Going back in time, I ponder over the last hour. I begin by reading ‘If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller’ because that’s what I am reading presently. At the back of my mind, I’m thinking about what an overrated book ‘Paper Towns’ is. After 18 minutes gone and I know it’s 18 and not 20 or 25 because I am wearing a digital watch. So it is 18 minutes 31 seconds precisely. I realise I’m on page 7. Bam! That’s where I started. I’ve read this sentence more than a dozen times now.
I am the man who comes and goes between the bar and the telephone booth. Or, rather: that man is called “I” and you know nothing else about him, just as this station is called only “station” and beyond it there exists nothing except the unanswered signal of a telephone ringing in a dark room of a distant city.
I read it once more to see if it means anything different. Nothing. I must be out of my mind. Lacking interest instantly, I shut the book. Stare at its cover for few seconds; the title with its letters tumbling over makes no sense either.
It doesn’t take a detective’s mind to figure that I am in no mood to read, which to my surprise, I don’t find surprising. I’m suddenly gripped with an urge to scribble down things. Picking up a pen, I search for my diary. One word down and my mind goes – where’s my black pen? I start hunting for my black pen because that’s who I am – The Black Ink Writer. When I’ve found the pen, I don’t want to write anymore. Half-fuming, half-exhausted, I am at a loss of things to do.
For no particular reason, I decide to call mum. But mum’s inquisitive as ever; she’ll ask exactly what I don’t want to talk about – life. Life that’s so screwed up. Shrinking a bit over the oddity of the situation, I feel terribly lonely.
I want to go hide under a rock. Fly off a roof and disappear in thin air. I bite hard into my knuckles and then peer at the bite marks. The imprints are just as obscure as are my thoughts. Like the dreams that ring a bell, but are hazy in the mind. Caffeine, I’ve heard, sets mood right. So I brew a cup of dark coffee. Sugarless. Dark. Just how I like. No sooner I’ve poured myself a cup, I let it rest on the table. And soon forget about it.
A rush of breeze with a whiff of freshly baked bread ushers in. I peek out the window, staring into nothingness. Minutes pass unnoticed. Oblivion is bliss. A loud call breaks the reverie. Men scurry to the mosque, like ants rushing to a mound of sweet.
With a blank mind and an empty satchel, I leave the house.
Indecision is deeply rooted in our inability to conclude. The reluctance to accept the obvious outcomes of circumstances. But courtesy of these indecisive moments, even the most trivial matters become cumbersome.
I’d love to hear about your moments of indecision. What do you do? Are you also just as lost? Do write to me.