Psychotic Wannabe

So, at the end of a dreary session of self-loathing and regretting every past moments till then-it lasted for just under an hour. I didn't even try to pretend.- all I wanted was a whiff of fresh air and an effort to make myself feel less miserable. That was the reason why I chose to go over to the reading-room while I wait for my companion. A bunch of young kids in the second year of engineering was having a group-study session. Back in my days we go to the same to ridicule those who chose to attend them. Even if we choose to attend, it would be the result of hours of cajoling and persuading by the people who were more concerned about us than we choose to care. A bossy girl leading the session was talking about Fourier series and what-not. I used to love mathematics, but always try to scrape by the bare minimum in my for years of college. At least, I didn't flunk in maths. At one point, she was boasting about something and punctuated by exclaiming, "Just the side-ef...

It came to me when I was having an early dinner. It goes like this: My muse visited me last night. ("How did you know that was your muse?", "Two words. Proper introduction.") "What do you have that you can prove your existence?" I thought hard and long. I have a family, friends and strangers who brush against me and then forget to testify about my existence. But if I don't exist, their existence too is in doubt. (Which makes my muse non-existential on the top of imaginary, which in turn nullified the question. But then, that too doesn't matter.) I had a book in my hand, that contains the stories that have been written by me. I handed it over to her as a proof of my existence. Did she read the book? Did she found it bland? She couldn't comprehend my stories. Was I narcissistic about it? Beats me. I should have recorded my thoughts.

It was just after seven when I was just out of the office. Since it is a Friday, I was expecting crowded buses, traffic jams and long way home. There is a two minute walk towards the bus stop. I was contemplating about my food choices. Should I buy or have a shawarma from the big restaurant which I was nearing? Or I could go home and go out with roommates. Just outside the fancy restaurant I mentioned sat four youngsters. There was a quick glance from me at them, just to see that their attention were fixed on the woman who was coming from the direction I was walking to. She was round, chubby and wearing glasses. Talking to someone using the headset wired to her phone in her hand, she was sobbing. "Like her heart was broken" I never know what people mean by that. There was someone I knew who used to say that. But the way she was sobbing, I think that was the best way of describing her. While I passed her, there was a moment when I wanted to stop her, hold her by t...