Sometime there
is this piercing loudness of the subconscious voice. It grows louder with a violence
so destructive and inexorable. And then all the past musings that the mind had
undergone lie somewhere like a cold corpse mocking at the absurd existence it
had all these time. Mocking at the smiles it had smiled, the giggles and the goose
bumps, the laughter and the momentous joys, stormy sorrows and turbulent love. Loneliness
brings a murkiness, an emptiness that the mind never wants to confront with a
hanging head and weary eyes. It imagines weird moments and possible disasters
that you have read or heard occurred to someone somewhere before. Sometimes I
feel there are thousand bits of shriek brewing deep down in the chambers that I
myself fail to render even by a sigh. Or my voice cannot reach me as if I watch
me drowning on a pond from a window far above on a rainy day, with a mind wet
and feverish, frozen and lifeless.
There comes a
burning stir in the gut when an impulse of alienation circles me amidst a
crowd. The thought of never being understood by anyone, I cannot fully utter my
feelings and ideas with a zest I had sometime before. I look at people’s eyes and
find a kind of absorption that tells me to speak only what they want to hear. Eyes
that show within one glance all their fatigue, preoccupations and conditions
that they have assimilated in this life. It’s as if they have been here for centuries
and tired of getting aged anymore. I can hold hands and still never felt to be
touched at all. I can talk and cannot hear myself.
