A Midnight Monologue

Dear world, have you slept? I have not*.

How do you manage to sleep so easily, worried only by work, a few bills and perhaps some pills?

How is it that you do not hear the hooves of death, gallopping towards you in the form of countless honks, short slips and what not? Do you not feel His touch when you slip through his fingers so easily? Perhaps, like the touch of your spouse, it has only become too familiar to even matter? Do you not read of His warning whispers that escape his black lips and spill over the news and coffee table discussions, where that man or woman, just like yourself was killed? Intelligent that you are, didn't you realise that He was talking to you?? To you in particular, indicating to you to do whatever you seek to, with this nameless life you've been given?

They write books about finding true meaning, but has anyone even stopped to find it? Has anyone truly figured it all out? No, I am not talking about "having it all figured out" - that pathetic usage they have, to imply having a "concrete" plan to keep yourself busy for the next few weeks - a plan that's likely to work out if He chooses to not intervene. No, this makes no sense - a career/ A spouse? Children? And then what? What new construct will you come up with, to fill your ever-expanding, shapeless mind until it outgrows it, feasting upon the endless fodder of boredom that it secretes for itself, that pushes it to seek the next "big step" or, well, rents itself out to that despicable one to set his workshop up - aah, even trees might stop growing, this pathetic mind shall never..

Perhaps there's a way to see this - to see beyond what the senses can perceive, to realise something with that formless instinct, that conscience that feels so real despite it not being plotted by any book of pure science, whose scent is occasionally caught by a book or two on philosophy, in stories of passion and greatness, and in narrations of great ones. Perhaps there is a way to find out if there is indeed a God - a being to look up to, who shall bestow a relaxed means to walk into one's end. Perhaps one or more of these religious texts might actually indicate a way to know this for sure, than to merely believe, but hey, isn't a lifetime too short?

Of what use is science, and poetry that fill pages, gratifying an ego that isn't the true source of its content, that merely takes credit for another, humble soul's work, as an author's name ad photograph do, upon a book's cover, that can print his words so well, but not the soul that trapped them from the Nameless Source. What surety can science and poetry give, that is more obvious than that death shall come? Ah, these might articulate the ignorance that our souls harbour, that threaten our very being to shiver at the dark edge of life - but life, so cruel, so cold, forgets the need to be rational when one is hungry, when one is desperate, when one is cold and scared and pulls one back into this heap of chaos and fries their souls there in an instant, soaking them 'til the last stain of death's thought dwells in their loud minds. And if that doesn't happen, it weightens the lids of the eyes as no book on science has ever fathomed and ushers sleep like no drug could ever, establishing its profound mastery over every thread that puts the mind out of, and man into action, bringing him into that invisible line that all are meant to toe.

And yet, you argue that there isn't fate, don't you, my dear world? That your life is a garden laid open before you to pluck flowers matching that scent of passion you've known since birth. Tell me, when did you choose this path? Was it not sewed into that black part of your heart that you haven't visited yet, long before you were born into the mercilessness of this world? Tell me, do you choose the desire or the drive to pursue it? Do you choose what you like, what you don't? You blame what you don't control, on lifeless chemicals and hormones that are secreted by this critter you dwell in, urging your mental throat to swallow all that is labelled "science", spitting out that which doesn't satisfy your highly flawed, conditional rationality. I wish to laugh at you, but how different am I?

I know to not trust, and yet I wish so hard to - to fall in love over and over again with all the colours of this ailing world, to be hit upon by waves that can deform my jaw forever - aah, what can I do, but let my eyes well in tears?

And at long last, I see what is truly mine - the choice to let something overwhelm me - I get to pick and choose the waves that shall gobble me up, and I stand for them as they come, unflinching, unblinking, looking straight into bubbles that seem so much like eyes, but alas, they know not, that they are feasting upon me such, for they are lifeless indeed.

And yet, I cry, my face wet with the tears of today - not for them, not for another to see - perhaps not even for myself, but because I know I can, and it is truly gratifying to. As I wring my dripping wet heart thus, it lightens, letting its salty water flow down my eyes till I can see nothing - and I see that I can still see, not with my eyes, but with the heart that's lighter. So I let them flow as I lie upon my pillow, now wet with all that my eyes could offer and in it, I sink a little deeper, hoping to dive even deeper into this soul of mine, but alas! I see now that I've been tricked again, as my eyelids feel heavier. It's hard to know that I shan't remember this musing nor this treachery when the sun rises in the morn', when a fresh day shall begin with the feeling of a fresh birth, oblivious, clueless of the experiences of the past, albeit with vague memories that shall come by to remind me of the most trivial things - a table at a restaurant or a bench on my way to work. I seek to pick a pen to write down the map to this state, but am I not lost in this maze of thoughts? If I had sat, dropping pebbles or breadcrumbs on the solitary path I took, would I have even managed to reach here?

Seeing no other alternative, nor the drive to hold my pen, I let go, curling a little, bringing my limbs a little closer within my sheets and dipping my heavy head onto the salty wetness of my pillow, hoping if I curl up so, I may remain within this sacred haven of my soul a little longer for whatever it's worth before I'm pushed into the pointless world of dreams where the mind alone matters - or worse, into the world of waking where even that doesn't.