Diary Entry Of An Amateur Pessimist

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Another year is about to dawn and I don’t know what I am supposed to feel, hopeful? Optimistic?

I don’t think I can get myself to feel hopeful about the future if everybody  is only going to grow old and die. It is rather childish, me wallowing about the inevitable. Growing up means shouldering responsibilities, seeing the world stripped off its glitter and glamour, and plodding on even when others fade and disappear from your life. The necessity of moving on eludes me, the future looms like a frightening storm, I can spot flashes of lightning revealing the purple blackness of the clouds. I sit shivering as I look at the approaching storm, I want to flee, find shelter from the storm, but I realize that there is no escape. I have to brave the storm, let the rain lash me mercilessly. I am not in control, I never was.

The Final Question

“What have I done?”, I asked myself.

I turned towards the open window and I could see the years I had squandered away in the leaves of the mango tree in the courtyard. Pale flowers were blossoming and the cool evening air had a sweet smell. Fragrant flowers were replaced by juicy fruits. The passage of time ensures that trees will bear fruit or does it?

The walls of my room were bare, no certificates adorned them. No trophies lined my cupboard. I had achieved nothing in my life. I spent my days in a clueless haze wondering why I had to move forward; Why I ever grew up. I was not a people person, and I was ‘not’ a lot of things I wished to be. People around me chatter on about success stories, pauper turning into a millionaire, mediocre student turning into a successful businessman. Everyone around me could get a grip on their lives. The moment I tighten my hold on it, the threads become weak and fray. My life has been a steady downward spiral and I knew I had to do one right thing.

I put my hand in right pocket and took out a razor blade. The cold blade gleamed in the pale light of the disappearing sun. A sudden breeze stirred the dry, wrinkled leaves at the foot of the mango tree. A cuckoo took flight from a branch near the window and I noticed the fresh glossy leaves. Those leaves had some time before they too turned brown and withered. I closed the window and I gripped the blade in my hand.

I slashed my wrist and watched the blood trickle down my arm and fall on the floor.

“What have I done?”, I asked myself.