Growing Cold

I am stuck in-between.

Forever longing for the place that doesn't exist anymore, never satisfied with where I am now.

I think it happens with everyone my age. If not age, then definitely with everyone with my outlook to life. If not outlook, then definitely to everyone who is I.

That sense of belonging to a place that I was in, that I roamed in, breathed in, smoked in, drank in, made friends in, lived in. I am in the same place still. But not quite there. As if there was a giant, earth-size plunger that sucked the very essence of this place out. As if a cigarette that's lit out of the last match stick fell into water. Snuffing it out. The cigarette is still there. Oh yes it is. But what's the point now? It's as if it's just nothing. As if that cigarette does not exist, and as if it's existence were a mere illusion that we dreamed about in this nebulous miasma of a life that we pretend to exist in.

It's all fucked up sometimes. Imagine a seesaw having two boys on either side, and the seesaw then going up and down. The kids are laughing. They are having a ball. Then you see a car passing by the road and see an old lady the age, and face, of an dinosaur. She smiles, and it's okay, your heartbeats slow down back to normal pace again. You smile back too and turn back to seeing the kids on the seesaw.

Only that the seesaw is immovably still. And the kids are just statues. Still life. It's eerie. The seesaw is still there, the kids too. But the life is gone from the scene. The essence. The core, crux, fiber, constitution is gone. Only the formation remains.

Pretty weird. I'm speechless too. Now I'm blank too. I was full of life before now. Now I'm this statue too. Just can't say a word.

And so, life hardened into marble, and grew cold.

- Vinaykrishnan.