Antic Hay
‘There’s concrete that’s been spalling away from the abutment,’ – my conscience reminded me as I found myself zorbing across the Eurabian countries.
Dressed in monochromatic colors of a very boring hijab, I found myself entwined in miles of fabric that had been fastened around my monolithic frame. I’ve always marveled at the rush of adrenalin and other unintentional chemicals my carcass seems to discharge every time I zorb.
Coming to a standstill at the base of the Concorde La Fayette, I contemplate tearing my way out of the oppressive textile. Bits and pieces of my self esteem lay tattered on the concrete abutment, the one that has been spalling away since forever now.
I’m waiting for the crew to arrive. They promised to meet me here, to un-strap my beefy arms from the white knuckled stronghold I seem to have achieved in my endeavor to replicate a vice like grip on one of the many handles provided. This proscribed free-fall bears stark resemblance to my life – free falling, one element at a time.
Miraculously, I come undone. Or over-done. Or under-done. Inter-done? God, the power of prepositions! I can be anyplace I want to – such is the clout I wean – the mind contorting and distorting to accommodate my many whims for wanderlust. And food :]
I’ve been toiling some on a narrative I think needs telling. Having reached the 1700th odd word count, I wonder if it’s moving in the direction of a literary break through in writing from the sub-continent. Listening to the Satanic Verses on my ithingummie, I am consumed by resentment and loathe its author. His prose is hypnotic and I feel eternally wasted in its wake. It has to be a crime for anyone to write the way he does – it very nearly was.
Diminutive serendipity found its way into my mailbox the day before. A lost connection from a few years ago has once again, resurfaced. I’ve had an epiphany of this. A chimera at first, my natural instinct to extirpate the correspondence was over-ridden by my need for self preservation. Yammering about the state of my being here has taken up more realms of print than is defensible or acceptable.
I’m thought of as an indurate vertebrate and I don’t think it fallacious. This abject observation was brought to my notice by providence and secretly, I know I triumphed. I am a noctilucent creature and rarely derive any repose after-hours. Web crawling in the wee hours of the morning, I’m struck by the travesty that is.
Some days, I yearn for company. I’ve waited forever. Nothing waits for me. I’m not wanted and on most days, I make my peace with that. But sometimes, the solitude can get tardy – I keep myself company and if you’ve been there, you’ll understand.
Television, books, music, caffeine and pen are weary of keeping up with the imagined melancholy I’m almost bent on surrounding myself with. My boudoir has become my haven, my cocoon to hide away in from a world that appreciates and craves everything I’m not and won’t ever be.
I want to make a new start. But I’m still debating on how this will end.
If anything can be more expressive than this, I would be surprised – I want to make a new start. But I’m still debating on how this will end. – I think this line says it all, about most human conditions. We would all like to make a fresh beginning, only if we knew how this will end.
The Infidel, is quite often, best with her punch lines!