I have often wondered why life is how it is. And while that may seem as a question that can be interpreted in a thousand ways, there is one such interpretation that irks me. And that is, why do we have to live day after day when we know that tomorrow it could all be over? Such questions often trouble me after midnight, when the world around me sleeps and my demons fight with such violence that the din inside my head keeps me awake. It is at those times that I struggle to find the reason behind it all.
Daytime is perfectly fine. A cup of black coffee and the sleepless night doesn’t bother me and I am off to take the world by storm. Yes, even after a tumultuous night I get up, get dressed and give each minute of each day my all. But when I am in my bed surrounded by nothing but never ending darkness, my mind wanders off to all the corners of the world, each day finding one way or another to make me question the purpose of it all. I have spent so many sleepless nights staring at the ceiling of my room that by now I know my ceiling better than my own soul. I know the areas where the paint is coming off and the corner where a spider has made its web which I forget to remove each morning.
The moon brings with itself a string of questions. Why do people wake up to see the sun when the sun brings with itself nothing but a false sense of usefulness? Yes that’s all it is. We get up with the sun. Put on a suit and go to work. Do monotonous work for 12 hours at a desk and come back and fall into a dreamless slumber only to wake up the next day to repeat it. When will the world realise that all of it is meaningless? Nobody cares. We suffer because of the delusions created by us. And the minute we suffer a catastrophic blow, we come to our senses. We realise that none of this matters. We are living our lives as fate wants us to. When it wants us to be happy it sends a big promotion our way and when it wants us to be sad it takes someone very dear to us away.
There was a man who, people said, went mad after his wife died. He was 45 then. They say he went crazy. He had no child. He left his job, packed a bag with mere essentials and left. Left to just wander around. Nothing anyone said could bring him back. Ten years later a man was found dead by the beach, a thousand kilometers away. It was the same man. People pitied him. ‘What a sad way to die. What a sad life.’ they said. Yes it is sad to die all alone. But was it really a sad life? Had he really gone crazy or had he come to senses in a world that has gone crazy? Maybe he realised what a sham all of it is. And he broke the norms to live life his own way. And maybe that’s what made the world say he went mad. Because it’s a universal truth that people look down at those they don’t understand. The idea that he might have higher intellect and understanding of life than them is incomprehensible to them.
But maybe he was crazy.
What would I know. I am just another hypocrite, who questions the truths, or maybe lies of life between 12-5 at night when sleep eludes me, and gets dressed to go do all that stuff the next day.