The Pigment Of Elusion

It seems through your inept sights, that everyone has a perfect life. Something which you do not. Everything which you would like to have. I was in a dire judgment of such a perspective. No chronicles of my equally vapid life, sometime before, a time which just left its clutches, which just allowed me to be in equanimity, atleast for the time being. A relapse.

Feels like retribution. Feels like denial. Feels like deafening silence.

When I lay supine to troubles, things that I strive to avoid, which detest me and the fates keeps testing patience, the fates acts like a flippant child, affecting me beyond mindless charades. The road, the path, the way. It feels home when I am traveling, ironically when I am away from home, from any settlement. That's when I feel relaxed, find my misplaced choler. Strange paradoxes. A fine semblance of a highly esoteric setting.
I don't feel anything I feel sometimes. What my clay-like, malleable emotions show, when their legitimacy can be questioned. It doesn't rasp hard on me to explore my infirmity to the most primal traits, which are no traits at all.
I bend my self so much sometimes, that when the impediment passes away, I look back at myself like some stranger in a public place. People are so busy with their lives, they have so much to do. Cherubic, ebullient personalities. Magnificent dwellers of this cradle of life.
What do I suffice for then? What role do distraughts like me play, if you excuse me to call myself a distraught. I am lost, in the most definitive way. I need sermons, advises, better spread than used.
Like assholes, everyone has one advice...to give. But I feel assholes are better, in every sense of perception. Kinky.
But I am ravaged to find people, particularly parents sermonizing over my head. They are so many of them, and they ensnare in so many ways. Opportunists. All they do at the end of the day is hark or their egos. Inflate them, larger than their worths.
I'd like to return. To someplace. To the roads, connections, and stay itinerant.
There are such wonderful people that think about me. Remember me. Its my serenade for carrying on. Its also my motivation that invigorates me. Its for people like them, for times like those, which we spent and I learnt to spend again. If nothing material, thats what I have earnt hitherto. Society? Do I so often contradict myself?

Thats why I love the lanes. They do not intersect, do not concur. No contradictions. Such unequivocality of character. Indomitable in a way. The perfection of attribute the wisdom of ages has preached.
Anyhow...
Take a break sometime. Ostracize yourself from your mortal indulgences and absorb silence. Stay away from the race for sometime. Atleast in which sense does 'the race' translate to you.
And when you regain, you find just what link you are, just about which brick are you in the wall.
Not self-centricity. Its esoteric in situation I would rather say.

I cry sometimes. I don't make noises, I don't get tears in my eyes. I know that I am crying. I am bereaving. The nerve-wreak. Not really. The invocation is very discreet. A piece of guitars in a song, a marigold-flower garlands at those innumerable hawkers at signals. The perceptions are unique, to its predecessors.

That's me looking back at the stranger who writes all this perhaps.
Whatever I theorize however, if I ever muster the concentration, is defenestrated then and there, piqued by another invocation. And that's the way the cookie keeps crumbling.
I'll return to someplace however, my academic enterprise. To commence, this time more weary than before, more single minded.

Atleast I'll try.

Bon Voyage to you too...