Time and again life presents itself in forms that is not only hard to fathom but also difficult to endure. It is one such episode that I am sailing through currently. There are days when life seems so beautiful, so enchanting; then there are those when it feels more gloomy than a dark room with no doors.
So are the nights when sleep feels like a distant dream, a lover who is lost yet longing. Not being able to fall asleep, I feel like a stone, left aside without love. During many sleepless nights, I think about the purpose of our life. Many a time, I am engulfed by an existential crisis, making me paralyzed to think ahead. With each sleepless night the next one gets even longer. The seconds hand seems to go slower. I feel like the observer stuck in the event horizon, for endless period of time.
One fine morning, after a couple of hours of sleep during the early hours of the day, I wake up and find everything around me beautiful, a piece of poem the poet composed after years and years in the making. I go outside and feel the wind on my face, washing away every depressive thought that my mind let in. The grass beneath my feet feels like water, flowing without the least care of what stands on its way. The cries of the birds are the sweetest songs to ever reach my ears. Everywhere it’s just mounds of happiness that is there to love, to die for. I go hurriedly to do what I want to do with life, with all the vigor the day has offered. The future seems so bright, so full of life.
As the day revolves, my mind start to go back to feed the demon that finds sorrow everywhere. People around me feel like a horrid reminder of crushing pain that every life is a part of. It gets difficult to breathe and I can’t help. I see darkness standing under a scorching sun. Violent images flash before my eyes. I feel claustrophobic. I look around to find large machines narrowing on me.
I read books, the only escape from reality. In its pages, I let my mind wonder, drawing images. I talk to the characters, I become one with them. It’s no more I, it’s we. The books let me breathe again.
It’s the only relief. It’s the only joy this little phase of my life let me discover.