Witness

 The sun hasn't risen yet. Kathmandu is asleep. And as I sit facing the life around me, drenched in my own turmoil, I feel like a body on the verge of cremation waiting for its soul to give answers to every question. I have come to realize that the greatest disease a man can have is abnormality; it's this form of painful awareness of knowing you can't get better and this utter confusion of asking oneself if I even want to. Life reeks of intelligence and philosophy, entities dive into star faced paradise of knowing the truth and knowing how humankind is just a speck in the universe. But why this numbness? Why does this dust not have the liberty of feelings when even a plant around it turns towards the sun? Why is it that affirmation of a new beginning needs the sun to tear apart me every day just so I know this isn't a monotonous apprehension of everything I have ever done? I am not sad; I am not disappointed either. I just have questions, something that's inherent to me, something that genuinely gives me reasons, contrary to every sunrise. I can observe the asleep Kathmandu and I can see that not all are asleep. There is trial, denial, ambition, patience, everything; there are emotions, and then there is sleep. There is this peaceful anecdote which braces people in the dawn, embracing them with kindness as the clouds slowly let the light enter their households. There is a warmth embracing them; a cinematic window where Brownian motion plays and they feel in awe. Humanity rises from those pecks of dust dancing on the sunbeam as someone cruel as me waits for the sunset because these new roads are too pure to walk on. I'd stain them. The beginning of this day, as the morning wakes up to the sound of birds, the tears that are meant to flow from my eyes try to choke me in my absence of sleep and I silently wait for it to happen, knowing it won't. There is an inaction for death in me, which I often mistake for a little will to live, but deep within me, in between the unseen scars and the constant urge to die painfully, I lie bare in my bed as if it's an autopsy table, and with every cut the doctors make, a sheer pain washes through my body which I wish continues every day. I would want to feel those cuts that tear apart my skin and bones. All these years of wanting to fall asleep talking to the ceiling, I want to be awake on the table, as I get torn for the answers. And I know they will find nothing, but that pain would be the greatest gift my body can ever receive, as my soul has finally burnt to ashes. 

And yes, amidst all this, someone will go to school, someone will train the dogs, because it's the morning and this cruelty of the soul? It exists, scarring the sunlight. Sisyphus might have been happy, even Icarus for a moment when he fell down; troubled beings get mistaken for who they are. All the morning gives is a lie, a false hope that maybe one day, the curse is broken, but hey my beloved sunrise, each one of you is the curse I live every day. I want to fight you, but the world says I am happy.

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