Wahm

Sometimes, our only fault is that we open our eyes in the morning! All bones and cells instantly sense the manic absurdity of our lives and everything around us. It could be either the land beneath our feet is slipping away, the sky with a minacious look turning into a terror, or the wind spewing fire like a mythical dragon. We are beyond the aid of convictions, faith, and devotion—the anchors of consolations vaporize like hot steam. More than anything, we want to pick up as many broken pieces of ourselves as possible at that moment! We want to tie a leash around the sudden changes and those anomalies that disregard the reasoning of logical thinking. All this frenzy often transpires simultaneously with a vengeance to destroy our life-trails. So, even in kinder circumstances, our every waking instant is tangled in counting—count with a clock, calendar, chart, or benchmark! Counting creates a safe haven, albeit a false sense of security. At some point, the grace of counting ebbs; we abandon counting; we are forced to tolerate the inconsistent behavior of numbers.

There was no guarantee, yet we expected otherwise, that the numbers were immune to exploitation. When numbers lose their importance from abuse, we become not callous but benumbed. It is challenging to notice when a simple arithmetic operation ghostly turns into a gibberish mound. The counter, context, time, place, and purpose drive the numbers to uncaring for the laws of the physical world. What has always been around us, but we pretend otherwise, is that life experiences could be unfathomable in consciousness! The illogical results from calculations are part of the fiasco.

Mostly, we are inclined to sleepwalk with our bowed heads—lest the truth from our hearts swell out with a scream! Everyone is drowned in the shame of deprived sentiments. To stay afloat, we avoid looking at each other and hide from the weighty unresolved feelings—the frantic efforts during disorderly and countless what-if investigations of every moment of our lives. The agony still swells on every crease of appearance. The struggle, the anxiety, the unnameable dread hound us and turn us into wordless, inept skulls of mush at articulating the conversations within our hearts. Even if there were anyone to care about listening, we would still remain wordless. However, the precious memento of life can disappear instantly, regardless of how small a fraction of the moment is. Everything around can become a mere penumbra only in remembrance, only in keepsakes. Utterly anguished, we conspire ways to move on and continue our lives with spur-of-the-moment logic. We are left to plan merely for the moment: inhale, exhale, and repeat the circle until! Our endurance of mind and body can withstand only for so long before the knee or heart collapses from the consequence of the false sense of security we tended to all these times.