Delirium

When I was alone, it was the same; the same thoughts, the same mindless sentences, the same mass of complex questions, the same desperate inability to answer those complex questions.

It was a sense of discomfort; I could not place my finger on it.

Confusion, helplessness, dead-ends.
Why am I doing this? Why am I living a sinfully lacklustre life, without enthusiasm, without happiness?

I rise at 5 every morning, have burnt bacon and eggs for breakfast, go to school, listen to the same droning about identification of ions and refraction of light, I come back home in the same white Daihatsu, give the same monosyllabic replies to my mother’s probing questions, watch the same repetitious soap operas on the television, brush my teeth with the same image staring back at me from the mirror, go to bed with the same patched quilt and experience the same feeling of emptiness inside my body everyday.

There is a fire; a raging fire inside me. Of desire, dream, delirium.

There are so many things I want to do. So many goals I want to achieve, so many books I want to read, so many people I want to meet, so many places I want to see.

But I don’t.

Because I have forced myself to believe that the life I am living right now is best for me. A life without passion. A life without love.

I am not happy, neither am I satisfied.

I want something more.

I want something beyond.

Nothing maters anymore; it’s merely a quivering suspension of anxiety and monotony. But still, my subconscious keeps me in a sphere of terror. What if I flunk the Chemistry test at school? What if mom finds out about the cookies I stole last week? What if I face a writer’s block and am unable to submit my newspaper article on due time? What if someone is better at English than me and if the administration make him the Literary Society President? What if someone reads my diary; my innermost and personal cerebrations? What if my parents learn about my second persona; the life I live away from them? What if I get robbed when I’m coming home late at night? What if that bracelet I had my eyes on for months gets sold out? What if I look like a dork at Heather’s party next week? What if boys think I’m weird because the stuff I write is too philosophical and full of crap for them? What if my desktop is corrupted by a virus? What if the expensive blouse I bought is actually a fashion faux pas? What if the sound tracks I listen to aren’t cool anymore? What if the bass tube in my car breaks down? What if I am not able to get into medical?

And then there’s the fear of death. Doom.

What if I die without doing the things I want to?  What if I die without achieving the goals I want to, without reading the books I want to, without meeting the people I want to, without seeing the places I want to?

I want to run away; run away from life, this world, people, myself. I want to become a war correspondent. I want to question the people who have looked at death closely. I want to question the soldiers who live at the edge of life, knowing that the angel of death could descend upon them at any moment. I want to run away to an unknown destination, at the centre of the Universe, where I can feel the central energy flowing through my body. I want to run away to a cocoon where everything’s different; where flowers never wilt, where the rain never stops, where the sun never sinks, where the power of love still prevails.

I want to help; help every happy and unhappy soul. I want to help the people who claim to be happy but are actually screaming inside. I want to help lonely wanderers like me who are searching for something so powerful; they are dominated by it themselves, for something so complex, they themselves fail to comprehend it. I want to help the poor, who desire money. I want to help the rich who desire luxury. I want to help those addicted to luxuries, who desire a simple life. I want to help those spirits who are lost; frozen in time; hovering motionlessly through a vacuum they themselves created without ever realizing it.

I want to cry; to cry for those who themselves cry. I want to cry for those who try to define life through their individual foggy perception of the world. I want to cry for those who pray for the forgiveness for their previous sins. I want to cry for those who experience pain. I want to cry for those who need light in a mass of pitch darkness. I want to cry for those who are waiting for their tears to dry up, for the wounds to heal, for the indelible scars to disappear.

I want to live; live to enjoy the profundity of silence, the blast of din. I want to live for the stunning miracles I witness everyday. I want to live to decipher the multitude of omens strewn across the path of life. I want to live to admire the sheer beauty of every passing moment. I want to live to fade away in the glorious sunset; to melt in the never-ending sky. I want to live to hear the cacophony of sounds, to smell each and every tempting aroma, to hear the tinkling laughter, to touch the blowing breeze, to feel something beyond explanation; something so magical it can not be understood. I want to live because a voice deep down in my heart tells me to do so. I want to live because I have been created to live. I want to live for all those who weren’t able to live. I want to live because I have to run, I have to help, and I have to cry. I want to live because it’s forbidden to live a life of fervour and eternal bliss. I want to live for I am reborn. I want to live because I want to find the beyond…