The Curse


Fate is a cruel master. Try as one might, success remains elusive. The prospect of good fortune is but a fleeting dream; a mere figment of one’s imagination it might well be, so far remote it lingers from reality.

Hope for brighter days has faded away so long ago. Flimsy delusions born of whatever twisted sense of an atavistic optimism which, somehow still dwells in some obscure recess of my mind, are persistently dashed by setbacks or hurdles that arise, shattering my confidence, gnawing at my strength, infecting my spirit like a gangrenous virulence.

I feel as if I had lost mine footing, and this feeling shakes the very foundation of my resilience.

When had it all unravelled ? I do possess abilities, the result of years devoted to my  pursuit of nurturing talents of an artistic nature; talents that might or might not have been there in the first place. But what do talents amount to when successions of unwise choices and adversity on one hand, and time on the other, had gradually corroded my ambition? Mere parlor tricks, the sort of things to entertain a small circle of friends? Or did they only serve to unveil the extent of my shortcomings, my inadequacy to reconcile myself with a world toxic to dreamers ?

Akin to a hero of romance, as Anna Quindlen would have put it, “If I had slipped, I recovered my footing, and it was only afterward that I would be aware of having recovered it,  each time at a slightly lower level.”

I have the uneasy sensation of having arrived to a breaking point, as if I am standing over a bottomless abyss. An abyss that calls to me, and the slightest nudge would irrevocably precipitate my fall. I am overwhelmed with an impending sense of doom.

As it is, stress has become a constant companion, albeit one that is unwanted, perversely and persistently toying with me; like a wild storm, its relentless assaults allow no respite. A stress which seems to sap all energy, all life out of me. A stress which induces a sense of unalloyed despair. A stress which reduces me to a wild soul and which is, ultimately, the source of a searing physical pain, as though an echo of my aching mind in turmoil. The pain has gradually become indistinguishable to my anguish, two sides of the same coin.

I tried many times to cling to writing as a sort of soothing, cathartic  process. But if the act of writing does bring a certain measure of relief, it is nonetheless scarce. one might, reluctantly infer that I, whose soul is steeped in such a moribund condition, perhaps exacerbated by a dreary monotony, would lack the desire, let alone the verve of committing my thoughts to paper.

Sentences would be hard to come; inspiration, like a untamed animal, has a whimsical habit of eluding itself from my grasp. Only at a late, unholy hour, when all is sound asleep behind locked doors, would it be aroused. Only then, words would swarms around like a shrieking mob. Only then fragments of ideas, unfinished sentences would start spinning in a maddening dance. Such intense and evanescent flares of inspiration would generally be revealed through the mist of drowsiness and would inevitably vanish before I had the wit or the will to fetch pen and paper.

Everything seems unpleasant, threatening, rather than interesting. All the little pleasure of life leave in me a bland taste. I feel  as if my purpose in life, my usefulness, is spent and I had become waste, a vilified, version of my self.

Depression has spread its shadow and it envelops me in a savage embrace. I have been prescribed medication, the purpose of it being to make me feel better, to dispel that sensation of despair and anxiety that poison my mind. Instead, it only affects me with unpleasant side effects and does nothing to cast my gloom. Lethargy has benumbed my mind and sapped my willpower. I feel bereft of any desire or aspiration, impotent and my body does not seem to recover from  exhaustion which, I fear, is caused by the medicine and which takes a terrible toll. Despair, in all its potency, is taking over me.

A throbbing lust for sleeps doggedly overwhelms me. My only solace is in lying down. My bed, for all its purposes, has become a sanctuary in which, as if under the effect of an opiate, I am immersed in the depth of dreams that sometimes seems more real than life itself, dreams  from which I can barely extricate myself. When I finally awake, I am overcome with queasiness as if my food had been laced with drugs.

The prospect of peace that unconsciousness promises is overwhelmingly seductive. I ache for the sweet bliss of forgetfulness. forgetfulness from the stark truth that, in the end, when all was said and done, I am but a forlorn soul, cursed by failure. I ache for the final slumber from which no one awakens.


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