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A Life of Never-ending Thirst

Anger has become such a big part of my life. I do not know it has something to do with the loosely used term of city rage or is it something very peculiar to me. Somewhere, I want to be pampered, showered with the same love which I had always tried to search in the longing. I suppose the rage which was simmering all the while and came out as witty cynicism, now holds my conscious by its neck. It feels it stems from the failure not only in getting the love which I was longing for, but rather in the fact that the failure seems more certain with every passing day. The confidence which I had in my own being, in my own physical being seems to be fading away every passing day, a struggle which begins every dawn to arrest the decline, by digging my heels in the quicksand on which I stand, gives way to a heavy and melancholy sadness by the evening, which comes down as a dark cloud, heavy with pregnant storm within, floating downwards, before being hit with the finality of a dreadful lightening. Every afternoon as I struggle to keep the sense of dark patches floating across my vision, the sense of death, a closure of the curtain seems too close for comfort. Some watery patches with dark dots keep floating in front of eyes, as I struggle hard to keep up the pretense of normalcy. Sometime I feel I could still be better off if I could forget the past, the time when I was moving around in a yearning, which was so pronounced and still so poignent, and while eyes were set on a faraway future with a promise of great love, the love which was really true, beautiful and ethereal in nature was all around me. When eventually future became present, only then did I realise the love which I had left behind in the past.
I had patched up with life, some time back when life had stepped forward, cutting through the cynicism which offered a security,we entered into a bargain. When I look back, edging to the middle age, I could only say that life has not kept some part of that bargain. The annoyance and the vacant place in my being where the promise of a man once existed created such anger that keeps seeping through the sanity. When I entered into that bargain, I had relegated myself to the back and now I find how far back I had left my self. A big part of what I was has been left behind and now those for whom it was done in the first place, feel short-changed, a skewed balance of bargain which started elsewhere, step by step entered into every facet of life. A skeleton of the man moves around looking for a life left far behind, struggling to regain what was once his, what he once was, if not for anything else at least for the one who has not seen him when he was complete, even through raw and unfinished and solitary.

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