There are days, oftener and regular now, when I wake up to a sense of an impending doom, a pervading premonition and everything, everything that I may possibly imagine, seems to be mercilessly ganging up against me, revelling in the sadistic pleasure of putting me down. Rather I don’t wake up, for I haven’t been sleeping at all. Snatches of wakefulness and sleep wax and wane through never-ending long nights. And as the sky turns from purple black to grey, as dawn chorus resonates through the air, and a cold morning breeze echoes off walls, I slip from a daze in my bed to embark upon another hazy day, uncertain of a clarity, but certain of a new predicament, which lies low underneath my bed, ready to ambush, and binds shackles of listlessness around my ankles.
Just when I think I’ve hit rock bottom, tremors in the earth underneath my feet jitters me and I slip further down, always a new depth. Melancholy is an endless pit, and darkness, its ally, continues to push the ever elusive little light of hope, up there, beyond my grasp?.
I have been dwelling in the trench of nothingness for months now.
Nothing seems to be going right and I keep drowning into and emerging numb from one puddle of moroseness to another, the depth deeper with every step. I try to evade them, with no avail, and the narrow strip of land, just enough for a foot crumbles away; the sordid waters of sorrow erodes the land making it impossible to stand still. Must I surrender to the tyranny? Must I nestle cosy in the bottomless pit?
If only I were to hit rock bottom, I’d be certain of crawling back up but Providence has snipped the threads of hope, one at a time and I keep excavating deeper. May be rock bottom isn’t solid ground, may be it is a quagmire. And if I were to give up and let the soft earth absorb me, wouldn’t that shield me from the blows that life continues to hit me with? Moroseness is, in my life, default, and any flicker of happiness that promises to dispel the gloom, flares up into a forest fire of destruction leaving behind a charred ground. No rains wash away the grime and ash, no plants sprout forth, no life begins anew. If only I could find a reason to hold on to, a reason, a strength to tie the broken knots of hope and crawl upwards, one step at a time, one day at a time.
But nothing helps. One sorrow leads to another and the short-lived happiness between a perpetual state of distress diminishes before I can grip the momentary celebration. Am I a punching bag for sorrow, never resisting, never resting, never settling, only swaying precariously from side to side, the blows denting me, changing me, drawing out life from me?
‘Should I give up or should I just keep chasing pavements, even if it leads nowhere’. But the pavements are broken and precarious, making the tread difficult. Carry on, you are brave, others prep me. But can one walk on broken and battered, brazen and bandaged, blithely believing in betterment? Make it better, make it easier, I silently pray but the prayers fall upon deaf heavens.
Shunned, shamed, shambling I, aimlessly, try to gather myself day after day, night after night, waiting upon the day when the quicksand shall cloak me in its suffocating safety, eventually comforting me.
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