The recurring thought came while smoking a cigarette and gazing at the stars painting the night in the indigo blue canvas of the sky. The colours of the last moments of the sunset framing the unique moment. Every thing comes to and end. Individual existences don’t repeat, simply flow to oblivious. What I was, what I am, will simply be lost in the flux of living. Memories will fade, records will be lost. Dissolving paper on water, our names written on water. These words existence reminiscing in our retina, will be gone after all.
I’m dying of a cancer of the soul, not the one that multiplies malign cells in our bodies. There is no cure for deep melancholy, the infinite blues blanketing juvenile energy, the strength to swim upstream, and illusory feelings of being in control. Destiny is exactly what I can’t control, it is the unexpected happening. I can just cope with the happenings of life, from which “I” is a pathetic agent whose actions can just move the boat slightly while it heads through the rapids and straight to the abyss of the falls. Reality is too far from Hollywood movies and the perpetual smile of glamorous celebrities and people in advertisements.
Happiness is like the twinkling stars dotting the blue canvas, the pervasive emptiness that engulfs everything. I am among the lucky ones, I think to myself and think of Louis Armstrong’s voice singing. There is still space for genuine feelings of happiness in the blues of my heart. Twinkling stars. My existence is becoming more vague and blurred. An old me died, it had too; because it couldn’t sustain itself anymore. There won’t be a new one because there is no purpose in going back to play roles. I am living now the overtime, as a spectator that lost the passion to go back to the stage.
The exit door is open waiting for me to be thrown out to the aisle, straight from the bar counter. I’m a nuisance, a shadow among the characters playing on stage. The pursuit or expectation of a perpetual state of happiness, or sadness, is a ridiculous and pathetic human superstition, like the many others created by human mind. It is more honest to accept the limbo as the only possible reality of human existence, but honesty isn’t the greatest virtue of our species, is it? Illusion is it. Here, sitting on the deck, I’m learning to pursue the twinkling dots on the blue canvas.