Relapse

Everyday I wake up, and think, I hope, and pray, for the day to be different, to change my life, get me out of my rut, a fresh start, a new beginning. With a sardonic smile on my face, and an ironically hopeful heart, I overlook all the tangled ends of the story, turn the page, over to a fresh one, a blank one, ready to write a new story, a bright, prosperous, cheerful one. All guns out, and pursued with enthusiasm, I write my story; embrace life with open arms, smile up-to the sky, rose-tinted glasses on. A fantasy grows, like a wild flower, lively, full of promise. Life’s a blessing you see, you gotta live it! With arms wide open; talk take in the good without the bad you see…? It is about the universal duality; light and darkness, joy and sadness, strength and weakness… well they say you’re a fool if you shy from life, to avoid the unpleasantries. Why hermits r no common people, and you are definitely not marked to be wise and detached like a hermit. You are not cool enough to be happy either, that’s for the upper hierarchies! So all you can do is stay in the rut, get kicked in the guts, suck it up and move on. Or take advice, and embrace life. Its impractical to be idealistic, apart from a few, remember?

Its midway through, I think, ‘hey I can do this! Life’s gonna change! I can’t believe it! I think I may start to have faith again!’ It is such a comfort. I think of the cosy night’s sleep and the smile on my face and the end of the day. The horrors of the past don’t seem so cruel anymore. It’s going to be worth it, you wait and see; I reassure myself exuberantly. Then beautiful sunset follows, fills me with such hope and peace, overwhelmed at being where I wanted to be, for ages. Then after the beautiful sunset, the horizon darken, clouds roll up, as I turn to get my diary, to fill the rest of the page. As a roll of thunder cracks up the sky, the pages of the diary flitter back and forth. The ink bleeds onto the fresh page, clean and promising! I watch terrified, as my story is washed over by the ruins of the past; my fresh start, the promising story, lost in the oozing ink. I try my best to save it, keep the page unharmed, but it catches on. All I can do then is see it ruined, and entangled as before. This is how opening up helps me; it comes round one whole circle, only to knock the breath out of me. Whatever fragments of hope and faith I harboured in my broken heart, even they were wrenched apart; time and again, with every new day, with a whole new circle round. After all I am nobody special; stay in the rut, get kicked in the gut, and suck it up! If embracing it all was about accepting the opposites, the duality, how come is it not a question of idealism? As without the balance they are just means of chaos and pain. And a state of balance is indeed ideal, what is desirable, and what should be. Then how is it any different than the idealism of a hermit’s detachedness? And I fall asleep, hurt and broken, with these thoughts running through my mind; only to wake up yet again to follow the same destructive routine of pursuing happiness. The ultimate illusion.