An Ode To Thought

by samantakbhadra

There are certain times in the day when I stop doing whatever I am doing at that point of time and jump into a vortex of thoughts, all bound up in each other to form a complex grid. The blank white wall in front of me dissolves and becomes vapour. There is no tangible boundary, neither is there a reason for the existence of one. In that complex grid, I find myself wandering on meadows and hillocks that blend into one another time and again, periodically and sporadically.

Then a concoction of faces start appearing in front of me. Some of them smile, some cry and some look at me with hollow eyes. I let them come at me. They walk through me and leave as abruptly as they come. My senses are no more a part of me. They are independent characters in an effervescent story. I watch them flow effortlessly through the grid, filled with curiosity and devoid of direction. Pictures, memories, words and smells play in front of me, like a rusted motion picture. The reel falls off the projector and  I pick it up.

The liquid is brewing in my mind. The smell hits. The faces come back. They explore me once again. I am now thinking of all that was good, is good and whether the future will contain a morsel of happiness. Simultaneously, I think of all that has gone wrong in me, around me and without me. I see acid and darkness and bloodcurdling screams. They are glued to the good parts like Siamese twins. Would a surgery be good enough? Or does it require the loss of a life?

 —

 I am out of the vortex now. The latte in the paper cup has gone cold. Damn it! Stupid cold latte. I feel cold. The air conditioning is not working properly it seems. There’s a message on the screen – “Your session has timed out. Please login again.” Time had run out. Eviction was only a necessity. The balance has to be maintained. Maybe not in the virtual world, I realize. I trust the mouse and the keyboard. They help me to login again.

My mind is a beehive of radioactive waste. I think of things that hurt me, hold me tight and strangle me. I think of all that has become weird. Things that were not meant to be but are. Things that are a reality even though they look better in a book of fiction. Even then, I see the colour spreading wide. It is there. It was always there. The colour is constant just like change. These random and weird thoughts mixed with the memories of the past and the future confine me in a room under the earth where the damp walls smell nice and the sounds do not pervade. I am in me when I am in the vortex.

The latte goes into the dustbin.

Published in The Cauldron, India (May, 2013)

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