The Line Of Imagination

The task of the solitary man is to be even more solitary - Emil Cioran It happens all of a sudden. A random conversation with a friend. A conversation that is not even solidified in voices, rather through words on the screen. My mind reads it in my own voice. Yet, there is something in its rhythm that is not me. Perhaps, that's the awareness of self that I should be thankful for. Nevertheless, it reminds me how long it has been since I spoke to someone outside my house. My cousins call often. But I leave those conversations to my parents. The pandemic might have taken a toll beyond human measure. Children dead. Old people eaten alive by the ruthlessness of life. A million hands for ten loaves of bread. For me, it has been a cocoon from all the noise in the world. I like being abandoned. Call me crazy, and many do, but you cannot really be sure of knowing yourself unless you only have yourself to know. I know every inch of my insecurity, and its insecurity, and the pride wit...

I am not a writer. Not anymore. I used to be. Filled pages and pages with worthless drabble. I remember those days. Pissed my dad off quite a bit. Those annual diaries were gifts and not to be used for dreamy scribbles. Ration, monthly lists, bank accounts. Those were the practical matters that were to be held within the lined pages. I don't do that anymore. Well, if I am honest, I still type out words every day. Like a machine. On a machine. I do about 1000 words, I suppose. Give or take. That is a job. It pays. I can't complain. Although my father thinks it does not pay as much. My mother is more worried that it keeps me up at night. She does not know the nights have nothing to do with the job. I just can't sleep. This is new for me. The writing, I mean. Technically, I am still typing. Not writing. Little mercies, I suppose. My handwriting would be as chaotic as my thoughts, I suppose. I suppose. That is all I do these days. Supposing things that never happened, if t...