Personal Essay I Ayush Gowala
is it the winters, or me falling apart…
is it the winters, or me, falling…
is it the winters or me…
is it the winter…
is it…
i…
-
in the nights of the dark, i can see it all. what is this sight that can’t tell for
the death of the one for the birth of the other. the very similitude is an
illusion, it suffices into clarity, to indulge whatever is sane in me. i am
forged into the love that i keep in a chasm of my heart. i dream of falling
into it and never returning.
i can’t cry anymore. sometimes, i let the tap a little longer, sometimes, i
look at the clouds a little further, sometimes, i relay the drops on my
window: it’s a functional state we share- in it, i don’t see any life, in
return, it does not survey into my void. to feel tears, i stare at the
distance for long. my eyes give up with dull hesitation, what the numb
heart demands. but the catharsis is always the next moment, a perpetual
escape for the foraging animal. i should be rummaging through my old
corners, for nothing, but novelty’s sake. these dungeons fail to fill up
space in my hostile company. when it is the most appropriate to see into
me, my sight remains, cold and away. the fear of the tenacious has failed
me often, yet the summons of faith loom fiercer. to have to stumble in
the ashes of passion is a foreboding. all these merciless heaps of flesh
and aromas that i build in my decaying spurts, i know, will not stand a
moment’s reflection. but, it is that image i entreat the most for. must be
that sells and fetches, must i be that falls and hides, must i be that talks
and talks. these owls that see me, i fear for their sight.
sleep eludes me, it is a compulsion. i talk to the shortest hand on the wall,
the rest don’t look at me. they divulge in talks of betrayal, the more
personal, the more alienating. the fever grows on me, with every dying
moment. i lose myself to the silence, the eyes breathe, the nose beats,
the heart blinks, i cannot tell. a nocturnal bark pulls me back into this
comprehending world of denials. i look at the wall. it seems on the verge
of collapse. it has long and greasy strokes of curly paint, it has spots of
dark macabre, it has a burnt crack- like opening. i shut my eyes tight. i
don’t want to look at them. it reminds me of a distant silhouette sleeping
without dreams. the darkness closes in. i don’t crave for light or
company any more. there is only the waiting, wakeful night. thoughts
flowing unchecked in shades lost in black and grey. tomorrow, there will
be distractions. but for now, there is only this: the night and me and the
ghosts. for this night, i must keep watch alone.
in the dark parades of the moonlight, you sing to me, songs, i can’t hear
anymore. i am afraid of voices: they don’t let me sleep.