Sustaining a lively and unadulterated mind requires a practice of self preservation from any element of literature that might pose as a threat to the naivety of everyday life. The real struggle lies not in your pursuit for meaning or reason, rather it lies in keeping your demeanor and social display firmly eschewed from your beliefs; unless you wish your ideas and thoughts to devour your sanity as a whole. A distraught conduct leads the individual vulnerable and perilously exposed. An attempt to exhibit firm control on one’s actions must therefore, be practised diligently.
A societal manner best adopted would be hence to engage the listener in an essentially hollow yet witty chat regarding the latest gossip, carefully circumventing any topic of politics or social perils. Much like George Orwell’s oblivious society in his novel 1984, (but mind you don’t let anyone know the novel has mentally affected you, the simple excuse of casual reading should suffice if anyone seems curious) one cannot trust the people around to fully grasp and comprehend the grave nature of our current situations. Petty conversations about celebrities and fashion should be more than pleasing to ears that know nothing of the sound war artillery makes.
The question then arises, how does one successfully spot an intellectul among a crowd of sheep. In a desperate attempt to find a mind with whom one can share their darkest theories with, one forgets that everyone has a specific threshold for darkness. One person’s level of darkness might be enough to drive another into madness. One risks the hazard of being responsible for stealing the spring from the step of their listener by rambling about reality. One risks surpassing the listener’s threshold for dark thoughts in their desperation to let theirs go.
The best way to go about, therefore, would be to take turns with one’s mind. Daylight means you control your body and actions. Night time is when, in the safe confines of your room, away from people, you may let the darkness take over. A pen and a paper should be present always on one’s side for when things get out of hand and regaining control of one’s concious mind seems a struggle. There lies a beautiful strength in endurance.
Do you go to a medical college? Do you spend your nights in tahajjud asking for a way out? Do you secretly want to end this torture that they call parhai? Did your acceptance of a futile and purposeless existence in a temporary world full of inescapable chaos and incurable misery destroy your social life? Then worry not, dear friend! The ultimate blog post is here to teach you about things that must always be in your bags/lives to ensure a peaceful and non-violent year in your dream institution.
Its 10:48 pm where I live. My sister made an amazing dinner and we all just ate. Everybody’s out in the t.v lounge, watching old songs. My youngest sister who’s 7 is playing with her doll house that Mum just bought for her today. Dad left for some work trip out of city last night. My brother is in the gym since the past 2 hours. I’m sitting here in my room playing with my matchbox. I’m thinking about setting my house and everything that we own on fire.
I want to destroy it all. The nice things we bought for ourselves. The stupid dollhouse. The stupid t.v. and the stupid fridge and the toaster and the car in the garage, the shit expensive furniture and the air conditioners and the shit expensive computers and phones, everything. Because I’m fucked up in the brain.
Yeah. That’s what they call this. That’s what they call you. Fucked up in the head. That’s what I am, for wanting to destroy everything in sight that is a reminder of the illusion I created for myself. The imaginary wall that I’ve made. The bars that I’ve set up and made from the finest and the hardest metals. I made my existence impenetrable with my own hands. Impenetrable to the filth of the world.
The filth. You’re not one of the filth of the world. No. Nobody looks at you in scorn when you step into big institutions. No, everybody listens to you because your voice must matter more. Because you are not the filth. Because you were lucky enough to not be born in a filth hole.
Because you have a nice house. A nice car. A nice meal 6 times a day. Nice schools. Nice clothes and bags and shoes. That’s what separates you from another human that you call filth. The wall you have built with your material goods made sure you were separated from humans who are different from you by just a strike of luck.
I want to set my house on fire because that is what separates me from another human who lost to luck when it came to money. I want the wisp of fire on this matchstick in my hand to turn into a source of revulsion. I want to burn my house.
Strike the dice again God. Boom. Filth. You’re the filth now. Nice things are a memory. Ashes. Burned to oblivion. No longer the happy family who walks with their noses in the air. No more mocking glances from behind car windows about beggars. No more scanty pity charity as a showstopper stunt in front of your in-laws. No more I have a nicer car and neighbourhood and phones and laptops. Only ashes. Finished. Taste the dirt. Taste the filth. Youre one of the filth now. The wisp of fire is feeding on the materialism of my existence.I let it grow. I watch it bloom. My brother’s back from the gym and I can hear him shout. My baby sister is screaming and my mother has passed out.
I burned my house because I’m fucked up in the brain. I yearn the taste of life as apieceoffilth to be scorned at and hissed at and starve and beg out of misery and I want people to hit me for pestering them with my problems. I want a taste of the misery that is found in the ashes of these material things. So I burned my house and everything nice in it.
It’s strange how we find beauty in destructivity. The night sky intrigues us. Trillions of magnanimous balls of burning gas capable of frying anything even a few million meters from them intrigue us. Sun sets make us feel at peace. A ball of fire large enough to fit a million earths, close enough to be witnessed from our tiny planet, inching further closer every passing decade, capable of boiling all land, makes us feel at peace. The moon, the beautiful, cold, lifeless, lightless, barren moon overwhelms us with emotion on a lonely night. The vast, never-ending, land-engulfing, moody sea brings us serenity. The beautiful sea that deceives you with the many colours it wears as times of the day change, should you discover what it truly looks like. The same sea with the potential of dragging you into a wet, painless embrace of sweet sweet freedom. Yet we lay in the sand and let our feet touch the shore and pick shells from its floor. We watch the sun set into it and we watch as it bleeds into the sky and we watch it bleed into the waters, adding another colour to the palette of nature. We watch the night sky imprinted onto its surface, distorted by the ripples created by waves that can engulf an entire city from the slightest nudge of a plate.
We find beauty in all of this. We find ways of incorporating it into poetry and art that we create. We define it in ways that best suit our interests. We calculate and measure it using systems that we pride in creating from raw thought.
Because accepting the meaninglessness of our existence in a gloriously self-expanding and self-sufficient universe prickles at our prides as flawed human beings.
Because for once we want to feel like we have control, like a child sitting amidst skilled architects showing off the fortress he made from building blocks. Or a drug addict thinking he controls what he feels, all the while rotting inside, enslaved to the withdrawal symptoms of what he calls “control”.
We think we are entitled to celebrate what we believe to be rightfully ours, drunk on delusions of being the sole heirs to an entire universe. Giving in to self-imposed falsely created megalomania.
We find beauty in destructivity because arrogance blinds man worse than ignorance.
The human mind: an intricately woven tapestry of logic, forever baffling the onlooker with such casual majesty. The more one tries to unravel its pathways, the deeper they find themselves trapped into this labyrinth. Just a few sparks running up and down invisible cells, in terms of physics. Just a few hormones holding together the fort of sanity, in terms of chemistry. Creation at its finest, in terms of religion.
Doesn’t it steal your sleep every night then, just thinking of what it is capable of? Everything we do–everything our brain commands our vulnerable bodies to do– is for the sole purpose of better survival. Struggle for existence is what we have evolved to master. Survival of the fittest is what nature has ensured, ever since the beginning of time.
Then how does a perfectly healthy person go into self-destruct mode? How do the same chemical messengers that keep you sane, turn their guns against the body they are supposed to be serving? How do the same electrical impulses convince the mind that the world would be a million times better without them in it? That the feeling of despair would leave once you start slitting your skin? That intoxication is the answer to all problems? That death cures all infliction?
The same brain producing the hand-jerk reflex, should your finger contact fire, is now telling you to jump over the cliff when you’re on a family trip to the mountains. The same brain that stops you from eating moulded food, should you get ill, is now reluctant to move from in front of a truck advancing towards you while you’re crossing the road. What snaps in the mind to think that the body it serves is not enough. Not fit to survive. What makes it refuse any struggle to exist?
Sarah had always been scared of almost everything. The dark, her closet, her teacher, Father, speeding cars, the back of her house, clowns, noisy parks, spiders, you name it. And every single person she had been fortunate enough to meet in her short 14 years of life, would make it a point to remind her of that.
And they would always laugh. Everyone would laugh. Everyone would mock. Everyone, especially Hassan.
Sarah had always been a wimpy little girl— but tonight she had been brave. Tonight, she was not afraid of anything. Not of the dark in Hassan’s room. Nor of Mother’s silver knife. Or of the blood mushing in her soft hands, or the intestines spilling from Hassan’s torn stomach. Or the metallic stench of blood running stale. Or the pool of red at her feet. Nothing scared her, not tonight.
Sarah had always been called names, but after her feat of bravery, nobody would. Nobody would mock. Nobody would laugh. Nobody, especially Hassan.
There will be days when you will want to cry but tears won’t come.There will be days where everything would seem meaningless and emotions will be hollow. There will be days when even the funniest jokes would leave you broken on the bathroom floor later. There will be days when you will be surrounded by people—friends, but you’ll be lonelier than ever. And they will try to cheer you up, and you’ll fake a smile.
Then there will be days when all you’ll want to do is be alone. Just you and your penknife. Your skin as your canvas. Your clothes damp with blood that’s been running stale.
And let me tell you, it will be on days like these that reality will hit you. You’ll be able to filter your friends from acquaintances. You’ll finally be able to see what actually matters—who actually matters.
It will be after days like these, that you will find Him caressing your soul. The fog will clear as you free yourself from that black hole you used to call life. It will be peace from the on. Eternal peace.
For no one disturbs the dead.
I could see the others turning shades of brown and yellow. Their lush green gradually being replaced by a splendid crimson and chrome. It had arrived.
Autumns cold brush had painted the entire garden into warm colors of death. Some trees were still speckled with green leaves, I noticed; but by tomorrow, every treetop will be ablaze in blinding flames of auburn.
Below me was a layer of dead leaves , carpeting the recently raked lawn. My siblings lay ominously far beneath me. I still had tiny dots of green, I noticed. A few hours maybe, and I’ll be amongst my lost friends. I too will fall.
The sadistic fall wind snaked through the tree branches. The same branches which once boasted lush leaves and flowers. Just a few months ago, they were the kaleidoscope of nature’s palette, now all that could be seen everywhere, was the coulour of blood when it has run stale.
She came for my tree next, blowing off any weak leaves that came in her way. It was my time now. Because everything that soars must fall.
The wind yanked at my stalk. I resisted instinctively. Death surrounded me. I held on tighter. Mother nature was determined. I want to live. Your time is up. Gravity sided up with them. My branch let go.
And so I returned to where I had risen from. My cradle now serving as my grave.