Somewhere a bubble is bursting, the death of a songbird, there’s a clandestine parallel corridor that is functioning in the very same radical microcosm we call life. You build up a perfect falsetto under my watchful stare, as it lingers on the folds of your full lips, and then, it’s all abrupt, your voice fades away, mid-perfection, stuck in a limbo. I will never encounter the likes of it again. Nothing will ever satiate my lust for the perfectly flawless. It was an almost, but it was a not-quite too, and wavering back and forth between the two, I see the ridiculousness of eternity.

Has something, anything, ever been sacred to you? Are you as godless as the society we live in? I ask you now as we sit in this cosy café, even though I could leave any minute; run into the boulevards and piazzas of Paris, Venice, Milan- wherever we meet in this damned imagination of mine. I ask you as you wait for our order, as your fingers trace the unusually luxurious looking plastic, like a blind pianist’s fingers would trace the keys of his bread and butter, back and forth, back and forth. But you’re lost in thought, maybe it’s her, but we’ll never know. Your voice takes a tone that is not you, that never became you. Your lies are revealed. I could run out to all the exotic places my imagination would take me to, but darling, I’d only end up in the Sahara, because you are a mirage, if not that, then what else? You’re an illusion, a delusion, here only to crumble my sandcastle. This desert, once a sea, is now nothing more than dust.

***

Inside, an oasis still thrives. I am parched, but I wait. I was never reclusive, or a sociopath either. A misanthrope? Never. But loneliness now feeds on my carcass, embodying me in a cloud, bit by bit, until I fall prey to the worst breed of murk. I am haunted by thoughts of love gone faulty. I recovered but I never wanted to feel that misery again. Never. It was bloodcurdling how a tingly feeling in my palms made me shed as much as buckets of tears. I felt suffocated, with my face under pillows, fist in my mouth. There is nothing worse than letting it out while still trying to suppress it.

And so an eternity passed, the empty, silent weeping, the howling when the house was empty, or the lawn deserted. For most parts I harbored the gaze of the sheep on the morning of every Eid-ul-Adha, but I waged on. I could not make anyone understand, because I refused to talk. One of my infallible principles is never to give out my secrets to people. They pretend to sympathise, but in reality, they laugh at you. They might feel sorry for you, but there is no sympathy, nor empathy. Humans are rather callous that way. I had suffered by choice, but I could not turn around and leave because that is not a choice in matters of the heart.

I did things to keep me occupied, and after the longest of time, I felt something close to happiness.

But now, after another eon has passed. After failures of the heart, I saw failures of the world. I saw an unusually bright student fading away into nonentity in college. I saw the death of an ambitious soul as she wasted away under the doom of the pain she had brought on herself. I saw the tears of a daughter who failed her parents. I kept seeing. Today, I don’t possess anything remotely close to a sleeping cycle. I stay up all night, laboriously doing nothing, talking to no-one at all. I read, but I do not really read, my words drive me insane, I watch seasons, grasping nothing. I shower, change clothes, paint my nails, I ditch my friends and their plans, the few I have left, those I haven’t pushed away yet. I write this under a 101 fever, turned out I fell prey to dengue fever this morning, but I keep writing. Anything to keep my mind from focusing on the silence that haunts me. I hate everything. I feel worthless, and unhappy. Unhappy enough to feel my teeth itch, my palms tingle, unhappy enough to kill myself. And the only thing I have learnt is that love, or its loss and its lack are not the only factors that induce this in me.

It’s boredom; monotony and failure. Failure as a lover, as a daughter, as a student and as a soul. I really wish it would stop. I could sacrifice anything, even though I do not possess much, for a night away, just one night away with people I can talk to, laugh with. Mostly just talk about anything.

The clock will soon strike twelve, and with that I’ll fall prey to boredom once again. Wondering. Just wondering.

Bubble

Aur bhi dukh hain zamaane mein muhabbat ke siwaa.

Raahatein aur bhi hain vasl ki raahat ke siwaa.

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