All That Remains...

All this time, when I was there, in an obscure territory, contrary to the zeitgeist, the nostalgia, the homesickness and the forlornness never found a reliable mention in my mind. Perhaps, because I was having both the opposite worlds in such inadequate quantities that I was stranded in terms of my experiences. I couldn't actually draw a parallel between the two. My brevity of stay at any single location took away what should have been a well documented paradox by now. A regular itinerant life, flocking home for holidays, returning in a fortnight, awashed me of any hue, sallow, crimson, ashen; it was a drudgery without a meaning, or even without a realization of its existence. This time however, when I went through the gauntlet, by the end I was swooning within by the same schmaltz like all the other homesick.

Technically escapable, creatively exemplifying, self-glorifying, socially ulcerated, an overall macabre din, that took away more than it could have given to me. But at least I came out with something, something perhaps that might change the way things shine for me, or my presumption, that will make them shine for me.

A malaise crept in, towards the end, which spilled, arbitrarily in the last seconds. I still stand as a loser, as I always have been, but the loss was accounted to my wrongdoings. At least I did something, however wrong, is another concern. Previously, this loser was anointed with the status for passive remarks at the active life that he meekly let past him. My ladle has always been dirty, I knew it. A perfunctory ignorance was a cheap but relevant escape. The escape restored my sanity. It salvaged what I could not, had I given into contemplation. A reckless mental activity, digging over graves and graves, piling over skeletons, heaps of bones, a febrile excavation, and I go until I am tired but still there is no end of the abyss. I had to divide on more plausible and inexorable commitments which had come my way due to my efforts or simply because fate couldn't find a befitting individual at the moment.


I had begun to recuperate. I began to experience a utopia. It seemed, I did not need anybody. I was possessed. Taken away by fascination of the fascination itself probably. There was this secluded yet affluent stigma of knowledge and the will of its pursuit that my nibblings went in never before treaded ways. My speech was broken, my ideas ahead of my thoughts, my speech only voiced Me, Myself and My mind. The 'm' word came across so often, I did not realize. I was adrift from mundanity. Mundanity, an irrevocable qualification that makes one eligible for playing this trite game of the life that awaits my obfuscation.

Solace. Exposure. Solace in exposure and Exposure of Solace. These two paradigms let me forget the harrowing sense of vapidness, a swaying balance that was intermittently telling a sorry tale of dying and letting other die with me. This din began with the first day itself, and I recovered. The aliter was no less insidious, but at least it allowed my activity, my metal movements in directions.
Its over, I don't know whether to be glad or feel demented. I brought back something that started as a fever, and continues as a flu. All I hope is to replace the metaphors.