Through the Rabbit Hole

Sometimes I feel the compulsion of the world. It is not grey. It has its shades. However, I am not talking about 50 Shades of Grey, so do not get too excited. The life around me is such at times…unstable, unbelievable. Then, when the lack of colour and sense overtakes me, all the back drawers of my mind open up and my imagination starts to do with this world whatever it wishes. Without asking me. How unpalatable on its part, you will say. And you will not be wrong. It is arrogant, unruly, inconspicuous, and quite annoying. It effortlessly makes me feel uncomfortable with its explosions of fantasies emerging before my eyes. It pulls a shy and ironically sad smile between my two cheeks and just makes me feel embarrassed, but it's mine...I cannot blame it. I cannot because sometimes it is my imagination that is all I have; all that manages to save me from this greyness.

Leaning on all of my great love, stuck in literature, cinema, and theatre, it begins to project my personal fantasies to the surrounding people. Nobody has ordered it. Nobody even allowed it, but what can I do? And so everyday life endures despite my imagination, or probably courtesy of it, the poor thing.

But love...of love hurts. It makes me physically feel in my chest—the feeling of walking on thin ice. At every step, I can hear the cracking. I can feel the fall. However, I still keep going. I continue boldly and irresponsibly to step forward, though I know it is a matter of a few more steps. And everything will end. And it will hurt again. Again, reality will not resemble my cotton-pink coloured fantasy world, and again, I will not be able to cast my imagination away, because it is all, darling, it is all I have…

When I look at someone, I do not want to get hurt. I want to see what it is in reality. I do not want to create the ordinate fiction anymore. I abdicate. I give up. And somehow the same thing repeats itself over and over again. The shoulders of the man are fragile. They cannot bear the burden of expectations. The fun and fantasies weigh so badly that I can see how the strong gait begins to twist, the spine gets ugly, the face is twisted into a grimace and just the body hopes to escape. Because it is so easy to come up with feelings for a fictional character, created by your twisted brain. I have never learned how to love the other as it is. I love it as what I expect it to be. The overwhelming hopes of great bodies and a healthy spine are accommodated in me, and with each passing day, I and my pant begin to play with the stamina of the poor man. We tire him…

With expectations.

With attitudes.

With colours.

With fog.

With scents.

With victims.

With movements.

With eternity.

Finally, always, whenever it comes to the awaited pinch of eternity, the crash is heard. The spine collapses under the weight of everything. I fail. The ice under my feet crackles into thousands of pieces. My illusion dies. And I am again down in the freezing water. Under the broken ice and again, greyness. With all my "eternities," "movements," "sacrifices," "fragrances," "fogs," "colours," "imaginations," "expectations." Well, at least I know that, at some point, my imagination will come to rescue me, collect all these pieces, put the ice sheet back together, and we will keep dancing slowly on top of it, at least while the greyness does not disappear for a while. And then we will fall, again, down with our sprawling eternities. And so we will be in our vicious circle forever.