Myriad Emotions and Menthol…

He knew that in wars like these, where one fought against one’s own heart, one was always bound to lose. But these wars have to be fought nevertheless. All through one’s life. He has seen everyone around him fighting against that one thing or one person they love the most, and eventually, the fight ends up becoming a fight between what you covet for and what by now is already an inevitable part of you. How can one possibly win a battle like this? And in wars like these, a truce is not a possibility either. He knew all of that. But, he was just waiting for a time to come when it would all subside. These emotions. His feelings. His predicament. And then, it’d be like living in a nation being ruled by some other, where people stand forcefully to an alien national anthem, and constantly lie to oneself that their state is no different from the state of those being free. For someone deprived of freedom for long, freedom isn’t the same abstraction.

Could it then be indignation? The reason for this state of mind. He was 26 when he had finally accepted the fact that this life is unfair. It wasn’t exactly an epiphany. Some leaves fall before the others but the fate of all the leaves was to fall, sooner or later, hug the ground, be embraced by it in return, and then finally blend into it. Transforming from the living into the ones deprived of their existence. And, stripped of their beauty. The same people who used to praise the tree for its foliage will discard these leaves once they fall. Existentialism, he thought, must then fail at the sight of a fallen leaf, which becomes nothing when removed from its foliage. But this was not the correct time to find flaws in a line of Philosophy. His predicament, then, cannot possibly have arisen from something as trivial as his feelings not being reciprocated.

Was it remorse? Hitting him already. Any age closer to 29, where he now stands, is not the age to be repentant. Feeling sorry for something terrible done by you, or for someone’s condition was not exactly repentance. Repentance, for him, is like the flower’s fragrance ensued in an old book, only that the emotions invoked by the two are the antithesis. Repentance, he is convinced, is something that is intensified with the passage of time. And when you are just 29, you haven’t really given much time for something as colossal as remorse to build up and attack you with all its might. Besides frivolousness has such a firm grip on people at that age for them to realize all that is being put up at stake. So it can’t exactly be remorse either.

What could then be done? How easy it seems to predict the course of life for anyone in trouble. Bits of advice. Exhibition of prudence. And even just silence when deemed convenient. All that had helped him get others out of their troubles only seemed to aggravate his agony. Pieces of advice seemed like truths, that will be well understood at some later point in time but cannot be digested, at least not just now. He wanted to distance himself from any self-claimed prudent person, there was nothing new one could possible preach him now. And silence, something he always craved for, now seemed throbbing, buzzing him with the thoughts. Inundating him with the emotions. Urging him to yield to his desires.

Respite. Finally, he fell asleep. Not caring for the falling leaves or his dismantled life. And he slept for long. And when he woke up, something felt amiss. Like one wakes up after a headache from the previous night. But brushing his teeth, and the flavor of his toothpaste and when rinsed, the coolness of the menthol within his mouth seemed calming.

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