Monologue

Phases they say come and go. The plethora of phases flowing like the winter breeze through the northern woods; I say brings no warmth whatsoever in the most likely circumstances when u feel, the breeze might ease a bit. Now it seems easier for me to take consequences as it is. Reactions come late; logics take the first blow though the heart still bleeds the first blood. The perpetual sense of being the cause of a string of unfortunate catastrophes prefixed by my own misjudgments and unplanned decisions makes a non believer like me start believing in something; the triumph of mediocrity over rations. I still survive.

What surprises me is not the unalterable past or my sudden introspection sprees; but the behavior of the future shaping slowly to be another set of subjunctive history. Wouldn’t say others come with their dice loaded from the stars, but at least they have their own dice. Playing with the dice of my forefathers; close if place is concerned, far if heart is concerned; makes me feel like the torchbearer of traditional triumphs who stumbled midway. The flame I couldn’t follow; neither borrow; it’s pretty obvious I couldn’t carry. The last fumes never guide me now. I never had the chance to throw my own dice.

It’s true; won’t have to say “give me a reason to live”. I got plenty. But the one that matters now are not my male driven logic guided reasons, but zeal to live. Survive I may, but to live is in all a separate “thing” I cant follow. I can’t say “my sorrows come with the rain” lest I be dubbed the idiosyncratic psychopath least interested in living and hence a complete cynic sans the foolish suicidal tendency. I can’t even say “I’m lonely”. That makes me common. Don’t want to be one. Hence my last resort lies in throwing the better half of my already rotting mind among creatures I call friends. That still doesn’t make me friendly; but at least I have lived long enough; sentenced to boredom and loneliness. A few friends make no difference but I do appreciate the ripples they create in my stagnant monotone; even if for a moment.

This isn’t a book to mesmerize people with a sufficient flow of words with no substantial substance in it. Rather it’s an unformatted, unorganized journal of the observations I made on life. The conclusion I drew about life though; pretty much remains the same. It’s a monotone. Unlike even the worst class of writers playing with words; I have revealed the conclusion and I’m not at all in ease with that. When the first chapter is such a bore; I still will carry on with the risk of being a bore. After all; life is a bore. But then I must say; where one sees garbage, another sees food. I don’t promise any bemusing rivulet of happy waters in the pages to come, but certainly would try to maintain the flow of observations which may or may not be that amusing either.