For me, it is only in the wake of being rejected by a lover that disillusionment ensues.
The saturnine torpor exposes the excruciating loneliness that I once felt but happily forgot about. The excruciating loneliness one feels from being stuck in one’s bedroom stifled by past memories of happy companionship. I cannot tell you now if it was actual affection or infatuation. Does it make a difference? It all feels the same anyway.
It is only from such misery that one’s vainglorious idealism are laid bare like white bones in the dunes. Purposelessness. Ones life shown to be hollow like the trunk of an oak that has fallen from a storm. All of my interests turned to ashes. All the books I want to read turned to dust.
Even wine ceases to intoxicate. Even music difficult to endure.
This too will pass, but will it? Will it only make way for something slightly different? Something slightly the same? Something altogether different? Will it not eventually lose you? Will it not eventually come crashing down?
In this deafening vacuum it is only too easy to want to rush to a cause, to rush to a course of action. What good will any of it do? Twitching in bed, awake at night seems to be a safer bet despite the agony.
Thirty-three years of life and what have I gleaned? I never learned.
In these times, I light my cigarette and reach for Cioran’s Heights of Despair. I left Bukowski in Malaysia.
I even walk.
Laks Indrakaran – Somerville, MA