Every time I close my eyes, every time I look towards the sky, THE image is formed in the mind of my minds. I do not know how to live with it, so I try my best to shake it off. But that would not work. The image, being persistent and stubborn, keeps on coming back like a bad flu. Then am crying on my bed, shedding those manly bitter tears of regret. This is the time when everything else shrinks. It is the time when the walls of my house seem attract each other, their gravitational pull so strong such that they hug. The same seems to happen to the floor and the ceiling. It is the time when the earth cracks and I seem to fall into its deep bowels. Then I feel that my world has been torn into small bits, like a loaf fought over by dozens of kids.
Being involved to unmask this transcendental, I do not sleep a wink. It is during the very time when the moon is reigning that my cognitive powers are put into test. Being disturbed, and seeking to disturb the roots of the cause of my disturbed being, I comb through every detail that I can lay my abstract mind's hands on. A bout of headache then hits me in the way a gong hits the bell, so that I stagger for a while. But then, having testosterone running through my veins, I do not crush the central pole. Actually, I supplement it, so that it remains as strong as ever such that my search for answers does not reach the rock bottom. Then a my lips curve in a way that makes my heart lip from its place, sending ripples of emotion to every cell that has my gene on it. True to my efforts, I catch tail of the deserting transcendental.
The very act of courting, of wooing, of coughing those excellent words, words that are shy of shame is indeed a transcendental. It escapes people's mind that that very act is the reason we are all breathing. Hence, it is very cardinal, placing itself in the middle of being's existence. However, sometimes things can come unexpectedly, like the tsunami, uninvited. The nature of all this is what irks me. It shakes me to the very roots of my being.
THAT image, the very haunting image was my own doing and it will be my undoing. It will be surely the end of me. It is like a hungry lion, pursuing its prey until it digs its canines into its flesh. And that is what wets my eyes. I regret the fact that it is I who wooed, courted and coughed the excellent words that are causing me sleepless nights. It is undoubtedly true that this time, I bit more than I could chew. Choices have consequences. My hands are tied. And my heart is in jail. My conscience is guilty. The sentence has to be served. No matter how much I cry. No matter how I hurt. And I welcome all that. For how can I escape?
How can I forge my way out of this? There seems to be no way. The roads are barricaded.
Though it was my doing, I have a prayer to say. I beseech the image, so that it feels me. The reason why I shake if off is not that I loathe it, rather, I cannot live with it. It is so heavy a burden. It is breaking the back of my mind such that my mind is lame and crooked. I cannot live this way. Surely, I cannot.
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