No more do I want to write about a whining conscience. Not even about a distraught mind for I am tired of writing about the mundane. I don’t fancy writing about an imaginary muse and I can’t even let a jilted heart meander through fabricated verses of unrequited love. I don't wish to philosophize and preach borrowed wisdom.
No! I can’t for I wish not to evoke any sympathy nor any embellished sentiment. I don’t want to make my reader feel anything. I don’t want to be smothered with his opinions. As a matter of fact, I do not even wish to be read.
Don’t expect me to be artful with words since I don’t write for you, my dear reader. I can’t juggle with metaphors and simile . I can’t even concoct a story but please don’t pity my incompetence, I have a reason behind my incapability.
If I were to describe how my heart feels at this very moment, I would say, I bear a neutral heart. A heart that knows no joy, no pain, no love, no life, no death, no fear, no anger, no regret, no burden! I bear a heart which knows nothing else other than its primal physiological function . A homogenous heart that beats uniformly a singular feeling of ‘ABSOLUTE NOTHINGNESS’.
It is during these moments, when my heart and mind are in unison ..a perfect concordance for they are both enwrapped under a blanket of bizarre numbness.
There is no ovulation of thoughts in me. I rake through this ashen nothingness to find even one lone seed of a ‘thought’ but in vain. I conceive a complete void and I am enigmatically wordless!
I try to borrow words from a Thesaurus to find a better adjective for this feeling but I keep turning pages. I ransack every corner only to be left disappointed. I can’t even borrow words and here again, I repeat, I am not to be pitied. For me, words have lost their aroma, their texture, their sonority . Now,they don't ring the same way in my ears as they used to, they don't catapult my desire to write. I often wish if I could do without words. Sometimes, words create an asphyxiating labyrinth. There was a time when words were my darlings, my little ballerinas that danced to my tunes. Now, they are stumbling blocks.
This nothingness is contagious. I see it spreading outside me in a miasmatic fashion. The miasma gradually forms a sea and I feel marooned like an island , miserably amputated from the rest of the world . As far as my vision spreads, I see nothing.
I wonder if this sea has any shore.
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