Still Vulnerable at 25

The chair of solitude is so comforting until it’s an unexplainable, suffocating silence that rebels against the pursuit of “living a life in love’, recognition, pity, validation or attention other than any honest attempt to communicate an understanding.” If building castles in the air would be one thing, building haunted devil mansions would be another. And realisation hits hard, and you fall down into an inward spiral in the depths of nowhere.

The hot coffee would steam on a bright sunny day as you sit bored on your couch. Unwilling to move muscles, you would remain there, staring into the void while your brain would start to do “the talking”. The talks, most of, if not all the time, would be dark. Scared, you start craving activity. Yet, you wouldn’t want to cut ties with lethargy without a proper closure. So, you would start with a gentle peek out of the window. Muscle movement achieved! Like a yorker right into the black hole, the sun would slap your face tight. “The window was there for a reason!”, your brain wouldn’t seem to give up. You would stare at the world outside. You would wonder at a white feather being kissed by the winds, shining as its manoeuver past you! You would start falling in love with almost everything that you see through the window. “I see. Now what about this?”, our brain cuts in. Then, you would table-fan your head slightly to the sides to find gigantic wings on either side of your shoulders. “Hehe!”, the asshole of a brain would give you a manipulative laugh. It would make you want to use the wings because flying high would give you a different form of high. Adding fuel to the fire, the typical midsummer breeze outside the window would stage a ballet in your face. ” This gets interesting”, your brain grabs a popcorn while you stay there like a total jackass gridlocked by the two differently haunting weapons of choice. The window would almost slap harder as the breeze starts gusting, if not for the latch. It doesn’t stop there. The rooftop that’d been watching everything just above you blows out open and you see light entering and skies smiling at you.

One of the quotes by Camus hits right in my face of vulnerability every time I get stuck in a situation like this,

Sad to still feel so vulnerable. In 25 years I’ll be 57. 25 years then to create a body of work and to find what I’m looking for. After that, old age and death. I know what is most important for me. And I still find a way to give in to little temptations, wasting time of frivolous conversations or fruitless idling about. I’ve mastered two or three things in myself. But how far I am from the kind of superiority that I so badly need.