I guess today elicits some writing. Not that I haven't written anything all this time. E. g. this is a draft I wrote on 28th June. But I was in an abyss then. I couldn't bring myself up to publish so much negativity.
"I don't know...I don't find anything to write...
The more I try to concentrate, the more I get this visual - that I am shouting, in fact howling in pain. And what inevitably follows is that he is taking me into his arms, almost by force, to shield me from the attention of the passers-by, something that I no longer care about, and gently patting my back, saying that it will be alright. It doesn't matter, I am not comforted, because I know that he's a coward.
That has always been my problem. I have loved cowards and given my everything to them. But why don't I get exasperated with this coward? Why do I go on loving him? Is it because I have nobody else?
Something is falling apart within me. With a ghost of a realization. Because at some level we are alike. Very alike. We cannot misbehave with people, can't hurt someone just for the heck of it. Even if people irritate us to the ultimate extent. There can be only two explanations. He actually hated me or he wanted me out of his life. Either way I don't have a place in his life. But if it's the second point - then he must also not trust himself. And that changes everything.
I have very little time left to live. Another 10 months and I lose even this shadow of a career. I can't beg, I can't fight anymore for sustenance. I don't want to sustain this meaningless life, period. If "
So, I stopped at that if. It seemed pointless to go on. Instead I neutrally observed myself slipping into an incurable depression - as if I were a mere clinical case study to myself. Ok, so this is how it feels, this is how people react. My voice cracked, my health started waning. I'd stay listless and aloof - and would expect bad news. I dragged myself to watch a movie, প্রাক্তন, the trauma just worsened. It was not a good movie, first and foremost, too much of overacting, too much of a concocted story, too weak a direction. Yet, I don't know where, but it caused me pain. Probably the futility of my trying to live. Probably my friendless situation, the rising bitterness towards this very selfish world, perhaps even my crumbling career, the sheer pain of not even being able to hold on to that. I'd remember my workplace - my first MNC, the security, care and coziness of work - even that is all gone, all the familiar faces have moved elsewhere. There is no familiarity, dependency or comfort left for me.
I stayed awake, let myself read something and drift into a dreamless and disturbed sleep. The inevitable zombie existence. Really truly grateful to a friend of mine who pinged once in a while in FB messenger and talked randomly, just making me laugh. He'd leave arbitrary messages, and I'd probably see those 2-3 days later and strike up a conversation if I felt like it. So the friend had messaged on Saturday, I went to office today and after finishing off some work I opened FB. There was my bossie, smiling that cute crooked smile and standing in between his wife and ahem, the water scooter man. I couldn't help smiling at the irony. No, I didn't feel any so called "surge of love". Not then.
In the evening when I finally retired in my room for some me time - I closed my eyes and was instantly drawn to that smile. The sheer positive energy of a good soul. I could see him in his blue shirt, that curious shade of cobalt blue - neither light, nor dark, full sleeve formal shirt, glancing back to tell me something. And I could see Rito, at the same time, in his dark blue shirt. Rito spelt attraction and enigma, bossie spelt simply protection and care. I got a lot of strength from somewhere. I finally coaxed myself to do what I couldn't, in all these 4 months of losing him. I listened to the audio-letter I had sent him. The first few droplets of tear trickled down my cheeks.
Nah, life won't change. I won't let it change perhaps, because I am so hell bent on punishing myself. Bossie is purity personified to me. Chandan sa badan, sandalwood in its ultimate subtlety. Rito is my night - we suffer in silence, maintaining our measured distance from each other. Is it the guilt? Or is it just the circumstances? I retire empty handed, with, once again, the unfocused eyes of a depressed soul having nothing to look forward to. Time again for my microscopic study. Girl, can't you dream anymore? One of those impossible dreams of yours? You can't or you just don't want to? I am irritated, I don't want to answer. What's the point?
