A Monologue with myself

There are times when what is said is not what is meant. Biding time seems the best escape. Escape I say because time is such a transient quantity. And each second is an ephemeral bearer of moments- a moment that, in turn, possesses a heady concoction of wishes and desires and passions and cravings. Each one of us has a procrastinating process exclusive to ourselves in a bid to abide in that moment of luxury for a time more than the moment can afford. Deferring a thought, an action, a quest or even a living to nestle in that complacent cocoon of self-denial for those few extra inconsequential moments much like those forbidden ten minutes of sleep in the morning, whose futility make it even more irresistible. Mine, over the past half a year has been to light a cigarette and in the reddish grey smolder of it had started to dwell for me a strange pacifying few moments , the ineffectuality of which I was in aware of full measure but never in custody of a will strong enough to acknowledge. Writing this is perhaps an attempt at penance. In fact, it is just a monologue with myself that I owe to myself. I live in a place where there is no spring. An extremely sudden oppressive summer takes over from a harsh winter. Life without gradations, as I’ve come to realize and experience is difficult and mine in this particular occasion has quite unnecessarily decided to replicate the rather unsavoury Jharkhand weather. The writing on the wall had been forever now but that sheath of smugness had made me so comfortably myopic that the possibility of what I had always anticipated but was never in truth ready for seemed unreasonably far- fetched.  Surprises border on shocks so often that I believe they should be treated as synonyms but some people still claim to know better. They’ll learn soon. Well, the place doesn’t quite defy the laws of nature completely. There is a period when the sun does not exactly beat down and the chilly breeze doesn’t take your ears off- it’s short and fleeting though. And now since life has on some strange whim decided to ape the weather, the buds of spring didn’t quite bloom into flowers but I’m not quite complaining. The aftertaste of moderation, mother says, is always better and I trust her. There is so much more I want to ramble but I can already feel the grace starting to wane at a dangerous pace. But honestly I’m disappointed; mightily disappointed. The deal wasn’t quite fair. No, not at all.  The incubation period of the malady was so short; yes, what bothers me is that it was shorter than when I was the lacuna.  The seminal studded drama was worth more than that surely. I am an engineer by training and so numbers come to me as they should to even the worst of our breed. And the story the numbers say makes my blood fucking boil. The anger is misplaced or perhaps it’s just misdirected. Maybe, I need to make more out of it. Rage is a powerful emotion- I fear I’m wasting its potency. My incisor pesters me to be evil. It makes sense too I suppose. Dazed and confused- Plant sings. I agree.