Heartless! Godless!! And now Godotless!!!

I have almost always abused this space by addressing my anxieties, the many 'rights' and the 'wrongs' that have been done. Make no mistake, I am a damsel in stress, not distress. This explains why I have inflicted numerous poorly articulated posts on this space without caring if at all these words will ever be read by any mortal. Enraged by the selfish nature of the writing, the space too has given me a befitting reply---a silence in which I introspect my  life and its many 'miseries'. For the last four years (ever since I started the blog), it seems that I have been waiting for Godot without knowing who or what Godot is. Is it success? Money? Love? Debauchery? Godot is definitely not success or money...these can be acquired way too easily. He is definitely not love, because he claims to come my way often. He is perhaps a debauched traveller. As perverse as you are in your emotions, but a lot more silent. Your patience is a journey too, at the end of which lies a heartbreak. In the guise of lover, he is a stranger. He is a lover as long as you are a stranger. A patron as long as you are the Petrarchan mistress. In few days, several hours, many minutes and numerous seconds, he will travel through life to find his sense of self. He will cremate you in his heart and bury you in his mind. Like a trapped soul, you will continue to wander and wonder if he will ever put his hand around your waist again and murmur on your lips, "Dearest". Your heart pounding every second and chanting "Come as you are... not as a friend but as who you were".

Next morning, when a furious sun absorbs the water on your face, Godot shall be making new memories with new strangers. His lens would see them all, it would be the mute witness of his tryst with life. You will shed a tear every day in solitude till you become perverse and say "Goodbye blue sky!"

And that is the day another part of you will quietly die.

Heartless! Godless!! And now Godotless!!!

The Late Dorian Gray

Beautiful?
Forever.
Handsome?
Rarely.
Young?
Always.
Vain?
Destined to be.
Loved?
Rarely.
Killed?
Himself.
Soul?
Sold.
Name?
Dorian Gray.

Amiss

We are no V. Woolf whose mind is a locked closet nor are we J. Austen whose truths are often 'universally acknowledged'. Unlike these women, words have stopped befriending us. Obscurity is our opium. We find our unhappiness in our bliss and find our failures in our successes. We find our refuge in our passivity and fall back on pills that keep us numb. Having conditioned ourselves in a way that makes sure we remain 'unaffected' no matter what happens, we make sure that no emotion---love or hatred---can move us. As for me, I am an obscurist. Quite often, in a moment of self-introspection, I have wondered if I am half alive or half dead...if I am living or merely existing. The answers have never come easily to me, neither to those with whom I have wanted to share the aforementioned anxieties.  I survive in the zone between happyness and existential angst. Uncertainty is my only companion.