Don’t be surprised at the title. This is how I feel, right about now. You ask me why? Well, I don’t know.
Or may be I do. If I try to explore, there is no reason that the reason should not come out in open. So, let me try and figure it out, by thinking aloud.
The day started, oh well, I didn’t sleep at all, so, let’s try it again. I was quite happy in the morning. Unusually cheerful. The laptop which refused to work since the last few weeks, suddenly decided to play a sport. So, more cheerfulness.
I also found some kiddie pictures of mine, and since twitter-junta was going crazy about them, I also put one up. Made me happier still. Also, I think I fell in love with myself all over again just then.
The nostalgia brought about by those pictures took me back to my books. I raided the shelf and settled on Yeats, Ezekiel, Tennyson and Eliot to relive the past. And it was all downhill from there. As I was reading those stanzas, the past memories started coming back, and how. Funnily enough, all of the returning memories were those sad ones, none of them which could make me happy. It all came rushing back – the gloomy days, the pain, the fight and then some.
Looking for distraction, I took refuge in some music. And as if on cue, Counting Crows was chosen. The utter sadness and depression of the band seemed to seep deep down my insides, and I found myself choking to the point of breathlessness. Sounds exaggerated, but what I went through at the time, no words could ever do justice in explaining.
I tried to sleep. But it was as if Mr. Sandman had also shaken hands with the conspirator of my brain, and I was left restless as ever, all my efforts to calm myself down in vain. Looking for yet another distraction, I stumbled upon a blog. Now being a sucker for those personal ramblings that I am, I was hooked to it in no time. The fact that it was written in a beautifully engaging and frank manner, coupled with my recent interactions with the author compelled me to read it through. The posts spoke straight to the heart, and I could almost feel as if the stories were being narrated to me by the author sitting right across me. It was a cathartic experience, and I felt strangely involved. It was getting creepy, and I gave up.
It gave me a surreal kind of feeling. Head was reeling. Suddenly, it all culminated into an anxiety attack. Too much thinking had happened, and probably it was a sign for me to take a break, and go back to the mundane.
Pending laundry and unwashed dishes called out to me, and I decided to finally pay a heed. But the two things in the entire set of to-dos which never let me down when it comes to distracting myself, failed me this time.
I just feel a numbing sadness right now. Nothing else.