He was awakened from his reverie when the fire reached the stub of the cigarette he was holding and burnt his finger. He immediately bought his finger near his lips and blew some air on the burn as if the air he blew would wipe away the wound from his finger. He started wondering what was he thinking but couldn’t remember it. He felt anger at himself for not being able to remember his own thoughts and the anger was even more justified because it was happening once too often. He has been getting complaints from people around him that he was preoccupied and he lives in his own world and he doesn’t pay too much attention to them. He already had 3 burns on the same spot. If somebody interrupts him and asks him what were he thinking he would say nothing in particular and the other person would get annoyed because they felt he was hiding some thing from them or he was not interested in speaking to them.
He crushed the cigarette under his feet as if reminding it who was the master. He slowly made his way to the wash basin and rinsed his burnt finger. The feel of the gushing water on his skin always calmed him down. Then he went back to the chair and lighted a fresh one. He is remembered of random conversations he had with some of the people around him. Not the entire conversations but bits and pieces of them. Some one said to him “You are so rude. You could have said that you won’t be joining for the dinner in a nicer way”, another sentence came to him “You lack human compassion otherwise how can you not miss any one “, then another “You are not human, I can’t see a human in you” and another “You have double standards.” He closed his ears tightly with both the hands hoping that these words would stop but they wouldn’t. He just got up from the chair and took a couple of steps. He liked to walk , he liked movement of any kind , he liked action because these thing remind him of the fact that he was still alive , at times he would crush the cigarette using his own fingers because the resulting pain would be a sign of life.
He couldn’t understand why these things were said to him but what bothered him was the fact that he was supposed to get hurt on hearing these things but he wasn’t. He had no passion for anything, he had no love for anyone, he had no goal to reach, he was not answerable to anyone, he was not responsible for anything, he had no desire to live nor he had any desire to die, he dint wish to create anything, he dint want to be remembered for ages to come, then what did he want? Just to exist? He thought of creating a pseudo passion, pseudo love, pseudo goal for himself and creating an illusory reason to live but again he doubted his ability to live a lie and discarded that possibility.
He was awakened from his reverie when the fire reached the stub of the cigarette….
He crushed the cigarette under his feet as if reminding it who was the master. He slowly made his way to the wash basin and rinsed his burnt finger. The feel of the gushing water on his skin always calmed him down. Then he went back to the chair and lighted a fresh one. He is remembered of random conversations he had with some of the people around him. Not the entire conversations but bits and pieces of them. Some one said to him “You are so rude. You could have said that you won’t be joining for the dinner in a nicer way”, another sentence came to him “You lack human compassion otherwise how can you not miss any one “, then another “You are not human, I can’t see a human in you” and another “You have double standards.” He closed his ears tightly with both the hands hoping that these words would stop but they wouldn’t. He just got up from the chair and took a couple of steps. He liked to walk , he liked movement of any kind , he liked action because these thing remind him of the fact that he was still alive , at times he would crush the cigarette using his own fingers because the resulting pain would be a sign of life.
He couldn’t understand why these things were said to him but what bothered him was the fact that he was supposed to get hurt on hearing these things but he wasn’t. He had no passion for anything, he had no love for anyone, he had no goal to reach, he was not answerable to anyone, he was not responsible for anything, he had no desire to live nor he had any desire to die, he dint wish to create anything, he dint want to be remembered for ages to come, then what did he want? Just to exist? He thought of creating a pseudo passion, pseudo love, pseudo goal for himself and creating an illusory reason to live but again he doubted his ability to live a lie and discarded that possibility.
He was awakened from his reverie when the fire reached the stub of the cigarette….
