Early Morning Musings Part 2

 

It was a boring night, full of light, just like any other before and many more to come. The bland, stark, moodless white light from the tube and the power-saving CFL both bathed the room from two different angles.

 

The windows still showed a black vision outside. The whiskey still made its pit-stop in the glass before reaching my stomach. The music also remained the same, on loop. It was the same track that smothered the room every night, in perfect harmony with the lonely vibe emitted by the four other empty rooms, themselves black, acting as an extension of the night outside, clawing its way inside. A random mosquito did buzz in some corner. But insects are poor company, and especially bad at conversation. Add to that fact that there are times in the day when waiting for replies seems tedious. People tend to not reply at ‘odd’ times in the middle of the night.

 

The mind is a strange and terrible mass at such times. Malleable enough to convince itself the outrageous and sharp enough to be made into a weapon. Stubborn enough to warp understanding. Add consistent repetition of such nights, and it is a dangerous substitute to the brain. Mix even a whiff of the potent, neat, amber enabler, and every feeling becomes a suspicious metaphor longing to be introspected. The reference? Failure, incomplete goals, insufficient successes.

 

Oh right. That is why drinking alone is discouraged. No matter. One should always try new experiences. But when does one convince oneself that the ‘n’ in ‘n^th time’ does not stand for new?

 

Anyway, the mind-weapon when activated with ammunition supplied by a heart bereft of desire, already black (which thankfully, the darkness in the adjoining rooms do not know) starts blurring the lines between psychology (of which I know nothing) and reality (which it convinces my brain that I know little of). Metaphorical meaning attributed seems only logical. As if the writer did actually mean that the drunken writing brimming with alcohol laden words about being alone in an empty house actually indicated he was a in a bad place psychologically and in depression.

 

The filled bookcase, with books unread and half-read. The ageing computer containing ancient but necessary data. The leaking neglected tap. The still striving microwave. All of them are attributed some deeper imaginative meaning. Because, remember, the brain has been hijacked. It is a conspiracy. A mind that wants to free itself, and a heart that wants to set itself free. They don’t realize that their aims are opposite, though the means will be the same: a final release.

 

Comedically, the whiskey, the enabler provides one such means of release. But as much as it ensures that the senses are dulled to create such a faux freedom, it also befuddles it. Clarity can only be achieved with another sip. The cycle continues.

But like the curtain, which over time, as the dust accumulates, needs an even larger breeze to move it, whiskey can only take you so far. Did I actually use a ‘curtain’ metaphor? How long before I start comparing the emptying bottle and my pen to an emptying heart and intimate thoughts? Sigh.

 

Another option is psychological help. But then that would be you reading too much into all this.

 

There’s of course the last way. That will require a bit of effort, a strongly warped sense of self and reality and the willingness to give up the last shred of consciousness…

 

Dreams. Good Night. I’m off to bed.