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Hiten Solanki

Tragedy


3  

Hiten Solanki

Tragedy


Suicide Note

Suicide Note

5 mins 233 5 mins 233

It was another moment for him to celebrate melancholy. The moment of festive darkness and gloominess. He was so much so one with murk that it had turned into his twin flame. No drop of light would please him as darkness had gently resided in a corner of hearts of his heart. Every moment he was inhaling darkness; as if it had usurped all his veins and turned red blood into dark. He opened his eyes. Turned his eyeballs in all the corners of his room. Alas there was not a single corner at his sight. What he could experience was a void of darkness. All his senses were succumbing to black hollowness. He closed his eyes gently in an attempt to be one with ever awaiting serene slumber and yielded all his senses to the melancholically sweetest words of the lyrics of his heart. Loaded with soothing music and metaphorical words, the lyrics please the senses utmost. Sometimes the sound brings smell. Smell of unextinguished mist of memories. They smell sweet, sour, sometime, bitter; but the only smell that he could inhale was the melancholy. Each of pricking words, sorrowful memories, was peeling off the skin of his soul gently. Like a corpse on pyre, he lied motionless on bed and trespassed all physical boundaries of time in an attempt of being one with his lost self. But alas! He soon realized: what is lost, is lost; and by no mean can be regained. The time is linear having no returning point. One cannot erase the past; one has to overwrite it. Aloud thoughts hammered his brain and he, regaining all consciousness unconsciously, rose from his bed. He headed towards wooden cupboard with a mirror in search of his diary. Startled with a glance in the mirror, he turned into a standstill. Narrowing eyes with raising brows, he leant forward. It was a shadowy resemblance to his figure framed in a glass. A shiver passed through to his body. That dark figure was a ghost; the ghost of his self. It was a reflection of his quest. One does not see with eyes; one sees with brain. All his brain was full of gloom. Painstakingly, he was gazing at the dark figure and a wet sensation ran through to his cheeks. Leaning closer he attempted to feel the mirroring of his sensation in a glass; but darkness did not betray. The warmth of his wet sensation brought wisdom to his insight that it was a shedding tears rolling down to his cheeks. Stretching out his hand, he touched the glass but could feel the same teary sensation missing on the mirroring face. Was it a selfless self ? Being horrified with his own self, he set back and opened the cupboard. Groping for a while among books, he reached to the diary that recorded his will and woe. He grabbed it out and returned to his bed. Engulfed in a darkness the entire room was emptily unoccupied with all existences. It was like a huge void of sky having not a single drop of twinkling of stars or moon.


His fumbling hands found pen from a nearing drawer and his stiff fingers reached to the switch. Enormous flash thudded into the entire room and all invisible corners, door, curtains turned visible. He dipped his face in the middle of his palms to cover it up from annoying light. Habituated heavily with darkness, he was totally estranged from brightness to an extent that he could not bear a single drop of light in his bedroom. Resting his head for a while covering with both of his palms, he slowly raised his head to reinstate himself in the temporary world of light. He breathed out a sigh and took his diary in his hands. Having opened the diary, he could feel some known fragrance. The fragrance of the gone by moments that were still residing in his frequent memories. The smell arising from each slightly yellowish page erected gauzy reminiscences; a cloudy fog of the past. The fiery combustion within was so acute that his eyes were flooded with tears. Wiping his tears, he read some lines again and again. Lost in thoughts for a while, he regained sense of his being and started scribbling something on read words. Overwriting. He was trying to overwrite his past; and what alteration he could find was nothing but an indistinct scrabbling of his pain. Present is not an alteration of the past; but a real utopia of the future. His obsession with his past turned his utopia into limbo wherein he was breathing only for reliving past every single moment. Very soon he realized the pastness of the past and his silent screams merge into the void of the room. This silence echoed in the deepest within. The acutest pain is helplessness; helplessness with not any other external force but with that of inner one. Helplessness with own self. He was helpless with his own self. The greatest alteration of all is death replacing life; no sensations, no sense, no heart, no brain; but ultimate deliverance; the end of all struggle. With all determination he hold the pen and jotted down the last words into his diary. “I Quit” Like a full-stop in a sentence he ended his diary with the shortest suicide note and threw it away into nearing drawer. The light of the entire room was annoyingly pinching him; he switched off it. Darkness prevailed again into whole of the room. He was possessed with melancholic forces and tears. His hand reached to tiny cutter that he had been carrying for three days in an attempt to slice his wrist; and so that he could obtain deliverance. He was trying to control his trembling fingers that had hold of a sharp cutter. Fumbling for green carved out nerves on his wrist, he put the sharp edge of blade on it. A shiver passed through his entire body and he cried helplessly. His head was filled with painful sensations. All his contemplative whims slowly got started dissolving into numbness. All his body and soul were resting into slumber for which he was obsessively yearning. All his darkness melt into the murk of the room serenely. Next day He got up dead to bear yet another day of light. (14 January 2016)


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