I have been wasting a lot of my time, of late. Or am I? My mind feels like an overflowing iron trunk, the sort that is kept atop wardrobes until they begin to feel like a part of it, as if it were its head. Covered in dust and grime, it is strange how we often forget that the contents might actually be quite clean compared to the exterior. Although I remind myself how once, on opening such a box and excitedly reaching out for a rather fancy piece of clothing, to my utter dismay I had watched it crumble to dust at my very touch.
I wish memories worked that way sometimes – the old, faded ones, dimly lit with the light of those faraway eyes which had once seen it unfurl in its magnanimity, now dissolving like a palette of paint – overlapping, confused of their individual realities. But that seldom happens, for I have seen my memories grow stronger, uglier by the day, eventually going on to transform into something radically different. Surprisingly enough, even the momentary specks of fond memories interspersed amid a rather sordid bunch, lose their original flavour or get inevitably morphed into something unpleasant.
I’m scared of happy memories. I’m scared at the way they unwittingly become painful, and how they always seem to be laced with resentment. It is similar to going through photographs of dead people or people to whom you can no longer return. Except when you revisit happy memories, you can sometimes feel the lingering smile you shared with them, or the way your heart raced at their touch. But the resentment stays, because even if the people did not leave, they changed. Or the circumstances did.
The thing about the unpleasant memories, now, is that with every passing day they seem to turn more vicious. We see them in a light that is ten or even twenty shades darker than the original picture. Maybe my school days were not that gloomy as they appear now in retrospection. It is true that I did not have many friends and was a wallflower for most part of that phase, but living there, then, it did not strike me as being tedious. I have a tendency of comparing my present with my past, where the past, far from evoking a sense of tender nostalgia, feels like an alien city built on counterfeited smiles.
Have you ever had a song play on loop inside your head with a scramble of unrelated thoughts walking in and out? It feels so utterly messed up that I go from happy to miserable before you can count up to three. I am aware that I dwell excessively inside my head, which often gives rise to warped rants I like to call poetry. They are full of beautiful imageries and verbose syntaxes, and though they might appear a little shifted from reality, they are actually so close to it that the realness seems like an illusion.
Just like that, there are teeming cities of countless emotions dwelling in the core of my very being, its pristine streets waiting anxiously for the footfall of a lunatic, crazy enough to take a casual stroll and know that it is not easy to fall in love with magic, even if it is you who has brewed it in your own cauldron through the vagaries of time.
6 August 2016