Soliloquy

The weakness is crippling; the darkness terrifying. I struggle to open my eyelids and find the morning on the other side of my bed. The night arrives in patches, as do the pains in various parts of my body. Is this the body I have become so proud of and attached to? Finding it hard to utter more than two sentences, I somehow manage to tell my mother to play Acid by Fossils. Without a moment’s hesitation, she acquiesces. On a normal day, she would not have.

But now, she understands. If this sickbed were to be the last that my body embraces of this world, it shall be best for me to go out screaming with Rupam Islam and thrashing with Allan Ao Temjen’s guitar. In times of such misery, I become aware of how little I mean to this world and how little it would change at my demise. So much of my work remains incomplete, so many of my dreams remain unfulfilled.

Every century that got away, every poem that did not rhyme, and every article that made no difference to anyone’s life haunts me all night – with so much left to do, so much to accomplish, so much work to complete, how can I just vanish into thin air? The urgency to execute that for which I was put on earth is electrifying. Such knowledge hurts. I laugh at my inability to raise my voice – such weakness is embarrassing.

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