Seppuku

 

Devour – is an evil evil word.

Absolute, undeniable possession; water-tight suffocation. An all encompassing engulfment – just like the grainy ectoplasm that surrounds the mitochondria.

The viscosity of my thoughts matches the texture of the passion fruit gel that anoints my body twice every day.

I’m wasting away.

I write to substantiate my need to validate and hence mitigate (or at least make an endeavour of sorts) this psychosis of wretched isolation and social apathy.

I need to take a vacation and roam the mountains of Lhasa, Leh, Laddakh or any other exotic destination – as long as it starts with an ‘L’.

An empty place now exists where I used to dwell. The rubic of my life cannot be solved by sleight of hand. Working out my salvation without fear and trembling is a tall order this millennium.

This happened without warning. Or maybe, it’s me – I couldn’t read the signs. Try as I may, I can’t seem to restore the balance that is vital to my understanding of right from wrong. An unidentifiable force egg’s me on towards destruction. I can’t see it – I’m powerless in its wake and strangely, complacent.

My temple is a body-shop of products that burn wide holes in my otherwise not so deep pockets. Retail bludgeon-ry is my morphine from the pain of acute self created need bordering on imagined dementia.

I’m more narcissistic than Nefertiti only, I’ll never fess up. It’s not about the beauty myth. I’m far too sensible to know I sire terrific genes and can turn things around for myself in that department. It’s my pre-occupation with achieving the cerebral equivalent of an Olympic Gold, or at the very least, an induction into that secret community of delinquents and geeks.

My anger is misguided. I find myself more irascible now than when I was younger and had a plausible excuse in acne, adolescence and fluctuating levels of oestrogen.  I’m glossed over and no longer the major domo of this e-dungeon I’ve built myself since over a decade.

Re-reading transcripts collected over the years are reminiscent of fetid trophies – lugubrious consolation prizes for ugly; highlighting disconsolate prospects in my future. This now reminds me of more than I can handle – more than you’d imagine.

Pain is transient and should be.
 But a few instances of gut-wrenching loss stick - introspection no longer seems like the cerebral sport one imagined it to be; regret weaves itself into the fabric of being.

But most of all, the desolateness of bumping into serendipity (sometimes more frequently than is meant) and not being able to work through one’s handicap to make a go of it leaves a pain so searing - try as you will, there’s no ignoring it.

Or perhaps, one holds on to familiar moments of misery if only to build a comfort zone. When there’s little to look forward to, besides the practical, the dreamer starts to die, hope starts to wane and romanticizing the wretchedness is all that’s left.

Servile is perhaps more accurate - a virtue, if you can call it that, I couldn’t ever embody. I’m not the feminist without a pause; but I find it hard to play subservient if only to pander to an ego (regardless of gender). So while my muse abandons my carcass because I lack thereof, my verse helps me soften the edges of what should’ve been.

 To adapt and make changes for a fortuitous happenstance shouldn’t have to be viewed as a personal failure. It’s a mistake one makes and learns from - only too late.

~ by wisebabe on February 5, 2008.