Hellhole

Creative needs and ambition can make one selfish, very, very, selfish. One is torn between living on either side of the wall that is home. While the trauma of being torn can turn into a habit, the tension never ages. And one sudden sunny morning, all modernist texts come alive with the groping question looming large -- what is the meaning of it all -- meaning of life, meaning of living, meaning of surviving and meaning of meaning?

A deck of cards set out to become a synchronised castle, stays so for a smile and then, comes crashing, uneventfully. Nothing happens, because it was meant to tumble. And eventually, even the fall is disappointing, a well of boredom. Yes, that is my arch enemy, so much so that I do not even feel vengeful anymore. I take it in, unlike Batman, who wished to get out of that well of suffering. I have grown a world within -- distasteful, disinterested and discouraging. How it stinks, boredom, with its claws scathing the soul.

People, places, positions -- everything seems to fall apart. Even, philosophy, and physics. And no, I am not playing with an alphabet, instead the alphabet is playing with me, without any purpose. I went in, brave and armed with a key, but the moment boredom got the better of me, I am too weak and unwilling to come out, to even reach for the key. So much so, that this feels home, except that that too requires emotion -- any attachment. 

It was then that a tiny little word with wings came my way, a blazing fire for its tail. It read "Hellhole" but it was anything but dark. I was now too devoid of emotions to be afraid so I held it in my palms. From a distant somewhere, a near future I could see. I was falling, and I was flying. I never recognised my ambition, but it was all that my weight was. It is just a word, look how Powerful! Strangely, the alphabet didn't seem to play with me anymore. It had a purpose. It has one.

Selfishly, I decided to do away with boredom and revisit the land of words. There they were, pretty little powerful things, amusing me. I could not believe I was at their helm. I was Batman and my rope was made of words. My world was made of words. My life is words. Hellhole brought back memories of a yesteryear I faithfully survived, with words. I doodled them then.

Now? Why, I write. Pure.