If anyone were to talk about their struggles of the past, everyone would acclaim them the title of a hero. Since they are talking about the deeds of yesterday, everyone shall welcome them with the brace of winners if not a leader to be followed. If one were to talk about the misery of the now, the depth of the agony they are facing, everyone retreats to the edges. The NOW poses a challenge more than a past does. We are, yet, mortified of wounds than scars.

But then again, it is rather easy to talk about things in the past[even for yourself]. It is truly difficult to admit the reality of what is happening than what has happened. Standing in the now, there’s the wavering stance of whether this shall be over or not. Would we ever succumb the idea of life to remain as it is, or should we just give upon the idea of living itself?! The NOW stands for conundrum. It calls out for a decision. It summons all the strength we have in ourselves. Better yet, the NOW damns us to our own future.

If we were to cry about our past, though, the unanimous mantra of ‘The PAST is already in the PAST’ would follow. And we know it to be true. Even if it is dictating the NOW, no one has the stance to blame it. Or to challenge it.

The PAST, the NOW, it’s all us, anyway. It is the fabric that tightens around every bit of ourselves to make us who we are. Whatever that means.

In a mere self awareness, people try to bury their now in their past. Or their past in the now. Whichever one works!

Rants of the Absurdist

‘The tale must go on,’ she whispered. But the party returned their face to listen. Her whisper had a power to order, apparently. People barely listened to her when she talked. But they heard quite well when she whispered.

‘It’s rather a happy one. It is not like the ones you hate.’ She took a moment for herself.  ‘How does the world taste? The real one?’ She posed hoping someone would interfere. The room went quiet. ‘It’s bitter, I must say. If there was anyway a person can taste the world, it would be through reality. Teasing it. Tempting it. Or putting an end to it. In any way, it’s unbecoming. The taste I mean. It wrecks the build of your entity for it falters whatever resilience you build to maintain your end.’

‘I thought this was supposed to be a happy tale,’ she heard a whisper.

‘What makes a story a happy one? The beginning or the end?’ She looked in the direction of the whisper. No one peeped.

‘Tempting a reality is perhaps a valiant action,’ she went on. ‘to the point where reality takes over and haunt us back. Losing yourself, your temper, your patience over the hauling existence but not something that can be captivated is perhaps a conundrum one has to suffer from. In life, losing a thing or two, that truly means dear to you is a lesson. And of course a taste of the real world. The first time I lost something of my own, I felt…well words fail, don’t they?! If it was a taste I must describe, I would say it was bitter. And I thought it would kill me. I thought that was a taste of poison. But poison is not always dreary, is it? I didn’t suck out of the poison, nonetheless. Not late, nor early. I sunk into it to have the real taste of it.’

‘Why would one whine and threaten?
For a life that thoroughly thorn?
One must not cry nor pity
The loving existence of one’s folly.
One rather must endure the taste,
To forlorn the worst,
To accept the best.’

‘For the worst of a taste, we see the eye of reality. Perhaps, a god of all. For the bane of our existence, we might even find something sweet. The thing they call love.’ And she walked away for she cannot see the face of her subjects. The subjects of her story, that it.

Rants of the Absurdist

‘It’s rather weary to find oneself in a constant state of self-loathing. Dreary, I must say. ‘ She can hear herself blitzing through the conversations. She cannot let the others ask her a question. Or take a notice of what she is saying. This must happen fast. Conversations must end quickly. The things she does to keep herself sane.

It’s yet the second week since she has been dealing with her depression episode. Up until then she has been one jolly manic for long. Maybe, for so long she forgot how her highs are doomed to get lower. Perhaps lower she had ever seen before. And yet, here she is amidst the random chaos where she’s supposed to act like a commoner. She scolded herself for being so harsh, but she cannot help herself except to think how the conversations are so simple more than she would like them to be.

It’s the matter of pain that keeps her awake. Her pain is the constant companion. Her guardian angel that keeps her alive time and time again. In the joyous manic days, pain fools her by hiding itself. But she knows it always assume the place of a overshadowing cloud at the edge. Yet, she is happy. She feels capable of changing the world. Herself. Everything. All of a sudden her wonders change her into becoming a wonder woman. She chuckled for herself. ‘What is so funny?’, said her company in mere curiosity of her unbecoming laughter. ‘It’s just the wonders of life…in my head.’ He grinned quietly out of propriety not kindness nor understanding.

Manic is the her secret power to prowess. All the gratitude she gets for her attempt of existence. She sure seems happy. Smiling all the time. Doing things rather quickly. It is her unattended self that keeps going. But then, there goes the doom of existence. The guilt of breathing the same air like the ton. The eerie of living. And the past few weeks, her two polaroids of moods have been so mixed up. If anyone had noticed, she has been glitching like a system that has failed.

She pinched herself to bring herself back to the now. The now looks damned.

‘What’s it about myself I hate so much? Isn’t it okay to be less of a human from time to time? Why is it so odd to be cared for? How can you be overwhelmed for being given an attention? How can you be tantalized even traumatized by a thought of someone being in your life? Isn’t this the unwritten rule of society?’

‘Does it really matter to be part of a society? Is it really a matter of life and death to do these things? One day I can be there. The next I can’t be sure. The next I am not even sure if I am willing to see the sun. Somedays, the brightness of my days, my life is okay. But the other my horizon cannot go beyond the rims of my blanket. How must one exist when there is a constant dread in oneself? ‘

She excused herself before she said all the nonsense in her head. She nudged herself to take a respite from the noise, the people and perhaps herself. Would she ever take a break from herself though?

Rants of the Absurdist

‘I would rather die!’ , she said, squealing. She is muffling her smile while keeping herself together. Lately, everything has become tiring she is giving less and less care about her perception, life and whatever she used to uphold beyond herself. And when her long gone friend comes to her and asks if she can pretend to be normal for a minute, all she can say, all she can say was ‘I would rather die!’.

Good thing we live in the era of sarcasm.

Pain is no longer a dully noted reality for her. It is a companion of hers to be kept all the time. What is it to be alive? If she dare asks herself for a moment, she will just concede to the idea of living in a full of piercing pain. For every breath she sighs, there is a pain she feels. For every glance she receives, there is a dark shade she gives away. And for every pain she feels, there is a guilt of feeling it. Wouldn’t it be easy if her pain was just hers? Why does she need her pain to be accepted within the rest? Why is a physical pain justified, whereas a mental one is not?

If she were to say that she’s suffering from cancer, everyone would sympathize. If she got a broken leg, everyone is running up and down to make sure she’s getting what she needs. What is it about depression everyone hates? What about it? Is it not a sickness? Why does it have to be a visible scar that everyone must see? Why is it so complicated that it should be, anyway?

If she wrote this hiding it in a story or a poem, everybody would love it. It’s just harsh to hear the truth as it is, isn’t it? But then again, who cares?!

Rants of the Absurdist