Moth-eaten Memoirs

Yet another moondrop slowly drifts into my room. Half adrift into the land of slumber and yet half awake still, I find myself awake and asleep at the same time. Part of my being is still in my body, while part of it is hovering around. Is this what the Dreamwalk is like, a brief part of my mind wonders? But before I can build up further on it, my mind changes focus again. Shifting thoughts pass through me like sand sifting across fingers of the hand- no matter how hard you try to hold on to the quartz bits glittering among the obsidian darkness, all you’re left with in the end is a small fistful of dirt.

Of late, waking or sleeping, my entire life has been a repetition of this. I trudge through life half aware, like a muted, blunted version of myself. My mind held trapped under a mossy forest of subconscious thoughts, fears, and feelings and underneath all of it my thoughts stay, half-transpired, too obstinate to dissolve and yet too scared to condense. Just in this decade and yet a lifetime ago, my fingers formed words faster than my mind could weave them. Half-awake at night I have gotten up because they would not let me sleep- and I have poured them out in endless torrents of black ink scrawling, scratching, and defacing the surface of the sacred, bleached hearts of a 100 felled trees. And yet, now, for many a month, I have failed to pick up the pen and write one thing that mattered. I’ve gazed endlessly at teacups and found the abyss staring back at me, with no storm brewing within. I’ve painted only forgeries, and nothing has told a story of my own.

Maybe there is a Multiverse, and maybe we are all just balanced precariously like the phosphorescent specks on waves, endlessly moving towards the shore but never quite reaching there- an endless duel of restless tugs, until one day the light ebbs, and the seabed beckons, and lets the gravity talk. Maybe we are all a bit here, and a bit, nowhere. Maybe I have lost the part of me that was here and maybe I’ve left behind the part of me that was there. Maybe I am now just a shell, a hollow facade of what used to be me, a transient after-memory. Maybe the words that nourished me have either exhausted themselves, or worse- fled in agony over who I have become. Maybe this is just me, mortal, wounded, without the wings I have sheared off mercilessly, and burner to lose flight. Maybe this is the me drowning in an answerless cesspool of endless questions, all of which end in a visceral why. Why?