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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Life Experience
- Published: 01/31/2021
The Post-Vision of a Broken End
Born 1988, M, from Biratnagar, NepalHe was in a certain doom. A metaphysical battle inside his think-tank taunted his bones to the point of slack. To him, the assumption of what life comprises, and what it was actually meant for, was a really difficult question to answer. The occasional whirlwinds inside his brain were of no definitive patterns, I could sense that. Perpetual storm, thunder, and rain gave continuous appearances whenever he'd a downtime, and to my knowledge, and thanks to a few educated guesses, he had a lot of it. At times, he used to share a few words with me, the words from his roaring mind and a faintly beating heart. And while he'd be explaining to me his situation or the kind of days he recently was having, I used to look into his big swollen eyes, the one which used to remain without a wash on most mornings, the very eyes that grew deep-red probably due to sleep deprivation, and could see the lust of confusion. To me he appeared as a man who lacked the motivation to live and thus, was living a life with no specific direction, to leap forward to, this is the simplest explanation that I could give. I was almost certain of the fact that something more than what he'd tell me occasionally was obnoxiously tampering with his state of well-being. From the routine conversations we used to have, my conversations with this friend of mine, I was filled up with a concrete idea about the state of life, and the sufferings he was going through. A very humble man was living his life in shambles, utter shambles, in fact.
One fine morning, during one of our occasional meetings, I asked him about a potential reality, a wish of mine to move away from the town and root for life in a completely different environment. I was seeking some concrete advice and wasn't looking forward to mere chitchat just for the sake of it. You see, I never did have a bright mind, and whenever I needed some advice my friend was the calmest of minds, the one I turned to, every time, and I guess he too found solace in my small talks.
Now, let me give you a small insight into the man. An interesting trait of my friend was the thing he always had about his privacy. You see, he was not the most private person in the world but I figure, he certainly had some reservations when it came to his private doings. For instance, to my knowledge, he never smoked a puff in the open, in the outmost public area. Borne out of curiosity, I once asked him about this habit of his, to which he said he feels fearful of the external world because there is no stone-craved guarantee that it won't turn foolish at any moment and disrupt his peace in the process. Let's make an understanding in this way, let us suppose that he never wanted direct attention in his private life. One day, one fine evening, in fact, he came to my house and asked if I was free for a while. It was my human nature that I wanted to know about the reason behind that question of his. In a polite tone, he told me that he was longing for some fresh air and of course for some fresh perspective too. I could never say no to him. On our way, he asked me if I believe in actions and their counter actions. He always believed that human beings are not free of anything and that freedom is merely an illusion. A man takes birth in a society of chains and remains entangled throughout his lifespan. He gets eluded by reality and thinks of being the captain of the ship, but in fact, it's the ship who is the actual captain. He once told me that every action we take has an immediate reaction, and at every step of our life we are presented with options to choose from, albeit with no knowledge of the consequence in rigidity.
I was puzzled at first but did not hesitate to ask him the reason behind his curiosity and then I gave him a polite piece of my mind. He was the kind of man who deserved all the politeness in the world. As I explained my mind, he listened keenly. I remember this one time when in one of our encounters he took notes. He literally wrote my opinion down on a small notepad which he always carried in his purse as a habit. It truly was a sight to behold. And on another encounter, on a breezy summer evening, as we were taking a stroll beside the riverbank, nearby the forest, the inquirer, my curious friend, asked a few questions based on existentialism, I presume, which gave me some thoughts. If I am honest, I don't think I gave him a suitable answer, however, I do not remember him making any complaints the entire time we had the company of each other.
And then this one time he told me something appalling which painted to me a picture of an ocean of hopelessness and gave me feelings of drowning and eventual suffocation. In addition to his thoughts, he gave me a few notes; a few torn pages from his notepad, these notes, which I presume, must have been written down in his dire hours. It was a very random thing to share and the writings in his notes were of a very bizarre nature, well at first, at least, but then it all started to make sense to me after a little passage of time. I won't go into exact details to preserve the true nature of my dear friend but you the readers deserve justice as well. Below is my interpretation of the sentiments of the inquirer.
One morning he used to wake up and immediately thank god that he was alive to wake and later some night, he used to beg the mighty to help him stay alive the entire night so, that he could wake up to see the next day. And during some nights, he used to leave everything to the will of God and surrender his fate. A futile megaton inside the head of the inquirer kept him quite busy at all times. The formative neurons at different corners of the cage, at frequent intervals, fused and ended with a blast emitting white light. A lot of dead cells and also a few new ones used to get caught in the open fire. This civil war was too much to bear, but it always carried the possibility of a cease-fire; however, it wasn't easy to come by. The vestibule was a confusing place. It was like a cave that was yet to be discovered and wandered around. At one particular moment, a thing was right and worthy, the next moment it felt like a sin or something that should have never been committed. It was generally after a discharge of the conscious that things usually used to undergo change but only for the palpitation to regroup again. The submissive vision, usually fabricated to the limit of total recreation, would regenerate warmth and never would pass a moment to claim calmness. However, the forced dopamine normally did not carry health. The aftermath was the worst of it all. Schizophrenia like symptoms then would bore their place in the mud. Will the earth explode? Has it ever changed its hanging point? What if the earth takes a turn for readjustment? But does it need readjustment? Do we even know the exact nature of the mass that we are living in for hundreds of years? My friend was deep into his cosmic investigations.
From my solitary reflections, the inquirer was in a dire need of a distraction, a healthy one, a new look at life with no absurd moment of dissolution. For the most part, it was the taunting image of the earth-exploding that gave him sleepless nights and disturbed the peace of his days. This dissolute was insidious. It was a parasite and the infestation was unhealthy. My friend, the one who always had a question to explore, I buried him last week, but some say, he never existed.
The Post-Vision of a Broken End(Aciis Khatiwada)
He was in a certain doom. A metaphysical battle inside his think-tank taunted his bones to the point of slack. To him, the assumption of what life comprises, and what it was actually meant for, was a really difficult question to answer. The occasional whirlwinds inside his brain were of no definitive patterns, I could sense that. Perpetual storm, thunder, and rain gave continuous appearances whenever he'd a downtime, and to my knowledge, and thanks to a few educated guesses, he had a lot of it. At times, he used to share a few words with me, the words from his roaring mind and a faintly beating heart. And while he'd be explaining to me his situation or the kind of days he recently was having, I used to look into his big swollen eyes, the one which used to remain without a wash on most mornings, the very eyes that grew deep-red probably due to sleep deprivation, and could see the lust of confusion. To me he appeared as a man who lacked the motivation to live and thus, was living a life with no specific direction, to leap forward to, this is the simplest explanation that I could give. I was almost certain of the fact that something more than what he'd tell me occasionally was obnoxiously tampering with his state of well-being. From the routine conversations we used to have, my conversations with this friend of mine, I was filled up with a concrete idea about the state of life, and the sufferings he was going through. A very humble man was living his life in shambles, utter shambles, in fact.
One fine morning, during one of our occasional meetings, I asked him about a potential reality, a wish of mine to move away from the town and root for life in a completely different environment. I was seeking some concrete advice and wasn't looking forward to mere chitchat just for the sake of it. You see, I never did have a bright mind, and whenever I needed some advice my friend was the calmest of minds, the one I turned to, every time, and I guess he too found solace in my small talks.
Now, let me give you a small insight into the man. An interesting trait of my friend was the thing he always had about his privacy. You see, he was not the most private person in the world but I figure, he certainly had some reservations when it came to his private doings. For instance, to my knowledge, he never smoked a puff in the open, in the outmost public area. Borne out of curiosity, I once asked him about this habit of his, to which he said he feels fearful of the external world because there is no stone-craved guarantee that it won't turn foolish at any moment and disrupt his peace in the process. Let's make an understanding in this way, let us suppose that he never wanted direct attention in his private life. One day, one fine evening, in fact, he came to my house and asked if I was free for a while. It was my human nature that I wanted to know about the reason behind that question of his. In a polite tone, he told me that he was longing for some fresh air and of course for some fresh perspective too. I could never say no to him. On our way, he asked me if I believe in actions and their counter actions. He always believed that human beings are not free of anything and that freedom is merely an illusion. A man takes birth in a society of chains and remains entangled throughout his lifespan. He gets eluded by reality and thinks of being the captain of the ship, but in fact, it's the ship who is the actual captain. He once told me that every action we take has an immediate reaction, and at every step of our life we are presented with options to choose from, albeit with no knowledge of the consequence in rigidity.
I was puzzled at first but did not hesitate to ask him the reason behind his curiosity and then I gave him a polite piece of my mind. He was the kind of man who deserved all the politeness in the world. As I explained my mind, he listened keenly. I remember this one time when in one of our encounters he took notes. He literally wrote my opinion down on a small notepad which he always carried in his purse as a habit. It truly was a sight to behold. And on another encounter, on a breezy summer evening, as we were taking a stroll beside the riverbank, nearby the forest, the inquirer, my curious friend, asked a few questions based on existentialism, I presume, which gave me some thoughts. If I am honest, I don't think I gave him a suitable answer, however, I do not remember him making any complaints the entire time we had the company of each other.
And then this one time he told me something appalling which painted to me a picture of an ocean of hopelessness and gave me feelings of drowning and eventual suffocation. In addition to his thoughts, he gave me a few notes; a few torn pages from his notepad, these notes, which I presume, must have been written down in his dire hours. It was a very random thing to share and the writings in his notes were of a very bizarre nature, well at first, at least, but then it all started to make sense to me after a little passage of time. I won't go into exact details to preserve the true nature of my dear friend but you the readers deserve justice as well. Below is my interpretation of the sentiments of the inquirer.
One morning he used to wake up and immediately thank god that he was alive to wake and later some night, he used to beg the mighty to help him stay alive the entire night so, that he could wake up to see the next day. And during some nights, he used to leave everything to the will of God and surrender his fate. A futile megaton inside the head of the inquirer kept him quite busy at all times. The formative neurons at different corners of the cage, at frequent intervals, fused and ended with a blast emitting white light. A lot of dead cells and also a few new ones used to get caught in the open fire. This civil war was too much to bear, but it always carried the possibility of a cease-fire; however, it wasn't easy to come by. The vestibule was a confusing place. It was like a cave that was yet to be discovered and wandered around. At one particular moment, a thing was right and worthy, the next moment it felt like a sin or something that should have never been committed. It was generally after a discharge of the conscious that things usually used to undergo change but only for the palpitation to regroup again. The submissive vision, usually fabricated to the limit of total recreation, would regenerate warmth and never would pass a moment to claim calmness. However, the forced dopamine normally did not carry health. The aftermath was the worst of it all. Schizophrenia like symptoms then would bore their place in the mud. Will the earth explode? Has it ever changed its hanging point? What if the earth takes a turn for readjustment? But does it need readjustment? Do we even know the exact nature of the mass that we are living in for hundreds of years? My friend was deep into his cosmic investigations.
From my solitary reflections, the inquirer was in a dire need of a distraction, a healthy one, a new look at life with no absurd moment of dissolution. For the most part, it was the taunting image of the earth-exploding that gave him sleepless nights and disturbed the peace of his days. This dissolute was insidious. It was a parasite and the infestation was unhealthy. My friend, the one who always had a question to explore, I buried him last week, but some say, he never existed.
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BEN BROWN
02/03/2021Ben Brown.
A very well written story. Truly meaningful it is about how things can beat times in life.
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