Sometimes He wonders If he can simply put an end to his random thoughts. Those random sentences in his head that drives him crazy even if he isn’t. Sometimes he wonders what might had happened if humans could have controlled their shackled thoughts, just grab the productive ones out, and ignore the unproductive ones. Can they? Thoughts, Inspirations, Imaginations are one of those factors that drive the society forward. To Imagine a world only of thinkers with productive thoughts, one can only Imagine a world progressing faster than any civilization with enormous amount of polymaths the Earth has ever witnessed. Imagine things next to impossible.
This is yet one of those nights, when thoughts rumble in his head. Boundless agony, frustration, annoyance that makes his mind to vomit them in form of randomly arranged letters that makes sense. For a moment his mind is a dark alley, a place covered with stinking filth everywhere. Yet they say it’s a gold mine. A mine that can produce more gold than even Midas can ever do. It is darkness. Absolute darkness. Just mumbling, some random voices shrieking out at their highest pitch to make him whine. As the walls of his consciousness trembles, he feels horrified. He fears the scared himself more. He needs to put an end to thinking, stop those sporadic thoughts. He is not bipolar, nor Schizophrenic, He can stop them, Yes! He can.
But alas! Reality shouts that he cannot.
Bygone are those days, when his imagination contained of a colored world, those eyes that turned bewildered every time they saw a new object. That infinite unsustainable curiosity that did drive his enthusiasm infinitely insane to know more about itself. Bygone are those days when he wondered where Rainbow begins from, or why the water doesn’t travel upwards. As the Wide oggly eyes of amazement have paralyzed themselves to perfunctory ones. As his mind embraced the trauma of adulthood. In the midst of darkness those eyes now search for a hint of light, they need peace, they need something serene, they need an inspiration.
He is afraid that his ambitions are weak. That even with the slightest of a quake it shall destroy it like a House of cards. He wonder’s if his life shall remain as dull as it is, always. He quotes himself of Albert Camus. He believes that in the midst of winter, he shall find the invisible summer within him. He tries to keep calm, but his ruthless head doesn’t let him to do so. Tired, he throws his books to the edge of his table. Frustrated deep down, he inserts the pen to his cap with infinite precision. He wonders if he can scourge back to the past to steal his own thoughts. Thoughts that really made him happy. As all his attempts towards a silent mind goes futile with every passing second, He wants to yell, to scream and shout the ongoing thoughts in his head, to push them out of his own body like tiny droplets of sweat. Unbearable negativity, this is it.
With an indefinite number of thoughts oozing, most of them out of which he thinks does not matter even the slightest , he longs for peace. Famished and devastated he silently sinks in his bed, as he turns off the light to embrace darkness physically. The noise of the fan that keeps on rotating above his head sounds more sweet when compared to his own voice. He tries to lose himself in it. He tries again and again, as it only aggravates his situation further.
The more he yields to his unfathomable thoughts, the more ambivalent he becomes. He wonders if he is in fact in a war with the self within him. He wonders if the thoughts of vendetta against his own thoughts are justifiable. He wonders if he shall avoid them forever if he could. He just wonders, as he stares into the dark sky full of stars, with a vacant mind.