There are so many moments in my life when I have felt this particular emotion. What is the fucking point of anything? I’ll die one day. The earth will keep moving. And on the scale of universal, my existence would be nothing but a spackle of dust in a never-ending desert. Another wind and I’ll stop existing.
My favorite place to hang while I am in my lab is on the staircase. Don’t worry, I go there when I am waiting on one of my experiments. There is one single window there and if I have to guess its dimensions, I’ll say it’s most probably 4 feet by 3 feet. It is a big ass window.
Lately, well 13th July to be exact, I have shifted my focus on this little activity where we try to weave a web of imaginary using our words. It is called creative writing. Now I could have simply said writing but where is the fun in that. How could have I possibly feed my need for appreciation? Come see my grave built in my head. Sounds random? I don’t know but this particular little tale of horror just doesn’t seem to abandon me.
I guess either I am getting lazy or my hunger is changing. Initially it used to be about metabolic pathways, immunological reactions or technical issue in experimental designs. As of late I have given my undivided attention to my words. And it’s a bittersweet tale. I will say that I have improved as a writer, there isn’t a doubt there. For fuck sake, I wrote almost five thousand words yesterday and they weren’t crap. Unlike this post. And as a matter of fact, I am going to keep most of them for the chapter that I have planned. Now the bitter part is, I also have to write a research article of my discoveries that I have made in the last two years of my research on HIV. And in case, it isn’t evident by now. I have written nada about that.
Shit. Every time I sit to write something (Well I have to read at least ten research papers before I sit to write), I just seem to find something else to do. And no, I have no solution for it, atleast not now. I guess I am rambling now. Life is getting hectic now. It is becoming a bit overwhelming. How the fuck Asimov managed to do so much? Ahh, I need to manage my cussing too. I generally do not use fuck in my speech so much. I guess, writing makes me somewhat aware of my hidden anger. Well, that would be a lie, I guess, I am well aware of my anger. After all I have punched the wall in my room at least on ten different occasions. And those are the ones I remember on top of my head. There are many more.
I am confused about so many things. And to even believe that other people in my life consider me to be the most vigilant person they have ever met. The mind boggles. Now don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy my work. But that is in the moment of it. It just doesn’t keep me awake the way it used to do before. You know, the whole first love dilemma? That way. I guess I have settled into it.
For the first time, I am actually understand FOMO. Well, in case you don’t know what that is, it stands for, “Fear Of Missing Out.” My OCD definitely doesn’t help. For god sake, I have been sleeping for barely five hours each day for almost two months now. And yet, there is so little that I have managed to do. Or achieve, whatever suits your palate.
You know those screams that pierce through your skin. The guttural scream you make as if someone just ripped your throat apart (Ahh, too much gore). I want to scream like that. Only if I could. Unlike Dr. Henry Morgan, I do lack time. I want to crawl and hide somewhere. Everything is going against the very fibre of my nature. I never prefer to speak my mind out. I like my solitude. And fuck, I have made seven new friends in last two months. To keep that statement in context, if you keep these seven aside, I have two friends. Two friends in my twenty-four year of life. I am not saying that I do not like these seven people. I have had some of my best discussions with these little rays of sarcastic sunshine.
I have gotten close to them after two much pondering and analysing. Yeah, I do that. I figure people out the way I figure out an experiment. And no, that isn’t an insult. It’s a compliment. Atleast by my standards. I have to make sense of all this chaos or I am bound to go insane.
I haven’t read the way I like to for such a long time now. This particular post or write-up is just a way to get it all out. I read it once, whatever conflicting feelings you have, writing them out often helps you figure them out. Let’s see what I figure out. I guess I should reset my life. If only there was a viable option of ctrl-alt-del. Or maybe I need to listen to “Disasterpiece” on repeat. Or maybe, just maybe, I need a very long Slipknot session. That always seems to pump me up.
Fuck, I started writing this post based on the daily prompt Athletic and what the hell happened. Sometimes even I am surprised by my stream of consciousness. Ah, it happens. Shit happens.
I have no intention of writing a different post to share my drawing for day two of Inktober 2017. So without further ado, here is the drawing based on the prompt, “Divided.” And I am pretty sure you can fit the prompt athletic here too. Mr. Hetfield is one of the most athletic front-man I know of.
Looking for more pen and ink sketches? You can find them in the gallery.