The light bulb flickers, inscrutably so, since it was implanted in its socket. Its impaling glow, rendered an apparitional stupor to all immovable objects in the room, except one. It didn't seem lifeless, but the incessant breathing, rather heaving in whoops of air didn't make it look any ruddy either. As the world knew her, was the perfect teenager around. Bright, performing respectably in academics, a lucrative sportsperson, a livewire in the spendthrift and ebullient community in which she was popularly designated by a nickname. All boys desired her, but were hesitant, even the most gallant ones. She was what many men and women fantasized their kids to be. All her teachers and friends believed, it was almost an obligation for her to make it into the the top tier institutions. Day or night, from the dawn to dusk, she was always occupied. Whether it was her friends, to whom, she could only helplessly justify herself, if she wasn't into a position to answer their calls, or was it for her infinite engaging assignments, mere betrothing to which was a matter of adulation, a dementia was almost unimaginable for her.
It was like two different worlds, and she was on the top of this ever moving, transient and a highly prospective one. Risible, lively, prudent, sagacious. Silence, schmaltz, diffidence and Roxenne were like antonyms. Then what could have brought about such a catastrophic turn to a potential life, a promising prospect, which outshone its peers, shows those inimitable sparks of brilliance, but now only to be decimated by self doubt and myopia.
She basked under the aegis of her conscience, her incisive imaginations which brought about an evolution in her creative persona acclaiming her in spheres of creative scrutiny.
A hiatus. A period of ennui, where she groped seamlessly, one cliff after another towards what she could scrape today. It was a gap, where she was no more a dweller, but felt like an intrusion, an upsetter of conventions. Was she being a blowhard, a crummudgeon? Who did not want to submit to circumstances, and being a slave of destiny? How could the world do this to her? Taking away from her, in which she so firmly believed in, in the gravels of which were her very seeds of existence were sown? People said, she was getting too impersonal with her personality, that was what she was reviled with, that it was all a glitzy translation of her weird and often wicked thought. But of course, there was her, who was still unfettered by this laceration on her very core of intellect, that these people around denoted by arrogance! Shallow? Probably, but who started caring about the people? Was it one of the olden days, when there was a sunshine that greeted her each day, and shone on her distinguished way?
Today in this pall of darkness, she recalculates, but challenged by her own self. To futile, too squeamish and spoony did these reflections seem. Taking this course was tantamount to mocking her life, where she was desperate, where she was the stranger in her own story. "How could they?" She begins to perorate, to herself, but her words hang in the air, looking for a culmination, and the paucity of words hamper her even more. "Is this it?" she babbles in another gasp. Her throat choking, garroted by guilt.
But in all this mental upheaval lies a sense of loss, a remorse. Of losing out to time, to world and to those cardinal wheels of truth, axles clicking each moment towards a definition. "No!" This cant be the definition. This is not me. This is an illusion, "How can I poison myself? But are they wrong? For how long am I losing out on people. Its been a while, sure. And all this while, I was lost in translations, connotations, debauchery... could it?" Her hair flow down in black streams onto her shoulders, a generous flock of them entangled in her palm. Her head is in her hands. Through her constricted peripheral vision, between strands of hair falling onto her face, she sees the light bulb. Her folks wont be back by tomorrow, and behind them this house which inhabited a convivial gathering, also was home to a secret. The fall of Roxenne...
The light bulb. Was it in its hands to provide a sustained glow? What was faulty, itself or its socket? How long could it carry on like that before fusing into an unquiet stillness. Such a state, made her go crazy. On her face was a tight snicker, lips pursed back in fatigue, of memory...
This defiance, was characteristic of her, or at least she thought that it was. She credited this to many of her achievements, albeit in the context of a din, where she was much below par of her previous self. A resplendant future, now perilously lies in the hands of a few opinions and rejections, the same ones which made it look prolific and fecund. How could such self-righteous bastards have their ways in people's lives, and in it, my life? Such revelations, she felt, made her a fugitive in her own life cycle. A scavenger, looking for inspiration. To look in her own self, she cant, for she is deterred, that she could only spiral down into doom since inside its a cohesion of senselessness and bigotry.
Now what? What could she do? A deafening silence now moored her lips, that felt the heaviest when she wanted to speak something. Now that chance feeling subsumed benevolence. Philanthropy? Did she deserve the title? The gnawing sense of refusal preempted that flair of speech that once illuminated her persona, or the lack of it right now.
Ignorance is what led her thus far. Now it'll be the same, but the subjects would change, and ignorance will be the one that will lead her forward. Her future in her own eyes, ensnared in ambiguity, she minces her words, under her breath, "I ignored, therefore I was. I'll ignore, and I hope will be..."
It was like two different worlds, and she was on the top of this ever moving, transient and a highly prospective one. Risible, lively, prudent, sagacious. Silence, schmaltz, diffidence and Roxenne were like antonyms. Then what could have brought about such a catastrophic turn to a potential life, a promising prospect, which outshone its peers, shows those inimitable sparks of brilliance, but now only to be decimated by self doubt and myopia.
She basked under the aegis of her conscience, her incisive imaginations which brought about an evolution in her creative persona acclaiming her in spheres of creative scrutiny.
A hiatus. A period of ennui, where she groped seamlessly, one cliff after another towards what she could scrape today. It was a gap, where she was no more a dweller, but felt like an intrusion, an upsetter of conventions. Was she being a blowhard, a crummudgeon? Who did not want to submit to circumstances, and being a slave of destiny? How could the world do this to her? Taking away from her, in which she so firmly believed in, in the gravels of which were her very seeds of existence were sown? People said, she was getting too impersonal with her personality, that was what she was reviled with, that it was all a glitzy translation of her weird and often wicked thought. But of course, there was her, who was still unfettered by this laceration on her very core of intellect, that these people around denoted by arrogance! Shallow? Probably, but who started caring about the people? Was it one of the olden days, when there was a sunshine that greeted her each day, and shone on her distinguished way?
Today in this pall of darkness, she recalculates, but challenged by her own self. To futile, too squeamish and spoony did these reflections seem. Taking this course was tantamount to mocking her life, where she was desperate, where she was the stranger in her own story. "How could they?" She begins to perorate, to herself, but her words hang in the air, looking for a culmination, and the paucity of words hamper her even more. "Is this it?" she babbles in another gasp. Her throat choking, garroted by guilt.
But in all this mental upheaval lies a sense of loss, a remorse. Of losing out to time, to world and to those cardinal wheels of truth, axles clicking each moment towards a definition. "No!" This cant be the definition. This is not me. This is an illusion, "How can I poison myself? But are they wrong? For how long am I losing out on people. Its been a while, sure. And all this while, I was lost in translations, connotations, debauchery... could it?" Her hair flow down in black streams onto her shoulders, a generous flock of them entangled in her palm. Her head is in her hands. Through her constricted peripheral vision, between strands of hair falling onto her face, she sees the light bulb. Her folks wont be back by tomorrow, and behind them this house which inhabited a convivial gathering, also was home to a secret. The fall of Roxenne...
The light bulb. Was it in its hands to provide a sustained glow? What was faulty, itself or its socket? How long could it carry on like that before fusing into an unquiet stillness. Such a state, made her go crazy. On her face was a tight snicker, lips pursed back in fatigue, of memory...
This defiance, was characteristic of her, or at least she thought that it was. She credited this to many of her achievements, albeit in the context of a din, where she was much below par of her previous self. A resplendant future, now perilously lies in the hands of a few opinions and rejections, the same ones which made it look prolific and fecund. How could such self-righteous bastards have their ways in people's lives, and in it, my life? Such revelations, she felt, made her a fugitive in her own life cycle. A scavenger, looking for inspiration. To look in her own self, she cant, for she is deterred, that she could only spiral down into doom since inside its a cohesion of senselessness and bigotry.
Now what? What could she do? A deafening silence now moored her lips, that felt the heaviest when she wanted to speak something. Now that chance feeling subsumed benevolence. Philanthropy? Did she deserve the title? The gnawing sense of refusal preempted that flair of speech that once illuminated her persona, or the lack of it right now.
Ignorance is what led her thus far. Now it'll be the same, but the subjects would change, and ignorance will be the one that will lead her forward. Her future in her own eyes, ensnared in ambiguity, she minces her words, under her breath, "I ignored, therefore I was. I'll ignore, and I hope will be..."
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