Last night, darkness became guilt.
My eyes shut themselves to evade it;
Only to be confronted by a deeper darkness.
Helpless people stare at the middle distance,
But there was no middle distance in this darkness.
My eyes, my body, my very soul was frantic.
Onto the darkness, a million films were projected.
The post-midnight show: A Wasted Day.
Every movement and moment revealed.
There I was surfing the virtual seas –
Looking at the naked activities of people,
Looking away from their dead stares,
Imaging myself all over and inside their bodies.
Consuming ephemeral data,
Looking at books I’m going to read,
My ritual for feeling smart.
Projecting empathy for empathy’s sake,
A message of hope, an invitation for help,
Copy-pasted on Island after Island.
Words, gestures, happiness – all meaningless.
This was the day painfully rediscovered.
Film’s duration: So long as I don’t start crying.
Older expectations, as films, come to haunt me.
Visions of grandeur –
of wealth beyond sense,
of power beyond wielding,
of love beyond conditions.
And here I was poor, inconsequential, and lonely.
This is real life, most of the time, I thought.
There can and will be moments of greatness,
but this is life, made mostly of wasted days.
But I wondered: Where is the light coming from?
I tracked the million films to a single source.
I looked down at my body – what I saw hurt me,
Humbled me, told me there was nothing I could do
In that moment. I was burning out.
Avinash Adapa is an up and coming writer residing in Hyderabad. He occasionally tweets @grgrhnt.
Featured image credit:愚木混株 Cdd20/Pixabay