the last supper - abridged.

 for the longest time i used to wonder how adulthood stole itself into a life. the concept of anything growing at all, came off as unbelievable at its best. 

it is now that something feels shifted.
there is nothing to want anymore. 
the days have started to melt into each other.
and my hands are too big.

a pang of betrayal hits when you realize it has happened. growing old is another one of god's ugly tricks.

-

december is almost over. the body feels too weak to stop time on its tireless journey for a conversation.
for closure.

i woke up on christmas and lifted up my pillow.
i felt ashamed when i did that.
for a second i felt like a beggar looking for his childhood.

santa was too tired to leave his house this time. yet the children were greedy. a child psychologist would say, "that is the effect of creating expectance. you must realise that there are other ways of creating incentive for children."
what he does not realise is that santa does not do his job for the children. he does it for himself.
santa has realised that his relevance lies in giving. 
the minute he stops,
he is simply another old man.

i imagine his family far away at a dinner table somewhere. i believe santa's annual tradition is a repentance of sorts.
i believe santa was not a good father.

somehow, this is another apology commercialized.

-

there is a crow on the verandah rail again.
personally, i have no vendetta against crows, but this one annoys me on a colossal level. 
as a person who has never bothered animals, let alone lay a finger on one, i find them quite endearing actually.

this crow however has very distasteful morals. he sits on the rail for a good amount of time, comforting himself with the surroundings and engineering an effective plan for what he is about to do. without a single caw to avoid notice to his presence, his beady eyes scan the room for any obstacles. 
the wooden verandah door stands wide open, easing his path towards treasure. 
the treasure here being half eaten scraps of scrambled egg on a breakfast plate.

he carefully hops his way onto my bed, much to my annoyance, and trots his way towards the plate. the most interesting part of his entire venture is his attitude towards me. bothered, the minute i glance at him, he stops in his tracks. still.
this reminds me of how people would stop in their tracks and be very still when encountered by a bear.
i am subtly offended, yet amused.
i turn my head away to see him hopping towards the plate again through peripheral vision.

having reached, he grabs the scraps of scrambled egg and makes a run for it.

often he visits me, seated on a sturdy pillow at times, waiting for variety in the breakfast menu.

-

this is the first time i do not know what to ask for my birthday.
nothing plausible, at least. 
somewhere along the road receiving has disguised itself as giving.
the materialism of this world is disinteresting now.

unless it is a stuffed tyrannosaurus rex. i have a kiddish affinity towards tyrannosaurus rexes. they have comically miniature arms. 

i would like to patent my version of a t-rex someday.

it is difficult to drain the life out of a child. there is too much in them. it is unfortunate to see life slowly kill them before you can.
the air is too polluted for them now.

-

i am always tired now. like an adult. always sleepy. 
my parents think it is part of my illness - the sleep.
but it is not.
the sleep just says i'm getting old.
getting exhausted.
people ask me what i am exhausted of. people say it is a hoax, for this is the prime of one's lifetime.

i do not like those people. 
they seem to generalize for convenience. 

they do not know how many lives i have lived.

-

i have always lived with the perception that my parents failed to make a home. that they harbored a desire for happiness so much, that it never came. 

i feel disappointed when i realise i was wrong. i don't like being wrong.

they never harbored happiness for themselves. they held a deep sadness within. a vacuum of sorts.
to be comfortable with that vacuum is a darkness i will never understand.

perhaps it was that angry sadness that built whatever remnants of a house my father holds dear to his heart.
perhaps it was that angry sadness that lay close while my mother cried.

perhaps it is that angry sadness that hangs heavy in the air while we have dinner together after years.

it is uncomfortable without it. without the angry sadness. 
maybe that is why they shoo away the joy like i used to shoo away the pigeons from boro dadan's window sill.

the angry sadness sits at the table on the chair my father's mother has recently left vacant.
none of us like this dining room.

the reminders of a could have are not very nice.
someone has written this story before.
it does not look like mine.

-

this has become longer than i intended it to be, but i have patience today.

i am afraid that one day my words will eat me up. and that i won't be able to breathe. and i won't know anymore. like i have always known.
i am afraid to be oblivious. i am afraid of not being seen. 

i am afraid of disappointing myself.

i look at that sentence again. i am afraid of disappointing myself. 
to a paradox of a person, that is a nice joke.

i am afraid of disappointing the only parent i have ever had.

i look at the sentence. sounds ungrateful. but i do not like lying here. the black on this page swallows the fear. slowly. 

it looks so ugly. 

-

an angry sadness sits with me as i write. of all that i have inherited, this is my favourite. 

                                            
                                            Artist's Vision - Jozef Rapacki (date not confirmed.)