Memories Of Midnight

VIII

Mood: Bored
Colour: Gold
Song: The Departed Tango (Howard Shore)


Isn’t it quaint how we come across people who seemingly seem to be so like what we want to be and actually end up inspiring us but then leave leaving behind just a whiff of their endearing presence - something we foolishly and melancholically hold on to in the dear hope that that person couldn’t possibly have meant so much and left behind so little in the limited space and time that they happened to share with us and make a difference to - and in the process we just allude ourselves to the surreal experience called expectations which are nothing but a bunch of gut wrenching mental complications which we ceaselessly subject ourselves to in light of the same aforementioned irony that we choose to make a faithful companion through the even bigger gut wrenching experience called life, thereby constantly adding extra baggage as we go on from one place to another and from one person to another till we reach a stage that all this becomes so seemingly insurmountable for us that only seemingly explicable way out for someone who has been through this entire life changing travail and who wants to retain a respectable iota of sensibility and purpose in this abyss of depravity is to sit down and try and make some sense of all the nonsense that he has subjected himself to, just because of one seemingly meaningful and ultimately worthless person who he just happened to cross path with and who for no/every fault of themselves ended up mutating his life for eternity, and write a protracted and prolonged epiphany as a thinly veiled metaphor for the kind of no-full-stops life that he has led and which had to be curtailed because of the chanceless and timely entrance of that one person who was to bend the path of his river of life and in doing so give him the chance to take a detour through hell and back so that he too could experience the kind of impact a timely intervention by fate can have on a previously eventless landscape which was bleak to say the least and perhaps that provided the perfect setting for such a dastardly drama of life to unfold in its ethereal glory and subject its singular audience to the vagaries of the inhabited sphere with consummate ease and conduct a bitter sweet symphony whose every individual strain would transcend time and brain cell destruction to leap forth and present a concerto in attendance every time a train of thought would happen to haplessly venture in its godforsaken direction and serve a painfully lingering reminder of that one interjection in an otherwise fluid and grammatically prudent transcript of his life and leave with no choice but to reign in his expectations after years of aimless vacillation and put forth a treatise on the jobless and timeless existence of a tale of no consequence at as unearthly an hour as the dead of the night which by a remarkable conjecture of nature was almost the time when the experience has begun and then led forth by the maelstrom in his tormented mind let loose the sequence of spasmodic sentences which in spite of not making much sense hopefully do subject the reader to the same anguish and despair which the protagonist had seemingly happened to traverse through for a reportedly mysterious part of his life and simultaneously give a differential reading experience brought about not just by the obvious repeated references to an incoherent episode but also by the forced lack of a full stop in an otherwise seamlessly fluid discourse.


Mood: Still Bored
Colour: Black
Song: Comfortably Numb (Pink Floyd)