Flowers of Evil – June 17

There’s no shame in tears. This is easier said than ‘done’.

I don’t know, the hell of a day I survived, the emotions I went through, the thoughts I had and things I read and watched.

I couldn’t figure out whether I was empowered or trampled by my own fate.

Every moment today, I stared at me, trying to smile; waiting for someone to wave their hands, frantically egged the apps on my mobile phone to see a silver lining.

I had just one meal, just my breakfast because I’m confined to this room, all by myself, without much courage to walk to the kitchen.

I sit naive, thinking about everything that I’m and I’m not yet I feel I deserve nothing but scorn and contempt.

I thought about ending it. I seriously did.

I recalled everything from the beginning of the day to the end of my zealous nature.

I thought I shouldn’t whine over things and make anything dramatic. Or to open the social media to post everything ridiculous as I normally do. But I was helpless.

Think about that, helpless even to die. This is been a tough day, I know. But this is the sample of days I’m going to have in the future.

I’m going to be like this, with so many questions and confusions.

As other people make their lives pretty and daring, I’ll be left in the lurches, buried by past, unmoving, solemn…

It’s like I have got a rock placed on my chest. I could barely breathe. I could barely stand and ask for even a single glass of water.

I don’t know what the survival rate of my decisions. I don’t know how long I’m going to live. I know these are guttural-voices.

I’ll be alright tomorrow, the day after it and the day after it…

But, when you there, in that point, where you think everything is dumb, that your identity is ‘mutilated’, I don’t know, sometimes people call it quits because they can’t take anything anymore.

Featured Image: a Vaka flower, a metaphor of nostalgia.



Goodbye Anthony Bourdain

Anthony Bourdain lived 61 years. He was born and raised in a culture that is more rewarding than a third world country.

He travelled over 80 countries. His views on people and places like Iran, Palestine, Israel and Lebanon were exactly opposite of the common American Uncle Jhon perspective.

He never invaded kitchens and lectured or lampooned like Gordon Ramsey or Jeremy Clarkson, not a chef, of course.

Anthony wrote unbelievable prose. A piece he wrote in the Newyorker magazine was a testament of his brilliance as a writer. His occassional one-liners were so catchy that audience never thought it was something he created from thin air with the sheer ability to observe and appreciate life.

When CNN remembered him after his tragic death, they used the word “story teller” to describe Bourdain. He, indeed was a beautiful story teller.

He went to Phillipines with a letter of appreciation to a friend’s nanny. He went to Iran without the malice of the nation that believes in fear and intimidation. He rode pillion on a Harley Davidson in Lebanon with a gang of outcasts and shared a cheap fast-food meal with then on the road, while recalling a bloodied war he witnessed in the same place on his first visit.

With so much hope and emotional-devotion Bourdain touched millions of people across the world and one day, out of the blue, we hear the story of Bourdain’s death.

That’s the struggle of people, the procrastination of inevitable. I know, Bourdain might have thought about this many times before. He simply procrastinated the ritual because of the eventual backlash he is going to receive from the end of people who wanted to see him travel and tell more stories.

He lived a 61. He was married twice. If reports are to be believed, his family life was in tatters. He traveled across the world and was empathetic about everything he had seen.

From outside, till June 7, 2018, Bourdain was an accomplished man. He had the life most people crave. But, it was not enough. He wasn’t contained by that life. He was alone, and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t procrastinating anymore. Goodbye, Anthony, you’ll be missed.