The symphony of life is a bittersweet one, but we hardly get the opportunity to strike the chords, so lying back in my bed when I try to call upon my muse it shows its middle finger and asks me to fuck off. I try to find sense in my failure; try meaninglessly to search for that one thing that could inspire me, invigorate me and I gradually end up in perpetual agony of hopelessness. They say desperation is born out of despair, but my anguish comforts me, bizarrely it keeps me sane. I see that my addiction towards that inactive stage grows each time I lose the battle against my dormant vision.
Am I finally losing it or is it that the canvas of life is too dark to be colored by mere words? Perhaps I am too freaking lazy to correct my idiosyncrasies.
A perfect product of this ‘fucked up era’ where my crippled emotion is my only refuge, where expressions become a luxury for I am too goddamn exhausted to play with prosody. I am stuck in an orb…confined in a niche I have carved for myself where thoughts elude my empty brain and aggravation sedates my tautened nerves.
I assemble up to type my hollow words and then I lounge back yet again to leer at my futile efforts…I slither back to enjoy the mirth of oblivion.
written by ananya chatterjee
1 month ago