"I want you to do something for me," a good friend said to me once, in a time called once upon a time. "I want you to sit down and write for 6 hours."
I laughed. "Write what? I don't know what to write. I'm no writer," I said, the lie of a half smile still upon my lips.
"Yes you are! Just write anything. Write the first thing that comes into your head."
"Garbage thoughts aren't for paper. They're for the fallibility of short term memory." I tried to laugh again, but possibly wanting to avoid sounding like a caricature of a comic book baddie, I didn't succeed the second time.
So, here I am. I've tried to hide from this, but how can I hide from myself? It lurks there, in some corner of my mind, like a sulking child. It waits for me to forgive it, to call it over and cradle it in my arms and whisper its name and mention my longing.
Forgiveness however is for the angels; I am no forgiver. I wish I was. Yet, all the roads I have walked, all the quicksteps danced, each marathon's finish all lead back to that corner, where it impatiently waits for me.
Life is a rocking-horse journey. We sit upon rocking horses, shouting "Tally ho!" but never really going anywhere. However hard I try to whip my horse away, I realise that I am still on the same spot, that corner of my mind.
Imagine that corner of my thinking if you will. Some cobwebs thrown here and there for good effect, hanging from unseen beams. A finger thick layer of dust in the air, as though the darkness is the expanse of someone's back with bad dandruff. Here now, in that 'v' shaped crevice, it sits. I know the one who waits so well and yet I label it with merely an it.
It is the corpse of so many unfulfilled hopes that lie unburied in your mind and heart, rotting away. It is un-dead; a vampire waiting for the night sleeps there, its stink pervades down to the pit of your stomach. When I lie awake on the verge of another solitary night, that is when it wakes to feed on the blood of my fears. Though strangely, it's at the twilight of these times I can feel it the most strongest, as though the anticipation is far greater than the thing itself.
It, too, is the fallacy of holding on. If you hold on too tightly to life, it dies a slow death. Like the best of all loves, life flourishes best when you let it go.
It is me.
Losing one's mind is definitely not something to pity. Why feel sorry for those that go crazy? All obligation, religious, moral and historical goes out of the window. It is an easy way out. And yet, my mind is crystal clear. I do not have even the comfort of insanity.
I know that if you can't forgive, you must at least learn to let it go. And writing helps. My friend was right. It kills the insomnia, if nothing else.