Permafrost

It has been three days since I last tweeted. In theory, this would classify me as one of those who tweet casually.

I am not out to make myself some guru or maestro. I like to believe that I’m no different from an ordinary Joe on this wee island trying to eke out a living. No matter what the Old Book says; no matter how many words of reassurance get spoken from the pulpit, being unique – even the bad aspects of it – doesn’t matter.

Anymore.

***

A handful of greetings trickled in on the phone and the Facebook page. They subtly reminded him of an age where balloons were the next best thing since sliced bread to a child – the times when laughter wasn’t just something people around him did for the sake of it. They were from the heart.

That was the time, he remembered, when a birthday cake was simple. As long as there’s a cherry on top of the buttery cream / icing with edible paper flowers, it was tempting enough for one to want to stick a finger and lick the cream off it.

There weren’t those MacDonalds’ party things then. Else, it could add another entry to the happy birthday memories in his life.

It would be a year before that intense, emotional period would come again to strip him of something he should reserve for himself. After all, the sweet happy moments have left him and never really returned for almost all of 25 birthdays.

***

It’s goodbye to all of that. Back to the normal monochromatic grey programming.

Cursing the day of my birth

In another time and place, there will be no tears on this day. No dark thoughts. No questions raised about a life’s existence. Or the futility of toiling for the sake of it.

There will only be laughter and only more laughter. There will be this spring in the step(s). Or the excitement that comes with every beat of the heart as yet another text message is being checked and read.

“Luv. Ur so set 4 a surprise to9. <3 <3 <3”

There will be the smile, a genuine lift in the heart. There will be all to look forward to. The dinner. The whispers. The giggles. The scribble in the card. The nostalgic journey back to “where did we first meet” or “how did we get to know each other” scenes, where images are forever etched in one’s mind. There will be the reassuring grab of the hand, where a message, never verbalised, turns the world into one unimportant mess in an instant.

In this time and place, there will be none of that. Everything is monochromatic grey. Everything is a reminder that a beggar shall remain as one forever. Every emotion sits, dwells, gnaws and then tears everything apart. Distant memories – of tears by the drain, of tears on our cheeks, of the frantic search of a lost adolescent crush, of days filled with genuine laughter, of whispers in the dead of the light, of a hand-written book filled with lyrics of Guns N Roses’ songs, of your trip to my home – bring with them bits of sadness and loss.

Together, they amount to something. Collectively, they point towards the futility of life. Then, they become a cacophony of voices that pretend to encourage, urge and then taunt…

Before the suffocating Silence descends.

You’ll remain in this world, but you’ll find no solace.
You’ll hanker and pine, but you’ll never get it.
You’ll curse the day of your birth, but you’ll continue to live it.
And you’ll become a slave to your life.