It’s hard to vividly describe the emotions I feel at times. If I could, I would paint a seamless picture, a flowing illustration of the sum of all my parts. Instead, I find myself limited to bursts of fleeting scenes — one moment, I see myself staring out the window of a slow-moving locomotive, cool breeze gently brushing against my skin, then the scene fades out and I next find myself huddled in my own room, sheltered from the ongoing downpour as I gaze across to the sprawling cityscape on a starless night, kept alight by harsh neon and flashes of lightning.
Bursts. Short-lived are my sequences, like the flickering flame on the candle by my nightstand, manipulated by the flippant flow of the wind — but I won’t extinguish the embers in my head. It helps to feel, and it helps to think; to mull; to reflect; let memories play on and on in clockwork fashion while I go through the full catalogue of emotions befitting an internal screening of a documentary about my very being.
What is time? The body obeys it but memories stay outside its defined circle. Morning dawns once again but I continue to dream inside my head. There is no pause button, but life’s humdrum takes away the desire for one, and so continues the wait that renews itself every day; wait, for the day’s labours to end and the self retreats back into the mind for short-lived sequences — a disease for the antidote. The locomotive trudges on to its next destination, and the eternal downpour shows no signs of relenting, because I’m afraid of what I’ll see, when the journey ends and the storm recedes.