Where does the right memory emerge from? I’ve been meaning to instil silence over the most shrill voices in my head. Why would I want to remember where I left the stage? Maybe I’ve an answer – I never left the light that tries to bake me, that tries to soak me in vinegar and turn the heat heat on. Would it be enough to make me go through that same insanity that reached inside of me and grabbed the breeding demons and brought it on paper? I doubt. I doubt every whim and whip I patiently covered to make me the intermediary in the proceedings between the mind and the world. The present became enshrined to sew the past and future together. I’ve been meaning to let go of the days when I turned a machine in hand of the voices in my head.
Some sane, mostly insane but at the time, seeming inane – the troubled part of my head. Ah! They were the incendiary to light up shame and ego to turn the room number 425 into the waking of the objects – an experiment of putting space into shadows and trying to seek the light out of the holes, from the niches disowned. The walls dripped of meanings and the boredom became the ceiling from which every crawling insect could be seen. It was three sided yellow and one purple walled – the room which withdrew me from the world like a hole through which spoke the snare.
Some nights are terrified of eloping too much with the escape artist. If given the room to spread the word, these nights are the ones that will crawl from beneath your feet. They wake the most sleepy from their hollow and turn into the beasts that run undivided through the blues. Nakedness of the person keeps itself safe from extracting too much truth from the vacant vagaries that occupy the mind of a wanderer.
I Kept myself from going into the dark by being blind. Well, it worked… Kind of, it did. I jumped the gun and stranded in the middle through the night, I saw more than two times the giant eye lambasted of its throne. The dead sleep too comfortably. It’s the live ones that land up in trouble. The dead can be forgiven – they’ve lost their soul. The alive are the ones who have to pay with their soul.
© Prateek Joshi and WordPress, 2017