Writing: for the heck of it...............

This is one of those occasions when I do something because I desperately want to do so. I don’t know what I am going to write or for how long I am going to write. Will this piece of undammed, directionless flow of thoughts be a presentable one, is the least of my concern. I write it because I want to write for the heck of it.
I looked at the walls of my room. The hands may have prided themselves at creating such homogeneity throughout the four walls, but for a bored I, this homogeneity was a terrible monotone. I wished I could see the mountains that overlook my windows. Alas it was too dark for that, in fact I saw nothing outside the grills and the nets. I wished these television channels had something better to air, and then I hoped that the walls turn into the spruce mountain. Nothing happened and in dismay I grumbled to the Lord, so many days I had not asked for anything a small miracle is what I demanded and you are so outright in your refusal. I nagged to him: I am bored.

And then I decided to write, to write for the sake of writing. And as I sat down the electric supply went off, it’s sultry in my study, within minutes I give up. I can’t bear the sticky smell of my body nor can I allow it to get any more gummy, when I was a child, which I regularly wish I still am, I feared my skin shall dissolve and wash off with the brine. I walked out, the dark was gloomy and the jaded me was quickly infected by the despair, I placed myself on the dark chair eyeing my dark neighbor on the darkened roof. I now knew I was gloomy, I searched for the reasons, I decided I will hunt for the next five minutes, if I don’t get some and the settings remain murky as they are I will have to cook some.

A dog barked in backdrop, a middle aged mother yelled at her son. It may be a daughter I am not certain, but then the mother yelled that must be a son. Can this be a reason of the gloom? I am a son and certainly my mother does sometimes yell at me. Not exactly, I have been a son since I was born, and my mother has been yelling at me since I was two. In fact the scolding and reprimands have been slashed heavily year after year. Also, had this made me miserable, I should have known earlier. The dog that barked was now barking on the road before me, a few more (dogs off-course) huddled together and ganged up to bark, fear and chase the interloper off their territory. I guessed I know what made me sad, the constant bickering in the name of borders, language and creed. I was certain I am unhappy because the man continues to fight like the dogs in my street. These dogs fight every day and so does the man, what brought this sorrow so heavily upon me today? Was it the homogeneity of my walls? No that must not be true, it was mid-day when I heard on the BBC about of those floods in Pakistan, of the killings in Manchester, of the trouble with Karzai in Afghanistan, and so much more, and I was fine than and in the evening. I even told jokes to the friends I meet while strolling in the marketplace.

What must have happened? I thought with added concern. Something terribly wrong has happened to me, I am sulking, I am edgy, I am losing my nerves and I don’t even know why. I was troubled immensely. I am also running sort of time, my five minutes deadline was tapping on my head. I feared I may have to fabricate a reason for the discomfort. That won’t be fair I told myself, I would be cheating on the self. Afraid of the cheating I concentrated again.

There has to be a reason, I may have had an ugly fantasy, a bad dream, or some problem with the neurons there in the cerebral. This thought frightened me, so should I visit a neurologist soon? Or should I wait and see whether this is a passing phase. I bet, I shivered with fear.

I could barely see the fat ant on the floor that solemnly treaded into a longish voyage. And I detested its calm. For a fleeing moment I had decided I need a voyage for peace, I didn’t get the sense of what I thought and I let the thought pass. But I am troubled am not I? I feel my head heavy on my collar. My eyes burning in the dark, my ears were listening to strange sounds. All of a sudden things brightened before me baffled I close my eyes, there were more sounds I shut my ears to them. I sneeze violently, I would have always aaaccccchhhhhhhhh… a piece of paper rolled into a size as small as a small nugget soars off my nose. The lights were the bulbs on the porch lightening from the reestablished electric supply. The sounds were the sound of the weeping guitars of the Beatles. And the discomfort was gone for now some other day when the world shall need me to share its sorrow I will be there.

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