Undead


My life is ordinary.

Ordinary. Home to work. Work to home. Nothing much in between. I practice nor preach a thing un-ordinary. I brush shoulders with ones who are as ordinary as I.

I have too many weaknesses. Not many strengths. Most of the times I curse. Myself and the conspiracy behind my existence. But then surviving, not living should do the trick. And learning to live with that thought could make a life out of a life.

There must be a niche in my brain where sorrow erupts and engulfs all else that is. Else, I wouldn't be the one I am. Most profoundly pessimistic and fucked they say. Severely, I feel. Stuck, almost. Unmoving. Like a frog in a deep deep well. Enclosed in a minuscule space compared to what the human mind could occupy, but yet lost. Yet lost.

Sometimes, like once in a fortnight, I indulge. At random, nothing drawn out from before. I be me. And get happy. I mean I really laugh out loud. My decibels gather some attention too. But after that whimsical dream ends, I ask myself why was I ever happy. Be it even for those few minutes. Why was I happy. Amid all that is, how could ever see joy? The worth of it all plummets in like a second. The fleeting house of cards collapses. Life is back to being ordinary. Very ordinary.

Sometimes, I look at myself in the mirror. Into my naked eyes first. And then I count the faint wrinkles arising of age. I see the sluggish slow movement of time along the lines under my eyes. Along the cracks on my lips. I find the smudge of  my kohl and the darkness of my future, very much the same. I count the days I have lived. Or rather, the days I have not lived. And the crazy crazy relapses I have had, into being happy, into trying to being happy.

Among other things I count, I count my sinful escapades. Stolen smooches on drunk nights. Thick chocolate underneath layers of layers of Hershey's chocolate sauce. The friends I won. And the same I lost. My fallen attempts at dance. The books I read, the characters that I have almost almost made into undying ghosts in my head. I count the hearts I have broken. Not many. Just a couple. Exactly a couple. And the times, I have been stabbed. Too bad that heartbreaks don't bleed. I keep a count. Of a lot of things you know.

And religiously ensure, my life is ordinary.

But when a written word escapes the tips of my fingers, hell breaks loose. I feel anything but ordinary. Like floating, like ecstatic, even though I write sorrow. I feel un-ordinary. Gifted. Anything but dead. Undead.

6 comments:

Enchanta said...

So basically when you write, you transform into a vampire?!
That's incredibly awesome. I love the vamp writer and her gifts.

Almost makes me feel undead when I am reading her. Well almost, I am still human and no different.

Anmol Gupta said...

Dude i dont really know you but are these feelings true...because this is so pessimistic view of living life...and i tell you that you are moving on the very right path because ultimately it will lead you to learn that what we think as GOLD is only glittering rubbish..then only you will go to search yourself...and consciously or unconsciously your writing is a sort of finding yourself thing already...so go ahead feel more lonely...be alone at every time you can..and you will move on for sure...best of luck...

Anonymous said...

most of the times you write, I feel I'm reading what my heart beat says...
It's such a co-incidence..

Surya Prakash V said...

There is no one called a stalker; it's another piece of legal gibberish we use to keep the organized society going. The real stalker is inside, watching us from our fears.

Did the red riding hood encounter a wolf? Or a voice outside her window, in the woods?

It's a contradiction, this desire to be stalked by those we stalk; then we resent those we do not desire.

I would rather you send the cuff links; than stare at them neurotic. Of course you now fear and respect the law!

Surya Prakash V said...

There is no freedom wi; just fears for those willing to suffer.

Anonymous said...

"Why was I happy. Amid all that is, how could ever see joy? The worth
of it all plummets in like a second."

did you ever think that maybe you want to be happy? and that maybe
whats worth not a dime is worth a fucking gold mine? that is, to you.
diamonds come out in a coal mine lady. you think its all just black
and then they shine through. rather they don't shine. they are just
rocks. as are you. but then you cut them, polish them and then they
are worth bucks.

"Sometimes, like once in a fortnight, I indulge. At random, nothing
drawn out from before. I be me. And get happy. I mean I really laugh
out loud."

that, the above is you being cut and polished. you know you enjoy it.
you just tend to regret the hard work later!

"I count the days I have lived. Or rather, the days I have not lived. "
i am sure you know your mathematics. in a sober state, when you are
not engulfed by the darkness that binds you, rate your days. happy:
_/10, unhappy: _/10.

your mathematics will tell you, you need a higher rating. happy days
need to increase! simple!


"The friends I won. And the same I lost. My fallen attempts at dance.
The books I read, the characters that I have almost almost made into
undying ghosts in my head. I count the hearts I have broken. Not many.
Just a couple. Exactly a couple. And the times, I have been stabbed.
Too bad that heartbreaks don't bleed. I keep a count. Of a lot of
things you know."

keep a count of what you think about. of whether knowing that those
friends would go, you would befriend and have fun with them again.
trust me, you would. even the heartbreaks. you will want them once
more just for that sweet elixir that while they work they ooze. you
dont regret them. you love them so much that you just cant stop
yourself from thinking about them. and you do want more of them.

"But when a written word escapes the tips of my fingers, hell breaks
loose. I feel anything but ordinary. Like floating, like ecstatic,
even though I write sorrow. I feel un-ordinary. Gifted. Anything but
dead. Undead."

these were my favourite lines. why? you found yourself.
most people dont realize that when they write, in everything they
write they give themselves away. in one way or the other. you know you
shine when you write. thats awesome aint it?

btw that line about the stolen smooches had me grinning :P

i know i have barged in. but barge in i must.