Skip to main content

Disorientation

He looked through the hole in the wall. He didn't really expect to see anything. That's why he was surprised to see a darkness streaming through. Hmmmm that can't be right, he thought. Darkness doesn't stream through. But there was no other way to describe it. Previously, all his encounters with darkness had been of a more passive nature: darkness was merely the absence of light. Hitherto. This time it was different.

It was like vapour. No, that can't be right either, he thought. He was confused. Which was good because the next moment he was touched by it. The most over-populated state was the state of confusion, he had just this small fragment of a hazy thought before he changed.

The boy awoke. He was lying in bed. He wasn't even sure if he had been dreaming. Am I dreaming still? Or am I awake now, he wondered sliently. He pinched himself to check. Why do people do that? Will pinching yourself wake you up?

The boy went to school. Found everything changed. How, he didn't know. And that made it worse. Change is easier to accept when it is tangible, not when it is subtle. Most would disagree. A subtle change has the advantage of easier acclimatization or being unnoticed. Yet, a subtle change is frustrating if it cannot be detected. He knew everything was different. 

Maybe I'm different, he thought.Maybe something changed. Maybe this is all a dream and I'll wake up soon, he thought. His thoughts went around in helical spirals of translucent greyish-blue smoke. Inside the spirlaling staircase of his mind, bannistered by the walls of rationality; the steel ball of realization thudded down. One step at a time. The dissonance of resistance tore away at the single thread of equilibrium left to his tortured mind.

He snapped.

Darkness began to spew out. Out of everything. His mouth. His eyes. His ears. His nose. The walls dissolved in the ink-like and yet not-ink-like mess.

He awoke shivering this time. Covered in beaded sweat. But now, he knew what he had to do. He walked over to the window. Saw the darkness waiting. Calmly and deliberately, he drank a glass of water. He dressed. Packed his bag with essentials: some money, some food, notebooks. His pen. He went to the door and unlocked it softly. Not wanting to wake the others. Slowly and carefully he closed it again. From the outside. 

Then he walked away. Throwing his bag into the ditch to confuse them who would come looking for him. Throwing his shoes into a nearby lot. He starts to run. He's exhilarated. He knows where he is going. Into the heart of the darkness. 

He wakes up. Shaking but calm. Walks to the mirror. There is no darkness, just his face: pale but peaceful. He knows. He has always known but now he knows it better than ever. He smiles.

They have come.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Companion

A gray-walled room with a window. That's how he remembers it. It looks the same now: a large window in a small room. It makes the room look even smaller. The window-sill is thick with dust. Beams of sunlight stream in singly, their path illuminated by many-sided dust particles spinning. Or seeming to spin. Is the room this dusty everywhere? He wonders to himself, trying not to breathe it in. The sunbeams merely illuminate what's already there.

Slowly, as his eyes adjust, more details of the room start revealing themselves. The room is bare. Devoid of anything except walls and tiny patches of plaster embedded in the cobwebs at corners. The effect is almost artistic. He wonders if rooms could feel. If they could, what would this room be feeling. Do they remember the people who lived in them? It's almost impossible to believe that people would have lived here once. The walls would have been new and shining with paint and resonant with echoes of laughter or tears or screams. …

The Stranger

She is sitting for her usual cup of coffee in the evening, at the usual place; B____'s; and at the usual time 6pm sharp. However there is something different about her usual place: the desolate corner she is used to occupying is filled with a strangers presence on the adjacent booth. He is a an...unusual man. She watches his face hungrily, surreptitiously, furtively, but she struggles to remember details of what he LOOKS like. She sees the sharply angular, high cheek-boned face and the angular jaw. She thinks he is all angles and edges. Then she sees his eyes. She remembered very little about them afterwards. Almost nothing except that they hold her gaze for an infinitesimal shard of eternity. It is an instant that spells oblivion. He gets up, wipes his mouth with his napkin and walks off. He is unaware of what he has caused.
She finishes her coffee and for the first time, in the strict routine she has followed for the past 5 years, she sits idly in the coffee booth with her empty …

Yet Another Party

Party to conversation, party to experience. See what I did there? Of course you didn't. Or maybe you did. It doesn't matter either way does it? Because, the pleasure lies in the experience and not the description. That always struck me as rather odd. Because the description, or rather the action: narration or reading, are both experiences.

Enter valuation. Valuation. Value. Values. Odd aren't they? These words that are mere abstractions of one of the oldest experiences: prioritization. Oldest? Hmmm.... Rather odd isn't it? Let me explain:

The First Birth
The act of physically coming into existence. Droll isn't it?

The Second Birth: Awakening
You now realize that you are alive. Being alive NOW automatically means (not so automatically, if you get what I mean; *cough* Egyptians *cough*) that you'll be dead at some point in time. Note that I don't use point of time. Such a coarse expression isn't it? Point of time. As if Time could own or claim ownership of…