Philosophical Rages: Rant#1
The day passes normally. Quaint little happenings, here and there. Books with their old wood-like smell lay at one corner of your desk, unopened and unacquainted with. The Playlist, Un-realizing in its demeanor continues to play on a loop. Your phone is at your service, with newly purchased 3G data that threatens to move over to 2G, unless requited with the ‘space’ coverage it deserves. You continue to blab over poetic innuendos to yourself, and the wave of insecurity crosses the threshold of realizations for once. Sitting quietly on the chair, even after gulping down 23 minutes of nonchalant delight by watching friends, you stare at the blank emptiness that surrounds. No new WhatsApp chats and an empty inbox threaten to disrobe the piousness of, what you like to call, social extant. Your eyelashes flicker in a desperate attempt to subdue your mind into drowsing you to sleep, yet previous productivity-lapses threaten to blackmail it into insomniac-like-tendencies.
Hopelessly, you start scrolling through your Facebook news feed, unaware about what you want to derive out of it. Seeing happy pictures, browsing through myriads of what life can be, reading emotionally compelling quotes that try flicker faint glimmers of hope, all you manage to do, is think about how life isn’t as interesting as it used to be. It isn’t interesting at all. Taking into cognizances, the meaningful instances that have happened in your life, you sit down and try to write yourself a to-do list. As your inter-neuron relay stimulates the message through your medulla oblongata to the creaky, dust-ridden bones that propel out liveliness at its mere mention, the synaptic cleft somehow doesn’t relay it to your hand. In short, cut down the generic Bio-bullshit, You don’t even feel like raising your hand to write.
So, in these weird moments of uncertainty, when uncanny silences thrive to dispel off all waves of hopes, you keep still and think about why you aren’t able to steer clear. Imagination quells into submission and you are not even sure about the next faint step you’re going to take voluntarily. There is a limbo suspension-like feeling. Wherein you’re unaware about what propels your current existence. Wherein you have people who love you as much as you love them, yet are unable to give them a call. These matters seem so minuscule as to even tell another living entity about it. Because what’s to tell is that you can’t think about anything. Your mind’s gone silent and there is numbness in the abyss of creativity. Living another second with such feeling threatens to disrobe you of your modesty, that in such times, has no relation to aspects of apparel. Guileless of what people think, your mind conjures up an image of yours and starts depreciating it in terms of all optimism and pessimism, the fist-sized living Pandora’s box can hold.
See, how in such brevity and paucity of time, your mind forced you into submission and conjured up the aforementioned situation from the perspective of what the above statements hold and mean to you. How it made you to relate to it. Thus, there’s not much you can do, when you don’t know what to do.