Slowly driven in

Disclaimer: The following account is not for the weak hearted. It is a disturbing rendition about an invisible reality, the writer alone dwells in. This is not a cry for help or an arm stretched out to seek another. It is merely a fountain of thoughts, eternally blooming above its spouts; the fountain of fluid self-destruction, the writer is drenched in. Read on, only if you must.

I feel like a vessel turned over its side, slowly becoming empty; emptying itself out, letting go of all that it held within itself, even while it was still worth ruminating on. Every time I touch my own hand, my own shoulder, my chest, my belly button or place my palms around my head, I can hear, a reverberation; of thoughts tumbling about in infinite darkness. My insides make hollow sounds if someone tries to hold me.

I don’t feel very much these days. Just an unavoidable numbness that surrounds me, envelops me, swallows me. At most I can either feel a certainly small amount of pain or anger; absolute pure rage at nothing. At night I can’t sleep. I see objects moving about in the dark, sometimes the shadow of a person.

Sometimes the shadow looks a lot like mine, only more blurred at the edges. I drink to sleep or smoke enough to have large masses of nicotine floating about in my bloodstream. I sit and watch television; something I haven’t done in years and watch reruns of cartoons which were made when my father was ten. They don’t make me laugh; no, not even a smirk.

I don’t laugh much these days either; usually fake it. Crying does not happen nor does any kind of sadness lead me to sulking with my thumb in my mouth. I don’t feel pity for a hurting creature nor do I rejoice when it rains.

For the past few days, I haven’t been able to visualize her face or her smile. I can’t remember the mystically geometric poetry of her flesh and bones, I can’t remember her voice. I don’t remember her.

I don’t remember me. An unchallenged loss of memory plagues me. I have begun to forget what I did on “previous” nights.

The healed sutures on my left shoulder still feel like they are fresh cuts; begin to twitch uncontrollably as if something underneath them was about to tear its way out of me, explosively. I rub my scars with my fingertips and feel the sharp scraping of this “other side” of me, aching to make its way out, into the open. I can’t quite read his name. He chooses to etch it out, underneath my iris, with each letter upside down.

I hold fragments in my arms and walk around. Fragments, of me, the things about me I don’t remember. Sometimes I bump into someone who I think will help me put back together, my fragments. But the “bumping into someone” is something that always makes me lose and drop about a few of those. When I bend down to pick them up, I lose the rest of the fragments too. And then, I don’t know which ones are mine and which ones belong to the person I bumped into.

So I walk on. One of the things I do realize and understand about my condition right now is that it feels like a large nail being driven into me. Slowly, so it can churn away the pain and scar enough of my soul-tissue to let me feel any more of it.

I remember telling myself a few days ago, “It feels like Death, being slowly driven into me”.

I am dying slowly, like how a snail with a broken shell slithers its way seemingly unmoving, to its cold, wet, gravelly refuge.

I am not friends with the mirror anymore. She tells me stories about me, making things up as she goes along; they are the stories I don’t like very much. I have begun to lie to myself and have discovered I can lie to myself very well. Hence, I lie to others. I don’t really know if I am afraid of them stumbling upon the truth.

I don’t know what truth is anymore. I don’t know who I am anymore. But I don’t care. It does not bother me. How can it?

I feel nothing.

Siddharth Pathak
17th of April, 2012


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