybe they made to him, but he intentionally didn’t want to make the regular mortals see what he saw? ‘It’s definitely not normal. 2 hours have passed since I started?,’ his thoughts were settling.

02:23 AM Monday September 12, 2016

Who says he lacked will or courage? Aren’t we all mortals at the end of the day? He was intelligent. Could do whatever he wanted. Or maybe never could. Paradox. Who says endings should be perfect? He knew you were awestruck by this point. Or maybe he didn’t. Paradox. He was. Maybe he really turned his life around starting dawn. Who knows? He loved paradox. But craved for a normal life. But never wanted to be identified as one. Paradox? Oh yes, he was.

~Abhishek Bhatt


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s