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This World Spotlight was created on Jun 30, 2016 @ 12:35:05 pm

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Arts Under the Starry Sky


Under the starry sky

The mundane reality, where I usually dwell, has completely lost its existence. Now I dwell in a different realm of existence

- Sangram Lama

Jun 12, 2016- Ten glasses of gin and tonic now swim inside my stomach. The world has suddenly turned upside down. The mundane reality, where I usually dwell, has completely lost its existence. Now I dwell in a different realm of existence. The realm where everything seems so perfect, so alright and so ‘no problem’. The realm of existence where your cheeks never stop rushing towards your ears. The realm of existence where you laugh even when someone asks your name, let alone address. There are some breeds of liquid that has the power to transport you to the land of your fantasy. Today, I took its refuge; I surrendered to its power.

I am drunk. I might be unconscious, but if being unconscious can be so beautiful and blissful, why the hell would anyone bother to return back to the pseudo conscious living?

I don’t care. Let me enjoy my unconsciousness now. Fully unconscious… Fully drunk…

I stand up. I wobble. So I clutch at the chair for support. It feels like I am carrying someone else’s body, like I am not my body; it feels like I am not my mind either. It feels like I am a witness. Someone who is aware of everything that is happening in and around me. Someone who is observing everything silently, without any kind of judgment and identification. It feels really good to detach oneself from one’s incessant chatter of the mind. Peace…

“Excuse me, sir,” said the bartender. “You haven’t paid yet.” I laughed as if I heard the funniest joke ever told. “Sorry dude,” I said, slipping my hand down to my pocket. “I thought I paid you already.” The bartender laughed at me.

Perhaps, I looked like an asshole. But who cares? I can’t afford to care anymore. Now let me enjoy my high. Let me enjoy…

It was such a long day at work.

For me, today was the longest day of the week. I spent all of my body, mind and soul doing the things I am paid to do. Doing the things which make me feel more and more dead, day after day. The day work has robbed me of my passion.

At the end, I have become yet another insipid character in the book of history. Living the same life story like almost all other fellows, leaving behind the same legacy which I tried my entire life to avoid, but to no avail. I fell into the same trap my father fell into and the trap which my father tried so relentlessly to avoid for me. The same story of living someone else’s life, the same story of living life like a corpse. If only a machine could breathe, it would look exactly like me.

After paying my bill, I shuffle towards the door and push it open. Outside, everything seems so quiet and fresh, as if the whole surrounding was made up of fresh dew drops. A gust of wind wafts. It almost blows away my intoxication. My long hair sways like tall grasses in the summer breeze. I must have reacted in a certain way. I don’t remember clearly. Perhaps, my expressionless face looked more expressionless.

Outside, next to the door, I see a couple smoking and gazing towards the stars, hand in hand. Perhaps, they are making wishes. I want to make a wish too. A wish to be free of all wishes. By the way, how would a person survive without any wishes? A wish-less person? A person devoid of any desires? I am certain nobody in their right minds would ever desire such a person. Even someone who has transcended all worldly desires should still have some desires, wishes and dreams. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have any reason to live.

But I don’t seem to have any desires or dreams any longer. It might be the reason I often want to die. Oh wait, isn’t that a desire too? All day long, my mind is literally empty. Or so I think. And it hasn’t yet turned into a devil’s workshop. I guess even the devil seems to be frightened to enter the inside my mind.

I reach towards my pocket and fish out a cigarette and light it. You have got to do something all the time. That’s how I started smoking. Smoking kills, I know. At times, living kills too. We know it well. Leaving behind clouds of smoke, I move forward one step at a time, piercing the silent street. My body seems like it has got no bones to hold me erect. It feels like I am drooping from all the sides.

I have this deep fascination towards the midnight street. I have this deep intimacy. And I experience utmost gratification walking the street at this particular period of time when the city is in deep slumber. When you are enveloped by the palpable silence. When the street is softly illuminated by the lamp posts. When I see my reflection shimmering on the rain puddle at a street corner. Oh how I cherish such moments. It’s midnight and you are drunk and a cigarette dangles from your mouth and you are walking towards somewhere; but you don’t exactly know where, listening to the music of your thoughts. At such moments, very few things matters. You are a light unto yourself. I mean, you are a darkness upon yourself. Whatever. Your heart is finally at peace. You feel at home. Nobody is in sight except a few whores in their short skirts, waiting outside at the corner of the road, looking for customers. Under such circumstances, I can feel the moment. I can hear the moment whispering, “Live me. Live me fully.” And I feel I am truly myself.

I reach an intersection, and at the corner I see a Chinese lady gesturing me with her head to come to her…

“How much?” I ask. “$120 per hour,” she says in a Chinese accent.

I follow her for five minutes—we cross five blocks. She then opens the gate of an old, dilapidated house. I follow her. We enter a room, a small room that reeks of soy sauce. There are heaps of clothes strewn here and there on the floor. At a corner, there is a small rickety bed that looks like it might collapse any moment. She turns off the light and pulls me towards the bed and takes off my clothes one by one.

She rides upon me. She rolls her tongue all over my body and stops a while at my nipples and plays with it for a while. I hear her warm and heavy breaths colliding against my neck as she kisses me fiercely. All the while, I caress her breasts. Her body is soft and smells good unlike her room. I roll her around and lay her on her back. Now, I ride upon her. I don’t know if she moans and groans out of pleasure or does it just to make me feel good. Whatever might be the reason, I am not satisfied. Neither is she. This is it.

Shortly, after the business is done, we talk for a while. We share our mutual interest for reading and writing. I promise her I will write poems about her one day. That one day I will write a book about her. That one beautiful evening, she will be walking down the street and that she will stumble upon a bookstore that proudly displays the book I wrote for her. She smiles. She is really beautiful.

I read her some of my poems and she keeps on smiling after each poem.

She asks my age. I say, “27.”

I ask her age. She says, “44.”

“You don’t look like 44,” I say. “You look maximum like 35.”

“No,” she says. “I am old.”

I am taken aback.

“So where are you going now?” she says, as I pay her.

“I am going to a graveyard and lay down and watch stars.” I say.

“What? Is it safe at this hour?” she says with genuine concern. “You better go home and have some rest now.”

“No, I am not feeling like going home anymore,” I say.

“You are stubborn.” She says.

“Goodnight.” I say.

“Come back soon,” she says, waving her hand.

Her memories keep flooding my mind as I keep on walking aimlessly under the starry sky.

Sangram Lama (800x560).jpg

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