Musings #1: This world exhausts me

In my moments of solitude I do not think of myself. I think of others and their stories. It might be someone I had an eye contact with in the metro, someone I chatted with on a local train, an acquaintance,  a batch-mate. I wonder who or what keeps them awake at night. I know these people only as human beings. I do not know if their heart or brain functions the way mine does. But I have this absurd habit of reasoning out their acts, thinking about their lives, their loneliness and the baggage of pain that they carry within themselves. And I hope with all my heart that their share of hurt, pain and misery doesn't change them into someone they are not. I hope that they land up in some place that gives them all the little joys and happiness that they couldn't find in themselves and people around them. All of us are blindly seeking something without knowing the consequences thereof. All it takes is a split second for our lives to change, for dreams to transform into nightmares and I hope they have the strength to live with their choices.
This world exhausts me. When I think of life and the complexity of the stardusts in this Universe, I want to run to a place that protects my heart. A place that I can call my home.

(c) Ayushee Ghoshal

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The house: D'souza's Residence.

House. The kind of house that is built and not made. They lived underneath the same roof, looking at each other with silent contempt and disgust. You could never hear shrieks of laughter. It didn't smell like home. It didn't allow them to let go of their fear. Instead, the house howled with cries of silence. The silence which prevails after a long lost argument. The silence which reeks of anger, that which speaks a thousand words of denial and disappointment. They were strangers to each others world, each others emotions. There was a constant battle amongst the three of them. Who could hurt the other more? A battle with themselves. Who could continue to hold on to their ego even after the other had given up.
They were afraid, you can say. Afraid of what the other might do to  rip them of their dignity and self respect. Afraid that they would lose themselves a little more. They were tired, you can say. Tired of hurting themselves and then searching for a reason, a chance to seek revenge upon the other.
They lived in the same house. To the world outside they were a family. D' souza's. The semi furnished wooden door had undergone an intense one day carving session to make it easier for the visitors to trace where the D'souza's lived. Lived? They lived inside the house like disjoint letters of English alphabet.
They lived in the same house. A house that didn't sing to them a lullaby to drive home the wheels of sleep. But a house that robbed them of their dreams and replaced them with nightmares. 

Lost And Found.

To the forbidden pleasure and the guilt, I feel I've lost myself to the innocent deceptions that the world had to offer. I've lost myself to the thumping of my confused brain. I've lost myself to the possibilities of what could have possibly been mine, but never was. I have lost myself to the memories I clinged on so desperately too. That was never enough though. Someone had given up on them while I held on, or may be they had not treasured them enough to give up on them in the first place.
Constant disappointment, the never ending despair and the darkness that follows after every sunrise. I have lost myself to incomplete endings, to conversations that never happened, to words that were never spoken, to stories that cried, to impossibility of possibilities, to myself. I've lost myself to the world that should have been ours and I am stuck in a world that 'is'. The only way you can find me is through my writings, in these words. Words that bridge the gap between the starking realities. You'll find me noticing the tail of a shooting star. No, I don't wish on shooting stars. I try to decipher their language of loss. Wishing on stars is cliched and yet,  we mortals find pleasure and joy in hoping that our dreams and wishes will turn into reality. What an irony, planning  scripts of happiness through someone's language of loss.
Did you look for me? Did you find me there? See, I've pressed on with care, hoping it would pass. Unapologetically baffled and estranged, numb and apathetic, mundane and half dead. A path overshadows with peels of hopelessness, stumbling across a broken road, left with what is solely mine to bear. I amble on without care, hoping I'll find along the way, a part of me that I had lost. Not long ago.
Oops, I forgot someone was looking for me. I'm sorry. Did I waste your time? I hope not. Its a difficult business, filling the gaps, you know.
See, I am losing you again. Its been happening too often these days. Forgive me. Forget me. Don't try to find me. I won't let you find me. I won't let you know the state of my mind. Its boomeranging between walls of apathy, lunacy and confusion. My life is a long struggle of trying to gain control over situations that are not under my control.
*Sigh.* I know, it doesn't make sense to you, doesn't make sense to me either. You know, when I wander away into this land of nothingness, I realize all I need is a blank parchment of paper and a bottle of ink. Next time, if you want to find me, come prepared with some. Or if I dwindle into nothingness and fade away like the day light, find me here - in my words.