Beneath glittering stars

Having realized that much of my life has been a monument to death, I can no longer ignore that death is and has been a major theme in my short life. Often at times I doubt my sanity. The sudden cravings for death reduce me to cinders. I have never had much to live for and with every passing day perhaps, I have less and less. Perhaps I should choose suicide for its specter has haunted me for than eight years now. I remember pleading with God, telling him that life was unfair.

“I did not ask to be in this world. Why should I be judged for a choice I never made? I do not want to choose between religions; choose between my natural urges and the compounding restrictions that Islam imposes.” I was too meticulous or maybe my reason had been destitute.

 

The sexual control ensnares nausea. Perhaps it is this abomination that willfully imposes albeit a subconscious desire to suck the marrow out of my own bones. Is this the manifestation of the teenage lesson: “you have no worth”?  At times I believe it is the absurdity of existence itself. I do not have answer and the absence of a single symbol to blame for my troubles gives me a host of explanations -explanations that turn out to be lifesaving although the agent is confused to what it wishes.

At times I think of her and I wish to say to say this even though the words lead you to the imitation of a cliché. To call it a love story would be to presume too much; akin to building a castle over the moving waters. The melancholic strain benefits from putting its host in settings wherein the suicidal urges can take root. My mind has been a battlefield for a number of years and rejection has not helped matters. If anything my pessimistic analysis would have me dead for “I am truly inadequate for love”

Overpowered, I take to the roof and cry out the sorrows I perceive others, circumstance and I have visited upon myself. The stars remind me of the enormity of the universe; the vastness of space. The world seems insignificant compared to the universe at large and yet the world – the specific instance of living - makes the observation possible. I may have been led to believe I am insignificant – that I am nothing – but perhaps I can find solace in the belief that this statement, when viewed against the still frame of evolutionary time is at worst true for everyone.

On the border of the realm of death and life I have pleaded to God and his wicked minions. I have assumed that they want me to live. I have assumed agency where there is none. I am not a homeless child or a psychopath though this business of thinking about everything takes me there.

 

Sleep well now, the night is young
and the cold wind shatters against the window-
intimately, the moon, the stars, combine; say:
“rest awhile, a new day starts tomorrow”
and you go back to the living.

To the dull monotony of life, which is really much more than I presume; in most instances it is not dull at all.