Lost Thoughts

If I had to choose my middle name, perhaps 'melancholic' will suit the best. Without sounding too derisive, it sums up the recurrent semi-depressed and semi-sad state that I slip into every few days, sans any tangible source of pain or hurt. It is probably something to do with the planetary positions, or perhaps due to some past incident simmering like molten lava within the crust of my existence, or maybe due to the fact that I am this way only...well, I am past the age to analyze this. In any case, no amount of analysis will yield any purposeful result. Suffice to point out that today I am feeling morose, dull and extremely vulnerable. At the cost of giving off my Achilles heel, let me say, at this point I am as tender as the wound that can erupt with its stark red life fluid at the merest touch. The ominous thunder of the impending storm wrapped around the overcast Kathmandu skies further compound the grayness within me. The reasons for writing this piece here are two fold - one, I have a story on at my main page ( I do not know its future, if I can come out of this mood fast, I will surely complete it). Second, too many people 'know' me up-close on that blog. It is next to impossible to explain that I can be sad without any specific reason. Another (and a more logical option) would be to type this in MS Word, vent out the spleen, and move on. Why publish it on this other blog? Well, another strange facet of my strange personality is the crave for exhibitionism. I will not publicise this blog, but I will not keep it exactly in anonymity either. Yes, I will revel in the few sympathies that unfurl over me.

The day has nearly set. There is a very faint hint of dark twilight. The electric bulbs and tubelights have taken over charge from the sunlight. The roads have almost bid farewell to the rush-hour traffic returning to their cozy nests.

Through out the day, as the sun traversed its oft-repeated and monotous course, I sat idly. There was an immense load of work to be done. But nothing got started. Nothing got completed, either. The fear of the piling workload increased its hateful weight; yet, I did not do anything about it. I sat on, clicking a few sites here, a few pages there, but not reading them, or if I was, not understanding any of the black-and-white formations there (which everyone calls 'words'). A strange inertia had taken over. I had meant to finish off the story (on the main page) also by evening. I could not. Not that I did not want to, but somehow, I just could not bring myself to do it. Suddenly the attention span developed a spasm; I would start listening to a song, then leave it mid-way, move on to the next, only to discard a minute later. For sometime, I looked out of the window yet, I was not seeing anything. Curiously, I was not thinking anything either. For all practical purposes, I was dead. Conscious death. Is there a medical term like this? I doubt it. But, I guess I am unique, strange and different.

Now, I push away this piece. I am tired of writing it. The attention is lost. I hope I recover soon. I always do. I will. Good bye.