The conclusive regards of inner turmoil

They say time is the best healer, that it makes you forget even the darkest moments of despair. They associate forgetting with outliving; simply survive long enough after an event and you are bound to forget. That the feelings of hopelessness and utter gloom with find their abode in someplace else other than your being; that they will loosen the clutches on your heart after the long, desolate years of mediocrity and that you might finally go free. But the most miserable and crushing times arrive when you can’t forget, when the life you were given doesn’t associate forgetting with outliving.
When you simply can’t outlive the moments because they are right there in front of you. Each aspect of an event repeating itself like a well-practiced throw of a knife by a performer in a circus. Each one hitting its mark, like it did yesterday, the day before that and the day even before. It hits the exact same spot like a perfect déjà vu, because it can’t afford to hit someplace else. No, the stakes are too high; someone’s head. A few brooding and bored sadists in the audience might wish that the throw goes awry and cuts a part of the bound, could-be victim’s flesh; so that after watching a long and tiring performance they would have finally something to relish.
That’s how life doesn’t let you outlive. Each moment happens like it happened yesterday, the day before and even before that. When you are nothing but a mere spectator, a brooding and bored watcher in the audience, and you wish for a shot to go awry, something to be amiss; so that you may not relish, but breathe. To finally have a moment of peace, a shatter in the cage of chaos that had engulfed entire beings and dragged them down into the darkest of pits and turned them into puffs of odourless smoke and had yet remained unnoticeable to others.
They say when life gives you lemons you make lemonade. What they never say is that it’s only a worthless saying, life doesn’t give you lemons; it gives you baskets of regrets, cascades of unimaginable pain, bushels of misery and orchids of anguish. What they never explain is the absolute choicelessness of existence. They say life gives you this and life gives you that. But why life in itself, WHY LIVE; more importantly why not be given a choice to your own existence.
They also say that a person who looks like a ragamuffin off the streets and a drunk, but is not a drunk, has to be a writer. They are right in saying that. Writers are the single most underappreciated contributors in the world. They only give and never take. They are haunted by demons worse than any other. They say that a writer’s life is hard; unforthcoming and fruitless. That to persevere they have to be exceptional or die nameless. In this too, they are right. But never have they imagined and bothered saying about a writer burdened with the curse of schizophrenia. A hopeless story teller captivated in an endless loop of unwelcoming and unhelpful traumas. A desperate man hoping and trying to make his impact upon the world and yet, failing.
So a man turns to his curse for hopes of redemption. Foolishly believing that some good might come out of the blight that has ruined his life since before he could remember. The reason for his childhood abandonment, the voids to look back upon, the supervised visits to psychiatrists, hours spent in trying to make them see, to make them believe, only to finally learn that they never will and run away. A man does what he never should; repeats the mistakes of his past. He tries to make people see; he imprudently thinks that the chaos that engulfs his being and drags him down and turns him into a puff of smoke might make sense to someone. That there might be someone out there who can see what a man sees. Another thing they never say; life is full of mights that tend to remain that way.
Lastly, the last thing they say, about the last hour. When a man is faced with a cordon that simply can’t break, when there is no way forward; he does something that earns him the pity, sympathy and compassion of the whole world. But in this too, they overlook something. A man does find the rope taut and kicks the stool from underneath, but this man does so without a single scratch of an impact on the world; sincerely, a nameless death.