This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 28; the 28th Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is ‘BLANK PAGES’.
There is a fog around me. Cigarette smoke, my hazy vision mixed with the million threads of my imagination. I am not sure there is much light. There is a constant din in my ears, I can’t drown it out. However much I shout, however much I scream, it has become part of my insane mind.
The drugs have taken over my mind and amplified each and every emotion thousand-fold. This is what I wanted. The heart has won over the brain. It is wants and desires; it is me and only me at last.
I am volatile. I am a figment of some morbid imagination.
Because, after all, this has to be a nightmare, just a nightmare, right? Your mother committing suicide, your father abusing you and your sister, your father killing your sister, your own unreal wrath, your own darkness overpowering you, killing your father with your bare hands – this does not happen to a boy of nineteen years does it? This cannot have happened to me…things cannot have fallen so far apart.
I retch. That’s blood. I see blood. I don’t care anymore.
I look up to the brightly coloured walls and the photographs. But mostly I see sheets and sheets of paper, scribbled on with my writing, my inked thoughts. I stumble towards them and tear them down. I can’t bear them; written proof of this damned life that still exists. Why does it still exist?
All I need is someone saying, “This, too, shall pass” and for it to be true. All I need is to nebulise this monster that I have become and start from a foetus. All I need are blank pages.
But where shall I find them?