Sisyphus

18^th November, 2017.

I have seen that my past few rants here have been nothing but of anguish and desolation and despair. Most of them are dark and this has developed quite recently. If I didn’t know myself any better, I would have made an observation and would have concluded to be in a depression. But then again, that would be belittling those who are actually battling this chronic disease.

Only when I stop to think about it, I see that it’s just that I have conferred a good amount of value on something in haste and now it just has become a sort of noose around me. And the more I try to leave, the more it ensnares me and hence all these blithe and vitriol. I don’t know if I shall blame myself for this or not, the idea is not out yet.

I have held this view about myself, that whenever I touch something, I tend to burn it to ash and dust. I believe this because I have seen this happening over and over again. This is such a recurring thing with me, sometimes I do doubt if there is something wrong with me, this cursed touch of Midas in me seems to devour everything I hold too closely.

Thing is, I do believe that no one wants to be like this, broken, tired, lost. And I am not exaggerating here; I am going through a time which I thought I have left out of my life couple of years ago. Every morning, since September has been a constant battle between me and the last shred of sanity, self-esteem; it’s been a while since I could hold my head up high. I wake up with an empty feeling in my head and that makes me disgusted towards myself. “Accept what’s what, move forward, denial won’t help”, I have written this on a sticky paper and stuck on my whiteboard. It had helped for a while, but this seems like a relapse, into the spiral of broken dreams and sincere fantasies of what should have happened and how I deserve it, but it’s not mine.

There is a constant static in my head; I somehow carry through the day only to go back to sleep and I keep on hating and hoping, that tomorrow will be a better day, tomorrow I will be better. But this seems to be too tough as of right now. The only time I felt better was when I had a drink, because why not, the clichéd idea of alcohol replacing the pain with something numb is not totally a fallacy there.

I don’t know really what wounds are these, how do I heal these? Hilariously, whatever I am writing here, it won’t be spoken of in public, not in front of those who are responsible for this, or rather those whom I hold responsible, which makes me even more distasteful towards myself. I used to be a good person, I used to be alone and I was good. It happens when I started getting people around me when I started putting effort and in turn, got nothing. No, sometimes we do and should expect something in return. All I get is nothing. For all the things I do or am willing to do, I seem to completely fail at it.

I am just tired. Invisible is good, but this sort of invisibility is not just painful, it seems to crush us under our own weight.

Only if letting go was easy. Only if I was given the moment of happiness I really deserve.

To Esther (ghost letter).

11th November, 1917.

Dearest Esther,

I know I am at fault of not writing you any sooner though I got your last letter about two weeks ago, I do not even write as often as I have promised you. I cannot apologize to you enough, I cannot imagine what distress it must have caused you, given the turmoiled times. You always ask me to describe my surroundings in our correspondence, I have no idea whatsoever why do you stress on that detail, yet here goes..

You have seen my mahogany desk the last time you came, and you had seen the curious little collection on it, well, there has been new additions to it, namingly a skull that I bought (it somehow filled me with an immediate sense of curiosity) and a new pen and of course, your letters that are piled up in a neat stack, date wise. I still do not know what you will do with this silly detail, but I am assuming it is important for your work.

There is no apparent reason to write now either. Yes, true, that we do share a sort of relationship, but let me ask you this, would it be of any difference if we didn't write at all? Or wrote everyday? Can we, after all we have been through, endure it ? Do you not feel nauseated with your own distress which is solidified by such an amusing idea? I know I do. I cannot always express myself to you or to anyone through these papers, as much as I do love writing and tearing them out of spite and malice.
Now, do not mistake my apathy for my lack of passion about you or us. If you are, which I know you are, privy to my daily mundane routine of life as such and you have seen me in my darker moods, you will know that there are days when I am insensitive and cold to passion. These are the mornings when my only companion is my disheveled reflection and a continuous chain of thought and cigarettes. You have complained about it so many times. These hateful moments in my life are the ones when I find everything rancid, even your letters. I remember you, wrapped in the bedsheet and your big eyes, curiously prancing on the morning street down from my window, and your cigarette, and I hate you too, you too become rancid to me. These are the moments when I realize that the written kisses do not, cannot reach their destinations, everything is just a dying moment from it's inception. In an exaggerated moment of profundity, I find it even less important to do anything. The past few days had been filled with such moments and all I can do and am doing is nothing but throwing myself into a constant battle to at least resume my sanity.

Distorted as it may be, all of this is to be endured, intentionally and with a purpose. Here, my purpose to go through this abysmally depressing mood was to atleast write something substantial for you. Again I apologize to you, this isn't our regular correspondence of subtle poetry, I needed this. Yes, I have and do miss you and I cannot do anything but to endure it.

Yours now and always,

M.

In a perpetual state of confused dereliction.

Our moments run,
like caged, rabid animals,
scratching and clawing at heels
abandoned by truth and adopted by
suicide.
We taste grit in the air, warm and stale
sunsets, broken at the yonder, coming undone bit by bit at a slow pace.
Sordid musings come back
like an epidemic, like the whore of an endemic suffocation, crawling on our
skin and underneath it.
We are the irate customers of that moment,
we pay by the scars on our skin
and haunting loops of cold conflicts, devoured, swallowed whole
by retribution against the broken reflections.
Our moments will run, till the end,
where destruction will have no meaning and
creation will have no place, where we are damned to this, and we are free,
and this would be the song to redeem
the broken bastards of bad poets.

R.