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Where Do I Find Myself

Where do I find myself? Into the frames, I look into the eyes of someone who has dreams; dreams that are my reality at this moment, and I despise that very reality. Into my thoughts I go, and my mind is no country for shallow fellows. Into my diaries I turn, and all I find are these very questions. I am exhausted. I see nowhere to go. Neither do I have any dreams that I could see through my current eyes a few years down the line. Perhaps there will come a day when I have my answers while writing my questions like these. Or at least, I hope so.
I try listening to Arctic Monkeys time and again, trying to bring back my young self into me. I have zero clue why I like him; he didn’t have much life either. I try listening to BBC News on bed, as my younger self would do. I still enjoy the voices, though even they have shortened their programmes now. Not much remains for me to cherish. What wouldn’t I give to play that bamboo swing once more? I don’t even have that nothing to spend. I just have this lamentation for the situation I have sculpted so beautifully, spending countless hours and sleepless nights of my youth.
It’s not that I am no longer young anymore, it’s just started though. But the non-wanting to be young anymore is way heavier than the truth itself. Ephemeral seems this lethargy to be. I do have zeal; I just spend it too much on my dopamine rush full of thoughts. I’ve never had courage, however. There’s always been someone on my side to walk the same path alongside. I’d wait to catch up some air, and everyone would already seem miles away.
Time and again, I go back to the veranda, look into the old almirah and the wooden boxes, trying to find my childhood inside my grandparents’ youth, my father’s childhood. I am too scared to look into my eyes now. I’d take one cassette, then another, and one more, unrolling them to make flyers all around the garden trees, and the flickering would never be long enough to entertain my eyes. I’d pluck those mulberries, fill the jugs, mix them with ausẽli, and it would never taste the same to my oesophagus.

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