"Addicted to Martyrdom"

-- 'Anonymous tidbits from a self-deluded romantic'


Chapter: Vile as Bile

.............Theatre is not only an opportunity for strugglers to showcase their star potential, but also a medium of social commentary as well as handing out educative morsels of morality and societal ethics, especially given our quasi-literate society. A prosaic corollary could be that blogs not only provide an opportunity for wannabe literati to showcase their gift of the gab, but also a medium of espousing jumbled up personal philosophies and a conduit for channeling thoughts and opinion that are lost in the din of reality that is percieved as abnormality by those who tend to resort to blogs - like myself over here. Prone to articulating emotions inadequately, incoherently and with great difficulty, I must also use this medium to compensate for all those times when the tongue fails to roll off the thoughts formulating in the head...and the heart. When bottled up emotions can no longer be stuffed in the lamp as the genie demands some space. When all I want is to drill a hole and go into permanent hibernation, will this provide solace? As likely as Disneyland at Guantanamo but Walt had a vision, Luther dreamed and we dared, too. But being a pathological failure, I had to come across the glitches within the Matrix. And things fall apart. Not least because she had run out of patience. She has more of it than Sahara has dunes. But because I am vile. As vile as bile. And she the pristine virgin. With a capacity to love greater than sun's to shine. And I, the greedy urchin stealing plumes and figs. Too stark a difference it is. And so, the days which were filled with loving confessions will now become a sallow vaccuum, with as much colour as contained in Ford's earliest slogan. And gone with all the colour is the sense of completion. Of being a whole. How odd the yin would be without the yang. And so I feel; like a broken talisman; a loose chain, a lever without its mechanism; a piece of barren land. Clawing my hair and scratching my bare legs until they bleed. Alas, only if were due to the foreboding feeling that overcomes as I fear her departure. But its the drug that makes me itch and scratch. And as I write this, in the middle of snorts, a sense of tranquility returns. I feel lighter and calmer, but also aware of the hollowness of this calm and its dependency upon the drug, which meanwhile, feeds upon my intestines and makes my stomach contract. This takes care of food and concerns of indigestion. I don't want any intake. I only want to puke. Out all the indignation brewing inside. Which is over the self. And a lump forms in my throat and I go mute at important times when a word of affection can give me another chance. But the lump stops all, and then phlegm is spitted out and then another lump and more phlegm. That's all there is inside. Phlegm and lies. And all I want to do is crawl back all over the phlegm and grovel at her feet. What she says not only pinches, but mutilates. But who cares of wounded vanity and squashed ego when greater things are on the line. While the kids from Lord of the Flies had little time to contemplate upon their accidental abandoning, all I can do is conceive myself as Tom Hanks, but not the bristling Charlie Wilson but the mute in Cast Away. And so I have been cast. Away. I hate being abandoned. But she has reasons and although I [have to] believe selfless love supercedes all logic and reason, I cannot demand her to abide by conveniently held beliefs. Especially if my inconsistent streaks are to be considered which make me more culpable than Kissinger...although I wouldn't mind if I get her as my noble prize. I am sitting here, looking at the cellular. For it is the chain that kept us together inspite of the miles. And then in a fit of rage I smashed it against the wall, laughed at the inadeuacy of my responses and consumed some more heroine. How depraved am I. Letting it all go to the dogs, as now I have the abandoning to blame. Always seeking reasons. Just smoke and snort and find myself a drain pipe to make my abonimable abode in. That will be it. I will blame her. And become a martyr for love. Maybe cut a few veins, too. Or maybe just spike them.

But then she called......