I want to write it but words fail me.
There’s something which is missing and I have no idea what.
This deep gaping hole, this strange hollow feeling, convoluting in gyrations, sucking me in even as I want myself out.
I want to do something about it. Avail to something. An escape route.
Something that gives away no artifice.
But, out of compelled inaction: I don’t.
Not that I choose not to but rather because I know not what ought to be done.
How do I set out to fill this void, to get out of the abyss I find myself in.
My mum says ‘Sometimes you don’t do anything.
You just wait and watch and let the world play it’s game.’
But I don’t understand. Maybe, I don’t want to. I have become cold. Numb.
Not only to the mundane conversations, to the everyday commonplace existence,
But to the very things which moved me deeply once.
I have developed this new sense of antipathy
Towards all things which I cannot comprehend.
What is rationality? What is freedom?
Maybe, these are questions worth pondering upon.
But questions like: Why do I want to defer chasing my dream?
Why do I want to postpone everything to the uncertain future?
Am I not simply escaping?
And in case I am, why is it wrong? And if it isn’t, why do I feel guilty?
Don’t we all escape,
from something or the other.
In fact, what you refrain from is far telling of you than what you indulge in.
You letting things pass through you is the result of not escaping. Not refraining.
Escapism gives rise to motion, provides the impetus to get moving.
What you don’t escape from, you accept.
These are the questions I ask myself. And then rue because that is all I have: questions.
I think I am clouted with a lot of viewpoints.
I guess, it is about time I put my jabber on the screen, my pen on paper,
My impulses to work, my thoughts to rest.
But argh, these damned words! They continue to fail me.