Thursday, 15 December 2011

Why must our lives be so alone? I trace and retrace my steps in time, but here I am-trying to make sense of who I am and what I must do. This is difficult to figure out because I always took for granted that the wretched strains of violins I hear in my head are part of a song. And now that song is not just in my head, it's my life. The vast embracing sky here is always cloudy, and it's so cold here, so cold, that this embrace can kill me if I don't shield myself from it.

There is much happiness around, but this happiness is not for me. When you realize this, you know that your life is gradually losing meaning or perhaps it is gaining greater meaning. Nowadays I take recourse into fantasy and fiction, and this room becomes my universe, my one little room is Everywhere. But there is no lover here to make my macrocosm into a microcosm, all that metaphysical love poetry is left behind in another world- a comfortable cocoon in retrospect. He is no longer all that I survey.

I am shielding myself from the cold, but I cannot shield me from myself. I glimpse you outside sometimes, but not all the time. In little light, and you disappear so soon, in the blink of an eye. I lose you before I can realize what it is- you're like a blazing shooting star, an elusive idea, a trembling idea, a character, a personality, you're my novel gradually developing in my head- and I have to see you more often before I can write you down. I desire lucidity, the erotic texture of lucidity, its endless possibilities...

Fuck it, come back. I have not yearned anything so much, no lover, no man, no woman, no friend has made my heart shake so much, depressed me so much. I can see your story, I can see your distinct narrative spread over time, and my time itself ceases to matter to me, as long as your unreal and false time can be encapsulated by my worthless fingers on a blank white page.

Love, love, love. They say love is something that you need to live the good life. I don't want any love, the men in the canvas of my life are fading out gradually, the colours are running out, and even he who I loved so much-whose heartbeat I still hear occasionally against my lonely pillow-even he has carved out another life on a better fresco. All I have is you, you are my sole source of solace and desire and love and life. Do not let me die another death, here in my ugly and cold room, make my life vibrant and illusive with the colours of fantasy.

Embrace me, fiction.

1 comment:

Elendil said...

The problem with us, Panda, is that we're dreamers and lovers and many colourful things besides, and the world is always a pale imitation of our dreams. That's why fiction is better.

Curl up in a blanket and read George R.R. Martin. Real world will cease to exist.