A profuse mind is plagued with somber ideas and thoughts which, like irregular soldiers of a belligerent army, wreak havoc and seed despair. And one is left in a profound state of depressed torpor…
Another day gone at the blink of an eye as I languished in bed, sleeping, dreaming ; sleeping like a wretched soul who craved for peace, a wretched soul yearning for oblivion, a wretched soul forsaking all engagements and all duties.
A blessing, a curse.
And while I longed to barricade myself from the outside world, a world that would not understand me, a world into which I felt inadequate, rejected, I seemed to be mired into a constant state of lethargic state that deprived me of my faculties.
Life passed me by, with all its hopes dying down against my inner despair like waves crashing into a dark rocky coast on a stormy night, hopes that seemed, to my eyes so quaint poisons anyway.
My mind was a cesspool of dark, malign thoughts, fleeting thoughts of self annihilation tumbling against feeling of being worthless, feelings of being marked by a bane of bad luck as I dwelt upon the stack of failures that had inexorably piled up, day after day, month after month, year after year, and defined my wretched existence; an existence that was not worth the air I breathed.
Long were gone the delusions of youth, the now defunct expectations and vibrant aspirations of years bygone. What were they now ? Stabs in the dark recesses of my mind, treacherous voices that kept tormenting me maliciously. Now death lurked inside of me and despair gnawed at my brain like a gangrenous plague full of pain.
My days oscillated between sleepy, befogged hours during which I was empty, it seemed, empty like a old bottle*, and periods of excruciating headaches.
How many times had I fallen prey to searing, debilitating bouts of migraine as if white irons were pressed to my eyes, or thrust into my brain; bouts of migraines during which the softest light was torment and painkillers were but paltry, powerless remedies.
And those terrible bouts were indubitably followed by dismaying waves of dizzyness and nausea as melancholia took hold again, owerpowering me which such violence that I yearned to fall into a deep slumber.
I had reached a point in time when, a year shy of fifty, I reflected upon my life and realized that the sum of all my achievements, if there ever was any, amounted to barely a whisper among the loud fury of my failures.
I felt a sickening disgust of myself for having become a washout. Who would look at me and possibly think that I was capable of triumphs ?
*From The beautiful and the damned by F. Scott Fidgerald.