A little lunacy

I pick up a pen to copy a passage from the screen. I am frantically searching for a paper. Everything is organized and ironically, I cannot find a thing. The drawer does not have my notes copy. There is not even a scrap of paper. I scream in frustration. And suddenly there are hot tears welling up my eyes and streaming down my cheeks. The frustration has given way to emotional breakdown. I am incredulous. I don’t understand how I am going to explain this to even myself. My state very simply presents the erratic weather. One moment, the sun is shining bright and the next moment I can hear the rattling peal of thunder and the dirge of the wind. I am too tired to get up and fetch myself the stationery. I don’t want to just copy-paste the beautiful lines on a lifeless word-document. I have my head in both of my hands. I clumsily move over everything beside the PC in an attempt to show-case my fury; the coffee-mug tumbles and falls on the floor. There are porcelain pieces all over the floor and the icy coffee has already tinted the marble like a red straight from the kiln. I don’t have enough energy or will to clean the mess. At last I see my nephew’s six-line copy lying on the adjoining bed. I pick it up and open the last page. I try jotting down the lines. My handwriting is too small to fit in the crevices. I am irritated again. I want to fit the letters and the words as nicely as my nephew has written his rhymes in the six lines. My handwriting, however, crumbles like my inner turmoil and it seems my state has finally found a way to speak through the pen which does not move properly and I have to steady my hand to stop it from shaking. I look up to the screen to see the words. I cannot really see anything. The tears have blurred my vision. I open my mouth to voice my thoughts to myself. I hear only a choked croak. I pick up the pen again. I cannot write. I throw away the blue dot pen and it hits bed and rolls and falls on the ground.  I get up with the note book still in my hand. I walk to the other side of the bed and slam down on the floor where the pen lay. I pick up the pen and wait for the tears to emerge. They don’t. I laugh at myself. It is laughter without the merriness or even the helplessness. It seems to me just like the disgusting sound that a lunatic makes. And suddenly realization dawns upon me. My fingers act on their own accord and I look down to see a scrawl on the parchments in my hand. ‘Lunatic.’



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