November 05, 2005

Monologue

Well, no. You are not the only who wonders why this monologue of a weblog exists in the first place. Even if you do take into account the comments, which pass off as a semblance of interaction, there is not much by means of a conversation that happens here. It is mostly just me and my thoughts, wandering, meandering, falling over itself and then picking itself up again, without any set rule, pattern or much external compulsion. But the unsavory truth, as truths often are, is that I have long run out of people to talk to.

Actually, it is pretty interesting. I have always thrived on conversations of all types – crazy, serious, mundane, emotional – and it was inconceivable that this could happen to me. It was not this way all the time. I grew up pretty much listening to my own voices. It was a one man show. I was the actor and I was the audience. When I finally got around to talking and listening the way I wanted to – to others – it opened up a whole new world for me. But the doors have been closing gradually once again. They are not bolted shut, but they are not open either.

No, I am not digressing. I had started this entry writing about the long winding monologue and why it is there. I do not know for sure the exact reason, but one of the things that it grants me is to speak, be it mired in abstractions, my mind, without fear, without having to think much about anything at all. Funnily, this is the only place where, in the recent past, I have more or less opened up all that I have wanted to and more and still not felt bad, about how it made anyone else feel or if it made any sense at all. To think about the absurdity of the situation, I have meaningful one-sided conversations with absolute strangers.

But it is one of those very absurd times. It is three in the morning. I am sitting blanketed in front of the screen in a room bathed in a dim orange light. I am not drunk. I have not touched alcohol the whole of today for that matter. I am not terribly depressed as I have been in the past couple of days. For most purposes, I am doing pretty well. Still, why am I up here, in front of a flickering old monitor, when I should be elsewhere, awaiting the arrival of yet another boring day in my sleep? Wait, I think I know why.

It is because, a couple of minutes back, a thought, which has been swirling around in my mind for a while, reared its mysterious head again. The thought that I abhor saying the same words that I have said before which frame sentences like: “You are special”, “I adore you”, “You do not know how I feel” and a million other combinations. Somehow, I don’t want to be understood, figured out and so on. And surprisingly, I am quite okay with it. To just clarify things a bit, I hold no grudge against anyone; but why so?

Why? Because it is a lot like making love to someone long past when the novelty of the act has left you behind, like the memory of a season that once came out of turn. It is like the gentle, yet violent, glow of the tip of yet another cigarette being lit. There is nothing pure, there is nothing new. The onus is on the parties involved – the smoker and the cigarette, the two naked bodies and their lust – to discover the newness every time, where there is no actual newness to discover. It is this newness that has walked away from me.

To further complicate things we have the presence of the wanting to feel – the wanting to feel wanted, the wanting to feel loved, and the wanting to feel the warmth of that want – in our lives. We want to assign values and meanings that may not essentially be there. It is this want that has tripped me. For the first time, every single grain of earth underneath my feet has deserted me. I have lost my conscience, my voice and my will to fight. I sincerely wish I could give up, I wish that I could love and allowed myself to be loved. But it is not to be and for now, since it is late anyway, I must sleep, awaiting that boring day again.