I am anaesthetised. I no longer
look at women with envy nor lust. They just pass. I could be walking
in a field of barley that my gaze wouldn't be any different. No
longer any lump in the throat for I desired them so much or because I
was completely crestfallen at being single. No longer any extra
beating of the heart. I bored in them and out. Dreams of the only
one, gone. There are thousands the like of us. Without being
interchangeable on the short and long run, the medium part of our
lives together are dragging days of boredom where we annul each
other's impact. Before and after that, all hell breaks loose. Life
deserves better than this, we ought to focus more. If this means to
be alone, then I'll tread this path, occasionally looking back, but
wall-clipping onwards, and through.
Too many defeated and crushed
expectations to react. Too many seats between the woman I'd like to
talk to - and who, perhaps, would like to talk to me. Too many times
I have been rejected, I was stopped being spoken to. I can now stare
unblinking through blood, and tears, whether of happiness or of pain.
I can no longer cry thinking about my late mother. Dying children no
longer move my heart. What a waste of sentiments. Stasis of the mind,
equipoise of the feelings, for they lie at the abysmal pit of
unconcernedness. It's already difficult for me to be concerned with
myself. No one is for me, and I am for none but the windy moors of
Ireland.
So many times I came close to
dying, or to falling in love, succeeding but didn't sometimes I
imagine what and who I would be now had all those things happened.
Best option ahead would be to
burn my eyes and fingers to the steady whirlwinds of snow of Iceland
and Finland. Delve into mythology more than I ever have. Devote my
life to self-improvement so that I die a better, more accomplished
person, useless to anyone, but better.
So many glances exchanged through
the glasses of a metropolitan compartment. Glances which probably
meant nothing, some of which were undoubtedly a blank stargaze I
happened to cross the trajectory of. So many times I have been
invited in someone else's life and later on we happened to dig up the
misunderstanding which first brought us together. One does not build
hope on those things, but one's idea of caring, interest and, well,
some building blocks of self-esteem.
Not that I seem to have a choice
or a say in this situation,
We are not meant to be happy. We
are meant to hang together, to stick together come what may. To raise
kids and give them enough love and values to make a sortie into the
world of teeth and claws and start building something beautiful and
worthwhile. The life of the worthy is one of toil and strain and
tears. And of smiles and hugs and tears. And of hope and grievance.
And of moving on and belief in oneself, in man and in whichever gives
impetus to life.
