10:40 pm

I’m sick again. Have you ever met a person in your life who gets sick because of waiting, thinking too much, taking everything way too personally or may be someone who does nothing the whole day, I mean who doesn’t go out to any office or work, doesn’t see the stark sunlight hitting right in the eyes and doesn’t have to taste the mud swirling in the air for no reason and yet gets sick at the end of the day because of waiting for a day. A day. Yes all I know about this day I’m waiting for is that it exists. On a page still left to turn of a calendar, it is written. This one day I’m waiting for. Other than that I don’t know anything. I’m escaping from everything and running mercilessly towards the unknown. Why am I waiting? Because I think something rather everything will change after this one day. And I’m not thinking of any larger than life transformations only: but of smaller ones first. I’ll have money, the air I’ll breathe will be cleaner, the place I’ll live in would be small and decorated as I’d like, no noise of stupid television shows or vendors out in the streets of my colony, I’ll work better, the people will be good, I’ll have things to plan and look up-to, I’ll buy what I like, roam wherever I wish to. This is the deadliest illness of all you might have seen. And I’m suffering from it. I spend my days preparing for this one day when I think my life will get better. Waiting. Waiting so much that it has now become an illness. It pinches in my throat when I gulp my saliva in. My heartbeats are now faster and my body: every space in my body is full of purposeless wants and hopes. I can’t believe. Can you? I was so tired of this life here in this one caged room looking at the worst faces in my life that one opportunity of seeing this one day after sometime has made me a dead body but full of aches. And I have lived enough to tell this tonight that this is the worst of states for any human alive. Dead and aching. While you’re alive and there’s pain, there’s some hope, some satisfaction in being able to survive till another dawn, another morning. And when you’re dead: you’re dead. But these days in life where death and pain sit in the vacuums of my bones, my life is devoid of everything except the pain. Not even agony, anger, tears or those unnamed feelings. Mere pain.
I tried writing again today. More than usual. I ate fine. This house I live in is full of negativity. That’s the truth of all truths. Everyone’s face, when I look at it, I see a stagnation so steep one can’t stand it for a second. Not a single line of love on their foreheads. Not even any want of it. Want of anything actually. I can’t believe my eyes sometimes. That they’re alive. In the middle of all this I want to look for love. Someone who says or does a few little things and I feel the life that has now hidden itself beneath the dead slumbers accumulated in me. But all I can see is even the person you want to love and get loved back, even this person is full of his own fears and pains. Does it even mean anything? To love and expect to be loved back again. Every night saying I love you, does it mean anything after a time? Doesn’t it become a meaningless habit, like life itself.  Am I asking for too much or am I destined to get too less? Why is it so difficult to think and make a day a little better than usual for the people we love? Is it too much to do? A flower, a beautiful long message, a poem to read, a letter, small bit of anything prepared or created only for me, a few hours spent only to think about how this togetherness could be better, a surprise visit, a message that shows how ecstatic my presence makes you feel,  something I would love to talk about other than your work, tests and auditions, a thought you couldn’t forget about me, a song you heard and you couldn’t stop missing me, one night when you wait for me to sleep peacefully, one day when everything fades away and the only thing I see you wanting is me, persistence of giving up on anything but love, you, me. I don’t even want all of this altogether but I guess it’s just a story this paper can hold because in reality life has happened to you like everyone else and it has ruined everything. Everything.


Leave a Reply

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

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com 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