Marking the end

It’s all a lie, and it has all only ever been a lie. I don’t understand how I could’ve believed anything in the first place – did it not all seem so incredulous? But I did; and now, I sit alone in my room, beside the dark roads and drone of still lonelier crickets, and I regret having believed myself in the first place. Maybe, I shouldn’t have gone at all. But that would instigate another hive of lies, and I’d be all the same upset. I’m always upset. These past days especially. Something wormed itself into me. And it doesn’t help that the routine to which I have grown so comfortable has been upended. Never again shall I see that life. On Monday, I’ll wake up feeling lost and troubled because of emptiness that greets me.

Maybe I shouldn’t have gone; shouldn’t have devoted so much of energy to looking pleasant, or to capturing those contingencies which the mind develops all the time. The blue swallow fleets past me and I can do nothing. It doesn’t even spare me a glance. I’m like that oak tree that just stands there like a fool, waiting for.. It doesn’t matter now.

It was supposed to be night of wild laughter and memorable partings. None of that seemed to have materialised. In fact, I couldn’t be bothered with anything, much less the vaudeville. I just wanted to distract myself. So I took my phone out and began reading the forums while everyone else at the table cheered and jeered, and booed and glued their cups to their lips, and waited and counted, then asked the questions punctured by chuckles and outbursts of comic. I can’t say that I enjoyed the night very much. I had indeed looked forward to it; perhaps a little too much. And this is the result. Nothing happens the way you imagine it to.

I am better off living in my imagination.



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