Scribbling:
Tragedy of Wanderer:
"He was struggling to understand this
agitation inside, or perhaps troubled was the word. it was as if He was afraid
of being afraid. He often thought that he had come out of the period of
uncertainty and chaos, that he was rather calm and in control of himself now
than ever before but the sudden realization was growing every day that it was
as false as his understanding that he could, and just here he felt unsure of
what. What could it be that was keeping him baffled, agitation or was it dread,
or just the fear unintelligible? Whatever it be, it was proving rather crushing
in its stealth approach and he merely awaiting anxiously to raise his head
beyond the overwhelming waves of it where he sank and further, losing remaining
of breathes, suffocating; this a nightmare he could claim possession of. He
remembered the wisdom that the more you struggle, more you sink. So was
he at the bog instead of the sea he always imagined? Does his remaining still
would at some point help him out of the horizon of grey. he found it hard to concentrate
and decide. He could not even make himself believe of any certainty that he
could vouch for. As if he was exposed to himself, he now looks at the pattern
of his behavior every moment he was in the world with people, and that included
loved ones beyond the sea of strangers that for some reason he had continued to
have a sort of curious faith that he could make friends with, chit-chat, laugh,
and discuss grand subjects of era bygone, Oh! how in vain. And though He did
make friends a few passing by, the futility of it was too vivid to deny.
He loved this restlessness once, He remembered
the nights he would spend drinking with loud music and beating down upon
keyboard to bring out smudged words upon a dead screen. He often attempted to
convince himself of the better and yet found himself imitating those moments
secretly as though if found out he would have pity upon himself. He dreaded to
be pitied, he was almost certain of it, was he not? However, could that alone
explain the restlessness, or is it that he could never bring himself out of the
insecurities that had shaped him, defined him and gifted him these moments of
intimacy with words, and had grown around him as if a tree of banyan around a
crumbling ruins of an empty building.
At the end of this, he tried for once to
reconcile himself with the possibility that perhaps it was that book that was
about to reach its end and the feeling would subside, like always, in a while;
and yet somewhere he knew how naive it would be to be convinced of it..."
