That Eccentric Guy

by thekathmandudes

He took a long, cold and  solemn look at the sky, almost insipid yet a pursuing deep look for answers. He knew it was futile but still, time and again he ruminated.  It consumed every piece of him, the cruel anguish, placid exasperation, uncanny crawling of this crisis into his head, only epiphany remained. He was already accustomed to this self defeating behavior but now its growth halted and he felt restless. It always amazed him how he could feel, the sorrow of living could bring happiness, the melancholy of which could be gratified and cherished. It was almost enchanting, the glorious blaze of life he had discovered and could not share with anyone. It seemed crazy and like a dream but it wasn’t so. He was living the dream. The dream of happiness, almost perfect.

No one could reproach him of this obstinacy, to conclude everything about life in such melancholic manner.  It was his way of living a life. It wasn’t a virtual life of anything yet something seemed wrong to the audiences. Everything always seems wrong to the audiences, the critics of our lives and it is sinisterly accepted fact that we should behave, think and feel about the world, the same way as it has been generally established.  No wonder we have a hypocritical perception on life and god.

The thing about happiness is that it doesn’t last long and till it lasts we tend to overlook it. But, on the contrary a neurotic never neglects it but instead, lives it to the fullest as a hedonist would probably do. He was living his dream life, like a fearful convict on the run, the supercilious nature not allowing to leave such irrationality, the life of which we seldom encounter and even if we do stumble upon, we ignorantly fail to notice. It was almost if, for such folks, god created life.

Now, the sky looked tedious, almost lifeless. The birds resembled nothing more than mere bodies with wings and the clouds were not obscure anymore. There was nothing amusing about the sweltering nature of sun and human ingenuity didn’t interest him. He had grown weary of his own emotional conundrum, he was tired, the lassitude engulfed his soul, draining every energy he had. He looked like a communist who now knew it was impossible to idealize further and thus retiring into solitary, unyielding life. He had outgrown his own jarring emotions and anomalies.

He wanted more of it but it sunk in instead,  he became what he detested, the soul of it, which, he hated the abhorrence now faded and more exasperated he grew the less it dandled. This taciturn man couldn’t pertain himself over his own ideals and ideas while his expostulations, mostly monologues were all in vain. His actual self now swerved from his ideal self and against a new found delirium.

He had become a conformist.

 

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