"And when I'm gone Just carry on, don't mourn Rejoice, every time you hear the sound of my voice Just know that I'm looking down on you smiling And I didn't feel a thing So baby don't feel no pain Just smile back"
Note: If you're a serious nihilist (skeptic, cynic), I believe it's different. That could be counted as a choice, but I don't really see the point in believing nothing because even then you're strongly believing in the idea that nothing is to be believed.
I once read that language was developed to connect with others, to bond. And every time you use it to hurt someone, every time you break the silence for any other reason you are drifting away from its purpose. Soon you'll lose the connection with yourself as well and won't realise it until you're left feeling drained.
Beneath the fretful-clunky burden of imposed duties, i sought freedom. I desired to be free until the sun sets and darkness obscures the sky. To be free until the raven cackles on the roof top of an abandoned building. Life gets us, It sweeps us just like how the breeze hauls those dandelion seeds and then it escorts us to mysterious yards. Except for me it was not a yard but a dark forest. In that forest, i found uncertainty. My modest companion that follows me religiously. Every night it whispers to me how it can see me through all my fears and even my agonizing pain that i conceal behind a smiling face, A facade.
It insinuates how it is my fault for carrying all those burdens alone. It consoles my soul and i avoid looking in her eyes. I evade her just like how i evade my self. If i would ever talk to fate, i would ask why my life struggles to find a direction, an answer, a truth. My truth.
A truth that would lend me sorrows wrapped in glossy fardels of chocolates and i would gobble them until they start devouring the broken inner fragments of my soul. I have no aptitude for solving the problems that life serves me in a bleak platter and i am not a painter working a brush and leaving the empty canvas with my imprint. I don't. I can't. I am a flawed escapist who cannot look past behind his own scorn and ridiculousness. I am a spectator, i watch my life bolting past my windows coated with delusions and fantasies and every time it returns to me, i run and bury myself under a wide blanket.
Everyday i sit next to the window on an old brown chair looking at the sky. The sunrise always approaches but sometimes i wonder what if it didn't? What if one day i wake up and i don't find myself here? Am i free to die as much as i am free to live?
I have been thinking about writing to my best friend, it's been a while since we wrote to each other on the yellow postcards that travel through places to reach our door. I love the certain calm that it carries, where you don't have to worry about instant replies. You can take your time, one word after another with your shitty handwriting to make it personal. You are not doing it for the sake of it, but for the human connection that it holds. A sense of belongingness in a world that is always in a rush.
Sometimes you know what to write on the places left on the card for a destination, but you don't know what to talk about. Sometimes you know what to talk about but don't know the destination. Isn't it always a struggle? Not just waking up every morning but trying to find that human connection that pushes you through the days till you collapse into a night?
It's been ages since we talked, we aren't the same people back when it all made a lot of sense in a simpler world. I think, when people drift out of this edge of familiarity, you feel alienated. It is like, getting thrown out of this world to another where everything that you touch wither away. Do we belong in the wrong worlds? A reality that isn't quite ours?
It is such a painful thing, to share the pain of another when the night falls heavy on your shoulder. How do you tell someone that you want to die? Not because you are sad, but because sometimes it makes no sense as to why you wake up to fall asleep again. We walk in and out of these contradictions of death and living, trying to come up with some lines to keep holding on for a few days, few more letters that arrive with the summer rain.
I don't remember what you feel about rain, whether you hate the way it falls on your skin or loves the way how it drowns you to the depths. But there is something so familiar about it, with every fall burning your summer skin, you feel like a human. It is unfair of us to pour our sorrows away into the late-night conversation when you don't know who walks on the thin line of blues. Yet, on some nights, it feels safe to drown in the open ocean with a familiar face to pull you out to the surface.
There is a constant war on our minds, whether we want to be found or to be lost. It is hard to figure out where this journey is taking us, yet we walk like we know the destination. Like, letters. You don't know when they will reach your door, but it makes you feel connected when it arrives with stories you never knew from worlds that you've never seen.
We yearn for this connection, a connection that is not tied to the binary strings but takes its time to reach you. In another world, in another time, pulling you back to the edge of familiarity that feels so personal.
We are these blurry lines, fading shadows, mere outlines of remembrance. Lost between light and dark on the edge where the world falls out of its existence. How long are we going to be lost, before we collapse into mere stories about the part of us that always wanted to be found, always wanted to return?