Good evening


It's a nice evening. Warm – perhaps too warm – with the Sun dangling in epiphany, as if it wants to send the Icarus in me away. I think that's the reason any way, in the heat of Terai, waiting for moments of a soft breeze to let me feel relieved at the warmth of the dusk, isn't that a connotation of my absurd reality? How deeply I have to feel, to even understand the pretense of countless existences which I'll never be a part of. The freshly black tar roads, with spontaneous white flowers dropped off momentarily and with crisp leaves memorializing the trails of eccentricity of the fine evening, I feel scared to move along it. My shoes will stain them. But I move anyway. I suppose some things are meant to be worn off, shed and given up to reality. Maybe that's why evenings taste of a hue of bereaved satisfaction and a happy disappointment alike: it has given up on the light of the day. 

Beautiful streets with little girls playing in purple skirts and pink balloons, the old cycles chirping their way on the streets, the golden-like rust shining on verandas, corn hung in staircases and the banana leaves waving at me, how astonishingly the surrounding welcomes the half of me, and as I sit unwillingly in the muddy rice fields, a detachment of life and time surges in me. I can't appreciate beauty; I have poor eyesight. I am disgusted by beautiful things, perhaps the same way I can't appreciate hope and emotions. They ask me to have a soul, and here I am trying to be a human. Surrounded by monotony, I have an autonomous feeling. That way, liberation never feels a goal, rather, it's a trance. It's driven with immanence. And all of a sudden today, the world wants to tell me that liberation is a feeling. 

As I impatiently search for words, a purple haze surrounds the whiteness of the clouds. I wonder the sun feels liberated now, tearing up its light to scatter around the horizon to make the sky picturesque. Oh, but how sorry it is, to burn every single moment. Perhaps I want to feel too sorry for myself too. I want agony and despair to embrace the insides of me, hold on to my very dear life in a trespassing sublime way, and tear me to shreds. Maybe I can feel something that way. But I'm okay. Happiness and life don't enjoy the law of reciprocity, or the law of equivalence. They are extra-ordinarily distinct, and just because I am good at neither of them, doesn't make anything any more valuable, for I can always see myself in blue lakes and stainless-steel cups, smiling, and nothing changes. The basked silhouettes and tainted sheets, I'll muse until I feel again. Perhaps someday, the streets would want to be stained with my colors, the same way the sky with sun's. 

But the bewildered reality is, I enjoy not feeling. This vulnerability of glass-like shadow in me dripping off my conscience and always letting me hover over the madness I try to love dearly; I am perpetual in this reality. To not have a vote of emotions in my being, driven with the veto of a spectrum of my rationality, my estranged self is devoid of sentiments, so perhaps I will never feel like a human again.

 

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