Eerily as could be, this was no fear I was habituated to. Most effortlessly, I could suggest despondency to be the reason behind it. Continual letdowns, stemming mutually from what is within and without, I, curled up in a foetal position, and for no physiological reasons whatsoever, sensed an entity, growing in essence, figuratively as my closed eyes had it, in the form of a lightning bolt, offering visions of the uncertainty that the future held.
And no, the far future was evidently and quite naturally, a closed package. The future I speak of, lies in the impending unpredictability of the mundane.
Each succeeding dawn brings with it, a challenge of its own - conquering the hassles of sustenance. The kind that compel you to interact with your environment. The sort of conversations that you initiate to seek assistance, be it seemingly of the minutest significance.
Who ever examines denial as a possibility? As an instantaneous prospect, in the face of compulsion? Now you may begin to argue, and righteously so, that why would, your need to borrow a pencil feel so compelling, so dire as an irrefutable necessity? And refusal, a tragedy?
You stand uncorrected in your assessment, that is no bother. Perhaps a nuisance enough to instill slight feelings of contempt and spite in you who has been denied, yes, but that is about all there is to it.
Come to think of it though, it is a summative effect - fearing what ought to be a natural consequence of human interaction. The inherent admissibility I at the time harboured, perpetually examining and full well anticipating refusal. Inadvertent as this turndown from the part of my confidant could be, I failed to shrug the feeling off for two good days.
It was not necessary that these people - friends, parents, strangers on the internet, nobodies, that I believed were "conspiring" against me. It seems to me that I had internalised failure to ubiquitously be a natural, and for my needs to remain unmet. It was as if I expected to invest conscious effort into successfully having my requests of monotony processed.
YOU ARE READING
The frivolity on my mind
Non-FictionEmploying an occasional sarcastic tone, here is an attempt at capturing emotions (in the form of letters, addressed to or about (in)tangible entities)) that have so often been the subject of my ponderances, because nothing weighing me down should be...
