The point of vanishing

At times. Yes…certainly sometimes when one is deep in the grove of litany of utter desolation. An overwhelming pressure can bear down. It’s a slow imperceptible sensation like changing hands when carrying a bag only because the other feels uncomfortable – but this feeling is far more insidious. As it never truly leaves you….it’s always there in the background. Secret unseen at the very corner of your eye….just beyond your reach of consciousness. Yet it’s there, like the atmosphere….dust and all things that only seem invisible. Slowly. At some point, one feels almost like a solitary drop on ink in a beaker of clear water – one tries to keep it all together. To remain as one used to be. But all time, one is giving in the essence of oneself to a much more unseen force, as an individual, a human being, as someone who stirs his coffee anti clockwise or prefers to take off his watch at the end of the day…this self that is existence is slowly being lanced and unravelling…till like that drop of ink…it disappears completely. That if you didn’t know is what desolation can do to man. Any man even one who constantly takes faith in his sagacity and strength of character. The surrounding space that is the geography of desolation is so vast – it reminds one of the Russian steppes that seems to go on and on for eternity till everything becomes the very existence once can possibly fathom, know and believe to be the known world. And at some point in this unceasing grind it becomes increasingly difficult to keep a balanced grip on one’s own being. The mind tries to take a full sweep of what’s past and ahead, but it can never wrap it’s head to fill the entire landscape. One just thinks. One can do it. But it’s impossible as desolation by that point is infinity and when that point is breached – one can only be so diffuse in the process that something that once held character firmly down loses the ability remained fastened. Suddenly it breaks loose from it’s moorings. Suddenly it can no longer be suppressed as it barrels up from the depths of darkness. Bubbling to the surface like something once submerged for centuries.

The only remnant of sanity is the sun and the shadows that would rise from the east every morning, and make it’s slow languorous arch across the steely sky only to slink below distant hills to the west.

As crumbly and fragile as it seems. This is the connection one has to time, space and the not so confident version of the self in this planet called desolation.

There is nothing else. And in the very movement when the sun disappears completely over the horizon and a bluish eerie light baths everything with a faint opalescence glow that is when man truly how fragile and vulnerable he really is.

Only fools and children speak lightly and casually about desolation in the way boys who have never seen the terror of war speak of it with excitement….those who know this country called desolation.

The know the sobbing of the rustle of the leaves. The constant patter of rain from the eaves. The loneliness of clouds as they proceed along the skies. They know.’