Nothingness…

There are silences everywhere; silences so loud they drown out every other sound. They’re there everywhere, everytime; it’s now the new reality. The mind’s awhirl with questions unanswered. And possibly unasked. Since I’m no longer sure if I asked the questions. Or if I only meant to. Or if I didn’t. Or if I want the answers. Or if the confusion was others’. Which I pulled upon myself.

Logic vs. Emotion vs. Hope vs. Fate vs. Inevitability. Battles rage on internally. I’m the battlefield and the spectator. As the gladiators fight. And then they do the graveyard shift as I beg for mercy and sleep. I get down on the blood-stained earth to make peace but I walk through the fighters like through holographic projections. Their sabres fly through me without resistance but somewhere I feel them, maybe because I’m now, by definition, walking inside myself. For some reason now I think of recursive functions that I once studied but there are the questions again. Was my one-time obsession with Mathematics a manifestation of this very feeling?

Leonard Cohen and Nirvana and the Solitary Man graciously make way for each other on the stage in my head. Are these emotions felt? Or are they merely choices? Which I make? What else does the phrase ‘setting the stage’ mean? Why would I prepare the ring for a fight if I hadn’t already fought this fight in my thoughts.

I clown around for time, again building the feeling; and succeed at times, fail miserably at others. Though success is merely external. The questions thrum on. And to fail externally is sobering. Like the pain that a drunk feels when he stumbles and falls and skins his knee. The pain hasn’t heard of alcohol’s sedative properties and makes it’s cry heard, strident and clear and uncompromising. And the drunk realizes that the stupor is merely physical. And hates himself that much more for being naive enough to believe that all would be well…

Why do I write this? No frigging clue. I feel empty. And nothingness. I’m not even sure if I have actually thought all of this or is this merely ad-libbing? To a hypothetical question. To a hypothetical situation. Or could both be real? Or one this, and one that? And all the 3×2 possibilities? If that many, not sure anymore about that either. Like I once said elsewhere and hastened to retract, am I just a play-actor (egotistical, nihilistic) who fell in love with his role and chose not to/ forgot to wipe off the grease paint, smudged and imperfect at the end of the show, when he stepped out from under the arclights and went home.

But when was the show? And why wasn’t I invited? Or was I?