A very pretty memory of my snow-colored dreamcatcher stops me from wandering into one of my thoughts that gushes in from a very close-up distorted space of my mind. I have been rushing to free myself, from memories and from myself. I'm convinced sometimes that it's my haste to do something that almost comes in the way of doing anything at all. Suddenly, I hold the railing a little too hard now as I stare past the waves of the sea, almost seeing the reflection of a conflicted soul making a plea to Amphitrite, the goddess of sea to get free from fears that gnaw on my sanity. I laugh a little mocking myself and turn my back to the marvelous view behind me. Closing eyes, I remembered all the established stories and thoughts of fellow poets and scriptwriters and what immediately wrecked my mind was this particular line- "I suppose in the end, the whole life becomes an act of letting go, but what always hurts the most is not taking a moment to say goodbye."
You'd think that my particular interest in this verse is symbolic of me sharing a background story. Well, you are not wrong but summarising such absurd confluence of events that isn't anything but normal in every individual's life would take more time than what solving an integration equation would take for me. While I such pathetically at maths, I would not say the same for my ability to think beyond the comprehension for average human understanding. I take little pride in admitting at this point that out of all the things I could possibly serve in my conversations, I indecently bring out the critical question of the harmful effects that thinking entails.
They're not the most revered traits of my personality and on a personal level, I keep subjecting them to criticism. And that, my dear reader, primarily is how faintly it sticks a red signal on pursuing the feeling of a well-earned good night's sleep. Thoughts that trigger something of a dark spell on your wits. You lose them as irrationality covers you with a gazillion forbidden questions. I might as well agree that the limit of the human mind cannot be tested and to which extent it could go hitting the chords that are sanctioned by societal norms.
The triggering point for my mind's forbidden areas of existence is a state of incompleteness and powerlessness in the face of disasters and realities and lacking any methodical reasoning to bend it backward and find satiation. I'm startled by the waves crashing the side of the railing and I'm urged to let the cold water touch the overworked feet, almost stumbling as I sit down. The waves teach you something that an elite range of stories won't. The collision that finally sublime to a distinct calm. Calming down after an intense struggle with two building tides. Maybe I'd have the surges calming down just like the collision of the aspiring waves.
Something about what dawned on me then sounded very aptly understood by the entities immortalized in their writings that hold very little space in the labyrinth of eight billion minds.
Unable to quote the exact words, I'd satisfy you with the essence of its words not as skillful as the owner of these thoughts. "A sentiment mind holding a higher intellectual property gradually lowers the happiness quotient because to think is where the horror lies, where the sorrow lies." It dates back to a time when the sanctuary of unfinished stories, tales, thoughts, feelings didn't get their due farewell and the possibility of stopping time to process the piling onset of changes wasn't a privilege one would be given. The heavy dragging mess of the heart and the shaken certainty of the mind confided in the waves reflecting the eyes aching for the calmness after the collision. I'll have this moment between me and the vast nothingness, the ocean remains a hostage of, saying the last goodbye to all unfinished thoughts, stories, and tragedies.
