A Dark Introspection

I never wanted to put such things into words, but some unusual compulsive force is driving me into this.

It’s well past midnight, two-thirty to be exact; I have nothing better to do. All I can see is a speck of dust on the keyboard as it meets my eye with queer alacrity. Every time my brain cells repose and drift into a mild slumber, I am awakened by an enigmatic note. It doesn’t stop ringing in my ears, however much I try.

It’s probably something in my subconscious that’s keeping me blighted. I found my guitar while cleaning my room today afternoon. I looked at it for a moment with empty eyes. I had an intense desire to play the same note that’s keeping me awake now; by all means, I know how to play it. Sadly, the guitar went back to its place without a string being plucked. I’ve kept lots of things in hiding from cutting allusions that hover in the world around. There are a few things that’ll go with me; without anyone getting a whiff of their existence.

There was a party for some casual occasion few days back somewhere. I didn’t attend it. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to go alone. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t even there for a music concert last month. I missed that too. My mistake – how can I expect her to know all this when I haven’t told her a thing? I’ll never have the courage. I don’t know why this has come up suddenly in the midst of a discussion on a lifeless musical instrument with out-of-tune strings. Probably there is some vague connection between the two. Or my neurons have just jumbled up.

Things look quite different from my window now. Today morning, there were at least five parrots perched on the grille. They flaunted their bright colours with a tinge of ostentation. Now, things are very dark. The mangroves are harbouring a look that makes them resemble a sinister, murky and a gloomy moor. The only sign of life that can be imagined on it is the slithering of snakes when a cool breeze disturbs their morose torpor. An alcoholic is lying helplessly on the road waiting to be run over by a slapdash vehicle.

Last-to-last week I heard some unbelievable stuff that has been discussed about me. I swear none of it is true. I want to explain everything to the people concerned; but I’m sure none of them want to hear me out. Nobody ever has made an attempt to do so anyway. Meanwhile, I don’t want those people to know anything more, anything less. It’s been more than a year and the discussion has died down. I don’t want it to become buoyant again. The same day, another person comes up to me and tells me that she has done a job that’s much better than what I had managed to do. I felt like slapping the judgemental bitch; but then, how does it matter?

I don’t look forward to a good night’s sleep. That’s because I know I won’t get it. This is the only time when I have to myself; I can be with whatever I’ve hidden from the analytical eyes of friends and foes, without the fear of acidulous mockery. This is not lack of self-esteem or confidence. I know that I am not an under performer. So this is probably an exaggerated kind of introversion. That’s what a friend told me once. I think he is right. This is the only time I get to give undivided attention to otherwise unheeded objects born out of pure id. As I said earlier, the world won’t come to know about them. They’ll go with me.

I promise that never again will such a thing flow into words. In fact, at this very moment, I don’t know why I have written the stuff that you’ve just read. Take it at its face-value. If you ask me now, I won’t be able to recollect in what context a particular thing has been written. This is like a trance; a momentary séance and an ephemeral poignancy. It’ll fade away soon – only to return some other day. Or another night.

(A request: Introspection is probably a good habit. Introspect before you comment, reader. For some reason, comments on this blog will be moderated for a while.)