Yet another prose of melancholy

It was a gloomy winter evening…

I mean, winter evenings are supposed to be gloomy, but this particular one was ‘gloomier’ to say the least. I sat in my room, watching my life slip through my finger like sand, the more I try to grab and get ahold of it, the more it slips away.

I am a control freak, of top-notch quality. The concept of fate was always foreign to me; even though my close ones insisted, fate is the only reason I’ve survived this far.

I don’t believe it…

Fate is a concept people hide behind to cover up their own failures and blame some imaginary entity for the state they are in.

I never surrendered… I never gave the steering wheel of my life to someone, even though sometimes it felt like I was driving into a ditch.

Joni Mitchell said, “It’s life’s illusion I recall, I really don’t know life at all.” -and while some people might relate to this, I feel something else; to me, life is a journey, where the road leads to a bottomless pit. there’s no going back, it’s a long way down, and once and when you reach the bottom, you realize it was always about the journey, and never about the destination.

I felt betrayed. I felt like whenever I feel someone’s really close to me, they end up doing something that I never thought they’d do…

Maybe I’m overthinking… No, I’m definitely overthinking… After all, I’ve been through, this should feel normal; But then again, once you have a wound, it hurts much more if it’s poked with. And I know for certain, this world is full of people who will always poke you if they see you bleeding.

Control is a very elusive word; forget fate, forget God, just remember Conan Doyle, because he said

“If you rule out what’s impossible, whatever remains is improbable, but the truth.” And in statistical mechanics, the word “highly improbable”, actually rules out the chance of having control over anything.

So, where does that leave me? No fate and no control look like the proverbial impossible force meeting the immovable object.

And when you realize that, everything in the world becomes pointless… even more pointless than this rant. Which is nothing but the deranged thinking of a tired, overworked man, with little or no motivation.

Yet, the bottomless pit calls, and I’m yet to reach my story’s end. All stories are not fairytales…




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.