Paranoia

Day 50 and still during some cold nights, by the merciful grace of merciless fate or by the grotesque mishmash of my nexus of feelings, I traverse to that ethereal realm where my uncanny dreamy fiction got commenced. And when I’m there I still walk ahead and then sit upon that big rock and I still stare at the horizon which still seems like a mile away. Still beneath my toes roam the bundles of big, small; fat, thin cotton clouds randomly, wavering throughout the sky in turtle motion. And the only thing that is still not there is her essence, her impressively impressive aura and her godly glamour. And maybe that’s the smallest reason disturbing biggest things in this grand conglomerate of oddity. Maybe that’s the reason why these clouds no longer laugh to the sound of gloomy wind, the wind that once used to be so elating. Maybe that’s the reason; hell has descended beneath my toes instead of good ol’ heaven. And maybe that’s the reason; instead of flying off everywhere in my sleep I, every time the nocturnal haven sways me to this nostalgic land, I sit here in the silence in a fluttering hope that one of these days she will sit beside me.  Maybe

Despite the fact that I hate waking up, I had to and rush to the work as if I’m some madman running off from one asylum to another asylum (I used to be a night owl but now I barely date the daytime). Yet I do my work with same old pace and a bored face enough to keep myself off from the reach of parasitic narcissists searching for another victim to suck their peace and fill them with the venom of hypocrisy and gossips. But when I get my time, instead of playing games or scrolling the phone, I wander about my current mental state; the bizarre vision as I name it. Sometimes I wonder that if I might be going insane or something and other times I try to not try to think about her. I believe in sharing problems with loved ones but in this particular peculiar case I believe that if I tell this anyone, and if I tell with genuine solemnity, they won’t waste a second in granting me the highest honors of insanity; a psychiatrist.  I mean what am I gonna say, say that I have got feelings for some not-known lady I met in my dreams, more than a fortnight ago (gloomy chuckle)? I told this to one of my cousin brother and he proffered these words of wisdom: “That’s serious inception shit going with you bro. Maybe it’s time for you to stop watching dudes wearing underpants outside the clothing and watch real world stuffs (Odious spooky smile)”. I admit that was too naive of me to expect anyone to be that gullible.

Initially I thought that this will go away with time but as a matter of fact it’s getting more persistent. As the sun starts to descend, the anxiety and frustration come to me; they rationalize my brain for breakfast, lunch and supper while I sit there with a cup of strong coffee in my hand. And every morning before going to that cursed cabin on the fifth floor of Abyss technologies, I think that it might be the best time to take a break and go on a holiday. I just think and then my thinking circles me back to the dream conglomerate, the floating clouds, the mile farther horizon and eventually to her.

My search for a sketch artist then begin and fortunately for me, my uncle is a police inspector so after a couple sharing of lies I persuaded him to arrange a meeting. For when it comes to that place and especially her, I have an eidetic memory. I remember her as if I’m Leonardo da Vinci and she is Mona Lisa, I’m Beethoven and she is the Fifth Symphony, I’m Michelangelo and she is Sistine Chapel, I’m life and she is the soul.  I described the essence of my dream, though I didn’t tell the truth, to the sketch artist with so profound fluency that even he was amazed. After a couple hours of my brain exploring all the aspects of this surreal hype and my words describing each and every component of this bizarre mix of facts and fantasy, the sketch description was complete.

The sketch was sent to my apartments at evening and I opened it as if the famine crippled man was given a packet of food. Ignoring the background and all, I, without wasting a second, gazed in her sketch. She was perfect and my wholeness felt a strange kind of relief as if the sketch has quenched my one month worth longing to see her once again. I kept looking, kept staring at it and then serenely smiled at my own aesthetic paranoia and once again I commenced my journey to the nocturnal land that injected  me with this bttersweet paranoia.

 

 

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