I sense the first signs of depression,
A feeling of immense boredom threatens
to overwhelm, to eat away any resistance.
There is a tiredness, a weakness in the knees,
thoughts overtake each other hardly allowing
a pause. The being searches for an anchor, a
shoulder to clutch and lean on...
I dial a friend, the call isn't picked,
now there is fear, a fear to return
and face the claustrophobic air. Of
their own incomprehensible will, the limbs
slow down. There are questioning glances and
disapproving stares. The loss and agony
is private; it doesn't transmit itself...
I spill the glass of juice and this time am
rewarded with curses. The phone doesn't ring;
it almost always doesn't, in times of dire
desperation. There is an urge to indulge and to
immerse oneself. I walk the streets,
in search of the unknown, in search of a soothing balm...
The noise and the din disturb the nerves and
gets them on edge. To a bookshop, I take flight
and suddenly there is a hint of impending calm, of
a return to a recognizable refuge. In books, I
immerse myself and forget the walls around...
I travel to Alaska, scale peaks hitherto
unclimbed, partake in complex emotions,
breathe in untarnished purity, get stirred
by painful travails and overjoyed by minor
accomplishments. Imagination takes control;
it is like a drug transporting the helpless
reader to faraway lands...
It is a journey of remarkable escape from
the immediate present, from the demons
of the mind and the confines of the four walls.
In a sweeping journey of self-discovery
the conscious is barely aware, yet the
registrations are precise, sharp and as there
would be cognizance later spot-on...
The pages run fast now, the heart begins
to beat faster as the slumbering demons show
signs of stirring and wakefulness. This time
though, I am better prepared.
Reality is indeed, harsh!