Do I really write here because I want it to be read? I don't know.
I really don't know anymore.
It started off so long ago, and my entries are half-forgotten... imbecile, unfeeling, superficial little notes to delineate my existence, when that same existence is no longer my concern anymore. I live, still, from one moment to another. Sometimes, an odd refrain returns from a favorite Kishore Kumar song, a cheerful little song which no one but the man who sung it understood how painful, how sad, yet how true every word was.
manzil pe meri nazar
main duniya se bekhabar
beeti baaton pe dhool udata chala
Melancholia. This is perhaps one of those rare moments of maudlin when all I want to do is reach out of my shell and call out, scream out and yell that I am alive. Despite the times when I have been trampled, hurt, shamed, and worse, ignored and belittled, I have lived till now. Till today.
And I am not ashamed of even one single moment of my existence. I have lived, loved, hurt and been hurt.
But I feel that this world is closing around me. As days go by, I find myself retreating behind a cheerful mask, a face that is frozen in its own morbid clownish grin, hiding thousands of days' worth grief, anger, pain and incoherence. I trip around life with all the appearance of a cheerful, headless chicken, and I feel empty inside. As if all that I am is wrung out of me, and poured out somewhere, and I am desperately trying to look for it, from one corner of my existence to another, and failing miserably. I cannot find it.
I hate that. I hate that.
I really don't know anymore.
It started off so long ago, and my entries are half-forgotten... imbecile, unfeeling, superficial little notes to delineate my existence, when that same existence is no longer my concern anymore. I live, still, from one moment to another. Sometimes, an odd refrain returns from a favorite Kishore Kumar song, a cheerful little song which no one but the man who sung it understood how painful, how sad, yet how true every word was.
manzil pe meri nazar
main duniya se bekhabar
beeti baaton pe dhool udata chala
Melancholia. This is perhaps one of those rare moments of maudlin when all I want to do is reach out of my shell and call out, scream out and yell that I am alive. Despite the times when I have been trampled, hurt, shamed, and worse, ignored and belittled, I have lived till now. Till today.
And I am not ashamed of even one single moment of my existence. I have lived, loved, hurt and been hurt.
But I feel that this world is closing around me. As days go by, I find myself retreating behind a cheerful mask, a face that is frozen in its own morbid clownish grin, hiding thousands of days' worth grief, anger, pain and incoherence. I trip around life with all the appearance of a cheerful, headless chicken, and I feel empty inside. As if all that I am is wrung out of me, and poured out somewhere, and I am desperately trying to look for it, from one corner of my existence to another, and failing miserably. I cannot find it.
I hate that. I hate that.
