I’ve started to appreciate the fact that I have millions of little universes inside me containing infinite wisdom and multitudes of realities. I don’t know how that helps, but it does. It tells me that I don’t have to tilt my being on a scale of ‘good to bad’ or ‘great to tiny’. I’m a scale of being myself, and that makes me worthy of existence. In the end, this is all that matters.
What would it be like to finally lose myself to death? A hollow punch through my chest will probably let me know that my journey is over. Or perhaps that I never started on my journey. I just wandered aimlessly wasting all the time and resources entrusted to me and the unique and full ocean of possibilities.
What would I be told as I walk or rather float into an afterlife? Would I there be capable of remorse and regret? Or would my emotions run clear with fluid omniscience and detachment? Moreover, will I still be me? Will I be a lesser, weaker and incompetent version of me longing to be alive again or would I be a stronger, bolder and deeply satisfied version that would mock my human existence as child’s play?
Among all the possibilities that run through my mind, there is one that whispers slowly in a low voice, “What if there is nothing on the other side of this?” “What if there is no other side?” And that low, poisonous voice scares me the most.
I have felt pain, intense and excruciating pain. I have experienced happiness and fulfilment. And I know precisely the sensations they cause in me, but what I’ve never experienced is not being. Even in deep sleep, when we lay oblivious to the world, there is hope of waking up. We wake up and then everything starts to make sense again. Going to sleep forever, not existing anymore would be worse than being trapped in a small, cramped space six feet under.
Although it would seem far more logical to not be at all than to be in immeasurable pain. Or does it? Will I ever know?
Will there be a rite of passage marking the end of ‘me’? The ‘me’ that I am right now or the ‘me’ that I’m capable of becoming.
Where will they bury all the billions of possibilities and futures I could’ve had. I hope they make a memorial for everyone I couldn’t be. I hope they dig a grave for each of my future selves as they are far more important to me than all my past selves.
The future selves are the ones that I’ve spent days dreaming and planning about. And it is only good manners to give them a loving and respectful end.
Waking up in the middle of the night; thirsty, soaked in sweat when you feel this parched empty space in your gut; it is a reminder not of things that you’ve lost but of everything you’ll never have.
Never in this fleeting world would you find anything that’ll make this emptiness go away. In fact, it is the proof of the grandiosity of your soul. This little hollow empty space is only trying to tell you that you’re not made for this world alone. Throughout the extremities of this shallow world, there isn’t enough energy to make you feel complete. It has neither the quantity no the quality of matter to fill your spirit.
This part of your gut, this centre of your being, belongs to another world altogether. It is only biding its time here.
I have a feeling that this is where your intuition or as some say sixth sense resides. You and your worldly life are far beneath the operations of this little alien substance. But sometimes it takes pity on you and lets you see beyond your weak organic eyes. It gives you a glimpse into a world beyond your imagination, but only a glimpse. Never will it ever let you trespass on its territory. At least not until your time has come.
All my life, I’ve been weak, sad, alone and scared. And it has damaged me in ways that I can’t fix. I cannot reverse it. I cannot undo it. No matter what I do, or how hard I try, I can’t change who I am. In fact, I can’t even decide if I want to change who I am.
All this rage, this anger, and negativity that is thriving inside me, I cannot just dump it out. I cannot just get past it and move on. I’ve tried to move on. I’ve tried to be brave, noble and optimistic. But I’ve failed every single time. I’ve failed miserably. Every time I take the high road, every time I try to rise above who I am. I find myself dragged back to the muddy lanes of my past.
I do not mean to stop trying. I will try. Again. And again until I succeed.
But before that, there is much I need to do. I need to know myself, discover and rediscover my soul. I need to own myself. I need to pinpoint the origins of all things dark. I need to nourish my soul, water my roots and strengthen my foundations. I need to find at least a semblance of a cure. I need to heal and mend. If I can’t be whole again, I would at least like all my broken pieces to be in their right places.