Fool's Paradise

Mom was happy. Dad was proud. Unlike mine, their feelings were genuine. A room bustling with life, ambient festive music, made me feel claustrophobic. I could’ve traded anything for my anonymity. Every hug, every congratulation pestered me even more. Like it was not just a degree. Like I saved someone’s life, someone’s honor. Maybe I did. Not life, but future. Not honor, but pride.

A piece of paper wrapped in a wooden frame became a chain of captivity wrapped around my neck. Every time I tried to utter something, that chain would choke me. I couldn’t say anything but thank you. An auto-pilot mode was on and the chain was controlled by everyone but me. I could feel my heart sinking, but nothing felt unfamiliar.

White dresses, black suits, canapés, and martinis. It looked like a graduation party gradually metamorphosed into a funeral. Loud chatter and hysterics could no longer hide their casual insinuations. It all became pellucid. Pseudo compliments. Forced celebrations. For the first time, I could see beyond everyone’s pristine profile that was worn as a medallion, a testament of their competence.

Hanging, a black and white portrait that I drew of my parents. It didn’t look black and white anymore. It looked gray. Gray like the memories of my childhood – a phase that I often find myself re-visiting. While everyone else uses the possibility of a brighter future to escape the present, I used my past as an escape.

The bookshelves stood tall in my room. In between the two shelving units was a window. My window to see the world. It looked like that was the metaphor of my life. I sat there in stillness, waiting for the constant havoc inside my mind to fully dissolve with the turning pages of my favorite book. It was ‘The Alchemist’ by Paulo Coelho. A book of several hundred creased pages that were once my safe haven later, became a memento of everything that I left behind in order to blend in with the herd. Maybe that’s why it laid bare, sinking in the dust. Hiding. Just like I had been, ever since I joined an Engineering college.

It was that moment where my entire life flashed right before my eyes. I remembered the first time I ever read this book. I was fifteen and known to be a teenager whose exuberance could give anyone a new life. Reading was a form of contemplative meditation for me and I was riveted by the concept of making someone speechless with words. I scoured books in hopes of achieving my pipe dream. Found solace in the flowing ink of my favorite authors.

Soon, I was able to immerse myself in the same ink, weaving my own worlds. One. Two. Many. There was one world, far from my imagination, the world I resided in. The world which wasn’t a byproduct of an author’s pen, instead, a turbulent realm, an underwhelming story. A story of several lousy characters programmed to pursue the same dream. A story of a million 15-year-old boys who, in their childhood, had trouble coloring inside the lines, one day decided to stay inside the box for their life.

By the age of twenty, I knew that physics intrigued me as long as it was metaphysical poetry. Science captivated me as long as it was the science of philosophy or literature.

I was a boy turned into a man who engrossed himself in the stories and the art of story writing. I had the power to create a world in which my cape was my imagination and my wand was my pen. I was the director and the performer. The savior and the scourge. The creator and the cosmos.

On the other hand, in the capitalist’s 21st century, I was none of those. I was a construction of society’s expectations. A mere performer. A man with a 9-5 desk job. A son with good manners. An employee with more than a reasonable wage.

I played all the roles that were offered to me whether it was worth playing it or not. Each bone, each muscle of my body had a string attached to it. My life was a mundane to-do list that didn’t change for nearly a decade. The more traditionally accomplished I got, the more deceptive my public façade became.

The monotonous life I succumbed to deafened me to the tune of my inner orchestra. Enough had been thought, felt and imagined but not done. A family dinner felt like a contest and a friendly hangout felt like a business meeting. Helpless. I’d look at my parents in anticipation of being rescued. Trapped. I waited for my friends to release me from this invisible prison. Helpless. Trapped. So was everyone else.

Now, I am twenty-four, known to be courageous, but not rebellious.

I looked outside the window, the chilling breeze gushed right through my shirt. The wind seemed frigid than usual. It cut through my skin, penetrated my bones and numbed my brain. The warmth of my body dissipated faster than ever and the icy exterior could no longer survive the coldness of this world. I noticed that I had lost track of time while perusing through my book. Before I could turn a new page in hopes of not opening it for the next five years, my eyes caught a glimpse of a highlighted text that said:

‘The boy felt jealous of the freedom of the wind and saw that he could have the same freedom. There was nothing to hold him back except himself.’

Reading it this time didn’t feel like meditation, instead it felt like my favorite book was giving me a sardonic grin, an abrupt jab at my heart, pushing me to break barriers and develop a thicker skin. So I did.

I started walking up to the dining hall telling myself that the evening wasn’t finished yet. That it was a semi-blank canvas ready to be painted, a climax ready to be drafted. An unwritten ending to the evening. My muscles twitched as a forewarning but, the body’s momentum couldn’t be ceased. Invincible, I assured myself.

Once again, I found myself back in a room filled with dead social circles. I could feel the tension inside of me. My ventricles were frozen, unable to pump out the blood to my body. As soon as I declared my love for writing and my willingness to quit my job for it, I could feel the heat around me. Suddenly, sacred silence was no more what I longed for. No one uttered a single word and that pronounced the growing tension in the air even more.

In a flash, everything went downward spiral. I saw my father coming towards me hastily. I froze. Cold like night. Cold like death. I couldn’t be phlegmatic as I was while preparing for the encounter. His temple vein was bigger than ever and his fists were clenched. I witnessed his emotions shifting from hurt to angst in few furious seconds.

The next thing I know, he reaches out to his pocket, pulling out a handgun. Impulsively, aiming at my heart, he pulls the trigger. It happened so fast that I failed to sense the adrenaline rush in my veins. Falling on the ground, I gazed at my relatives and their imperturbable faces. Cold embrace of death and blood rushing out created a vast pool of blood around me. It seemed like everyone else was floating in the lost flicker of my life. The blood had now reached my room and swallowed my book bare, blending with every word of it. I lost all the blood from my body and my heart stopped fighting for air. Yet, the death felt impending.

Mom leaned over and asked me to rejoin the party for my cake-cutting ceremony. I looked at her in disbelief. I looked at myself in disbelief. The blood was gone and my book was intact. I never really left my bedroom. I had many questions.

If I used my imagination to escape the reality, then how come I lost my life in a world in which I was omnipotent? I could have easily been an inspirational protagonist or a compelling character at least. My imagination was supposed to be a getaway from actuality not a bane of my existence. It petrified me of the consequences of my actions. It was appalling to see my imagination taking control of me and not otherwise.

As I was trying to contemplate what had just happened, my mother called me again and I walked back to the hall without giving it a second thought. There it was, a room filled with people I never merged well with but, I embraced it this time. I surrendered and ran the tedious marathon just like everyone else.

I am a guy who took so long to step out of his imagination that it started feasting on him.

#dreams #inspiration #storytime #adulthood #creative