January 17, 2007

The Doors

Even after hundreds of millions of years, I still find myself confused. I am still looking for change. Another door has opened and another one has closed, and I still can't let go of the last one. Just can't forget what I dreamt was outside that door. A whole new world I would never be able to feel now that another door has taken it's place. And by the time, I can see what is outside the new one, and much before I move to enter it, it will close on me. Like the ones before it, and like the ones after it. The world is moving ahead everyday, and I'm sitting here, staring at my doors, praying that I choose the right one. Not that it really matters to me. I could say this is the perfect search for perfection, but I know it isn't. The world is moving ahead, a door at a time, and I'm struggling to make that first move. Waiting to see the light outside. Maybe it's just another room like this one. Maybe it's a beach all for myself. But I like it here too, and I really want to go there too.

I switch on the TV, and I see people trying to sell me stuff. But they are really not people, just something which makes noise and replaces the need for real people to be standing there. And if I want to get any of the things that I see there, there would be nobody to help me get it. I will call up and talk to a call center guy, who's struggling through life, working at nights, and knows shit about what I am really looking for.

I call up old friends, and they are all struggling too. They seem to know the answers, they open each door as if it were their last. And they walk right in, without emotion. But sometimes, you can feel the emptiness inside them too. Your voice echoes back to you when you talk to them. I am sure they feel that with me too. It's like a million people talking to each other, and hearing their own voice, amplified by the vast hollows inside other men.

I switch on some music, move to the song that thought I used to love the most, and I can't feel the rhythm. It's like somebody walked inside one of my doors and stole it, right under my eyes, while I was busy dreaming about the door, which closed on me. Now even the music echoes inside. And it keeps getting louder. And I keep shrinking. Maybe I should realize that my choice wasn't good enough for myself. Do I need somebody else to pick my music for me. Like I chose somebody else to tell me what to do with my life. Like I asked somebody else to decide how to talk to the strangers I meet, how to act when in front of them. Like I gave somebody else the right to run my life, and chose to be the slave. Why did I do it? I do not know, ask him who asked me to do it. Or ask him who asked him. We are all just sheep maybe.

It's like a giant conspiracy to hide the hollowness inside ourselves. The most successful ones are the ones who are the most hollow, because when you talk to them, and you voice does not come out, and you believe it's because they don't share your vices, but then suddenly you realize you were wrong, the voice comes back later, much later, much louder, and you are thrown to the ground, broken into pieces, like the shiny new glass you dropped, when you were drunk.

It is a pity that most of us believe in the world our eyes show us.

It is just a story, like in a movie, and you will be out of it one day. And nobody would remember the sad part. Nobody would remember the dirt. All they will know, is the greatness of your glorified life, not the hollowness within your souls.

And while I write, I realize that another door is closing, and nobody seems to replace it. The older ones are cracking and the cold wind is blowing inside the rooms. I can now even absorb the light inside my heart. And I'm shrinking, under the power of my own will. And I will keep shrinking till I explode. And when that day comes, I will see the light.

I know I will, because I have been there before.