A Maniacal walk.

As I walked back towards my apartment through the labyrinthine and stark corridors of the medical center, I thought "it is possibly a nightmare". My legs carried me on their own accord in a direction they knew. When I emerged into sunlight, by that time I knew I was awake. Very much so. "Isn't it strange" I had thought to myself, "that all the time you expect something to happen, and yet when it does, you do not want to believe it, hoping all this is just a horrid dream and you would wake up to the sound of your morning alarm." Entwined in the thoughts I walked through the path. The words hadn't sunk in and yet I knew them to be true. The reports spoke in a tone of clear and cold accuracy, the outcome of the tests. I am suffering from something, that will never ever go away.
The bright clear and cold December morning was one of the best of its kind, fresh snow gleaming , the cemetery besides the road covered with heaps of glittering snow, the trees gleaming with frost in their bare branches, the twigs jewel bright in sunshine. As I gazed upon the beautiful roads around me, the mundane finality hit me. At that moment, I was lone, in a different land, where no one knew me and I knew no one. I felt scared, cold. I wanted to scream, cry, claw at the whole world with all my might.But I did nothing except staring at the tombstone of a grave, quite blankly, because, there was hardly anything at all to see.

I felt anger, quite out of tune with the tranquility of the day , but I felt it all the same. Anger towards no one and everyone. Anger towards myself. I looked at the life I have been living , and the life that I have wanted to live, and I despised myself at that moment, for the mockery that I have shown to my own dreams and aspirations. The things that I thought I'd do, but never did, in fear of others, for the sake of propriety, following examples and setting some, never paying heed to what I really wanted.

I promised myself to do things that I have never done but wanted to do. I promised not to deceive myself anymore.
















I wanted to write a piece like that above.. I could not. I could not romanticise the disease. Fear loomed large, with a feeling of despair. It is not romantic, glorious or noteworthy to be sick. It is pain, suffering. It is not in life that a disease brings out the best in people. Ironically I have seen the reverse.
I wanted someone to hear my rants, I needed someone by my side. But like always, I laughed at my own fear, chided myself for my foolishness and walked silently back home, knowing that I'd live as I always have from the next day. The sickness would come and go, and eventually get worse, and then there would be darkness. But I wouldn't change, dare, dream. I wouldn't.