Random Rant Of A Mad Girl

It was a bright Sunday morning. The vermilion sun defiantly glimmering, drenching the black canvas of the night sky in varied hues. The clouds erratically floating in the morning sky like the whimsical dance of butterflies, escaping the peripheries of infinite infinities. The cacophony of the chirping of blue jays and hummingbirds echoing with the laughter and giggles of little girls, dressed in pink tops and yellow skirts, with red bow clips resting on the edge of their ebony hair, smelling of honeysuckles and candies.

I woke up to all that, groggily sliding my body across the cold bed sheets. My head buzzing with the incessant humming of the silence of the previous night, perforating holes of charred dreams like the glistening stars embellishing the abysmal darkness of the lonely night sky. My head buzzing with loud screams and white noise filling the voids of the silence from the previous night. I always wished if only I could stretch those nights fuller and fuller with dreams and never wake up to see what happened to them. However, it was Sunday again.

Last night, I had a dream. I saw a faceless man, draped in black hues, almost six feet tall. He was as dark as the rainbow, almost a three-dimensional shadow. I could not vividly see any of his body features, however, I felt that he did not pose a threat. Moreover, I realized that he somehow sedated me. And then, he dragged me to the kitchen. There was a huge rustic oven...an oven where you can cook tandoori for special ceremonies. He dragged it and placed my head, only my head on the oven. And turned it on. There I was, standing right beside him, witnessing the head burning, and pale skin slowly melting into the scarlet and vermilion blazing sun. It was a dream. A wonderful dream. Oh I pity, it was only a dream!

I woke up, and I realized it was Sunday. I detested Sundays. I never yearned for Sundays...at least not in the last twenty years. This day meant, that I was all by myself. I could do anything with myself, to myself, and yet blame nobody for it. Sundays were always for the ordinary happy people, happy people who had to meet other happy people, had to talk to other happy people, sing with happy people, dance with happy people, dine with happy people, spend time with happy people and enjoy the company of other happy people. Sundays were never for those who found ‘fun’ in funerals and wept for Mondays.

But do you know, years back, Sundays weren’t that monotonous and excruciating. Sundays meant visiting Golf Green, with Mummy and Daddy treating me with chocolate sundaes with cherry toppings, when I was tired of playing hide and seek with other children. It meant, Mummy playing the piano in the evening, and Daddy reading ‘Times of India’, his dusty glasses resting on the edge of his nose, while he comfortably sat on the sofa. On Sundays, the waft of roasted coffee beans in the air, the whiff of fragrance pervading the place, the soft yellow light casting its radiance on the darkest corners of the room, the faint strains of half-finished melodies being played in the background... the ambiance draped in love, warmth and hospitality.

However, I don’t know what happened in these twenty years. I really don’t. For every day appears as same as the previous day, freezing down the passing of time to a nauseating crawl. Here, everything begins in tomorrow and ends in yesterday. It feels as if my veins are overflowing with a farrago of blood, piss, venom and ashes of cigarettes. I can feel the living cadavers breathing beneath my veneer, incessantly reminding me that, breathing is a terrible exercise. They taught me that snoozes are just garlands of lilies that are meant to liberate me from this eternal pain, and sleeping pills are just a means to end a nightmare. And every morning, as the sunlight pervades through the dingy shades and scratches my skin, I feel the wriggling mokritsies feeding on my flesh and me vehemently scrubbing myself with concentrated acid to clean off those beasts, as the vulture patiently waits on the willow tree, drooling and blankly devouring me. As I look out of the window, I see happy little faces with dark scarlet eyes, laced with crooked smiles, breathing of rotting bile.

As the heavens trembled and quivered, threatening to burst into flames, I slit my wrist, I spill my pain, I split my brain and take my heart and drown it in the overflowing drains. I lick myself savoring the sour taste, breathing smokes of rotten flowers eaten by black snakes, as I glare up into the oblivion, the darkness palpating in rage, and beg the dying stars to consume me and burn me with its flame, and reduce me to scarlet ashes, leaving no trace of my devilish name.

Life is like white lies resembling the black roses blooming on dead bodies, as I realize that happy are those who are 5 feet beneath the grass. Moreover, ambrosia is the venom and immortality is the curse for those who want to die. And now, I smile while reading Bukowski, Plath and Sexton, I smile while seeing Van Gogh, I smile while hearing Cobain, and all this while, I was smiling at my own pain. And so, I write and write and write and write and write and write and write again, till I numb my pain.

But on Sundays, the ebullient sunshine, the melancholic chirping of blue jays, ladies lazily reading the weekend magazines, the giggling of little girls and the perfect weather makes me excited enough to kill myself, to make the happiness last forever. I am terrified of Sundays.