Tuesday, October 21, 2014

the man who lost forever

my days in the asylum have been uninteresting. the slow repetitious bland of unvaried commonplace. colourless to the point of achromatic faded hopelessness. an emotion stemmed from my own end of ending ends. i live in this room of less windows. adorned with saddening uncharacteristic walls. these walls constantly speak to me in a language that no one, but only i, could understand. this barrier between the outside world and the world inside my head have become my confidant. my own personal echo. my stalwart compeer. my desperate achates. i find solace knowing that it will be here for me, even when i’m far or near or never here.

these walls, this cave of solace. my fortress of solitude. where i ponder all day everyday, the reason why i am still alive. my heart still beats in its cage. many times before in my mind i was adamant to admit defeat but my heart endured. despite all the heartbreaks it has gone through it beats still without missing a beat, not even in the slightest bit.

it took many botched attempts on my life until i was finally placed here in my fortress of perennial reclusion. i was assessed as being a risk to myself. i was deemed incapable of functioning orderly in the ordinary human socio-convention and was diagnosed with a melange of disorders. it has always been a point of reflection, to regard one's punctilio as disorderly. their peculiar behaviour might just be their average everyday constant.

i was not a stranger to the chair. even in my younger days as an eight year old arson, and throughout my kleptomaniac days as a teenager right until my phrenic escapades as an alien abduction survivor. my spine seemed to be accustomed to the contours of the chair. i could even feel the soft fabric under my skin overlapped with layers of clothes. even my eyes, affixed and properly transfixed to the person at the end of the chair. cross-legged with a pen and pad in hand. each time fixing their spectacles assuredly without blinking. even the questions, in a plethora of words to described one word became a norm to my ears. i answer each questions as easy as i were to say my name. even when my name changes every time.

i’m losing the war with the demons living in my head. here, they live lavish in a lull of lullabies. soothing my head with the quietude of a hammer incessantly pummelling thoughts into a pulp. a pulp of non-fiction. a factual favourite read for the mob, the crowd, the multitudes and all of the above. the ones i adore to abhor. denizens of an already filled deliberation and reflection of my unknowing of the known. but, i still live tempestuously. the only way i know. the only way i will.

i take walks around the asylum. my favoured place to end my walks would be the room where all people go. here the whispers in my head does not echo as much. it becomes more coherent as i become more enrapt with my surroundings. the room where all people go, was as huge as a banquet hall. but, filled not with food but with individuals who have bordered and crossed the line of sanity. rustic white walls make the cube that is the prison-like box. tall ceilings accompanied its already lonely ambience. you will never feel as lonely here than anywhere in the world. here is where i met the old man who lost forever. i found him at the corner, gazing out at the tiniest window the room had to offer. like the way i found him the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that day.

slowly everyday, i end my walks sitting next to the old man. gazing in tandem outside the tiny window the room had to offer. in slow, we became each other’s confidant in silence. we became the best of friends. much so, even the asylum operators called us “the two”. days of bliss, how i would described it, went by. complete bliss, further better than ignorance could offer. thirty one days went by as such. the old man, finally spoke to me. he turned his head as slow as the tiny window closed each night before the lights turned off. his eyes gazed at me. almost burning my soul whole, through the windows that makes my eyes. he spoke in slow slurs unhurried with a deep bass tone in his voice. his lips moved like how the waves move to the shore of that beach i used to swim as a child. rasping by clinging unto my hears until now.

he told me of a time long ago, where windows he looked out at had much more to offer. the windows a long time ago paints a scenic view of his children playing outside and his wife tending to her beloved roses. things were euphoric back then, he didn’t need to ask for anything else. until when, the last picture embed forever into his mind. his wife, tittering at the edge of the cliff looking at him with a tear falling down her face as she jumped backwards. the police after hours of searching found her body mangled in between crashing waves and sharp rocks, at the bottom of the cliff. he said that her last words to him was “don’t forget to feed the kids, love”. the old man then stopped talking, and gazed out the tiny window the room had to offer.

after that day, silence accompanied us again. i couldn’t decide whether the silence was more enthralling than that day he spoke. but, i was content as to how it is now. one day, i was at my daily routine. making my way to the room where all people go. moving towards the tiny window the room could offer. i couldn’t wait to meet my best friend. but, that day the chair he sits on is empty and i couldn’t find him anywhere. i was distracted the whole day with thoughts to where he is. the nurse that always attended to him came to me at the end of the day. she told me that my best friend died in his bed that day. she said the doctors knew nothing of the cause to his abrupt departure. but, i knew why. i didn’t say a word to her and continued to gaze out the tiny window the room had to offer.

from then on, my routine remained the same but the chair the old man used to sit gazing out the tiny window the room had to offer, became mine. my days have become solemn once more, when i lost my confidant. the demons that once was quelled, starts to stir more surely in my head each day. but, i still sit here, until my time then comes.

3 Comments:

Anonymous q infatuated

Impeccable, Zariq.

Tuesday, January 06, 2015 1:54:00 PM  
Blogger nurul nadia infatuated

hello zariq

Saturday, March 21, 2015 12:15:00 AM  
Blogger zariq zin infatuated

This comment has been removed by the author.

Monday, March 23, 2015 5:46:00 PM  

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