A place for me to speak-out. A chance for my soul to seek...
' Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue, the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet;
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams '
- William Butler Yeats
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Empty and Running On !!!
Somedays you wake up wondering where you are. Time, space, alarm and music juggle your neurons, making you disoriented. At times like this you feel like you dropped from the sky, where you were soaring on diaphenous wings a minute back. Reality kills oh so slowly.
You stumble through the routine, mind wandering through endless mazes. Eat, brush, bathe, shit, it all goes on, ruthlessly, every single day. You are forced to do these things, all of them. If you don't want to, you are harrassed and ostracized by the mere definition of normal in most minds. You wear your clothes, put on the smile and walk out into the deafening sunlight.
You meet those people who call you friend. Casually wonder what they think, how they really feel inside. Listen well, and you can hear the hurt and the pain, the yearning to be heard, the effect of years of indifference and misunderstanding. It doesn't affect you anymore. It used to, though. Everyone learns sooner or later. You care too much, and one day they will choke you. So become cold, atleast that way you do it yourself.
Lunch, office, cabin, friends, boss, just people, all the same, all the same. Even you, you are the same, just like them. We are the same, little ants running around in an anthill. Never knowing their lives are a mess, a futility, a defined period of time before being smashed under a toddler's foot.
Back for dinner. You see the same old faces, wiser by the passing of a few hours. This second that you will not get back, not this one, not the next. Each cell is older, weaker, more ready to give up. Why does everyone seem so blah and unreal. You hate their expressions. You just want to run away. Get away from the looks and the thousand little subtilities. The traditions, the robotic crap, the phonyness, everything. Even the pretending that empathy exists.
You lay awake, staring at the stains on the ceiling. No point to the day, not like there ever is. You will fade into unconsciousness soon. Dead, but not rotting just as yet. The brief hours you feel less animalistic and nearly alive. You feel one whole day closer to eternal rest. I'm running on empty. But thats life and is beautiful...