Pain

I don't touch booze. Never stuck my lips against it... my friends do, well, most of them. They say it alleviates pain... will it alleviate my kinda pain. The kind of pain that gnaws with twisted claws, tearing open the fine lining of your internal intestines until it hurts beyond all measure. Lets talk of this pain. In some more detail.

You know that feeling, when you get out of home, hop on cheerfully on that bicycle, and go to school. You GO somewhere. You're done with your tenth standard board exams. You GO to the eleventh standard. When you get over with your twelfth standard. You GO to college. And then, something happens. You realize, you've learnt the art of going on, and on, and on... and soon enough, the act loses an incentive, a motivation, a direction. You're good at it, going on, and on, and on. But then, it dawns upon you, that you've not been able to coagulate your thoughts... you don't know, where to go. But you keep going, and going, and going...

And then, one fine evening after a nice long outing with your closest friends, you find out, that you've lost the charisma. The direction. The intent. The motive. You're this, this nice big power-house of a car, with big wheels and spanking bumpers and a chick looking coat of paint... with plenty of oil in it, but no GPS. No maps. No route in mind. Just a car. One that moves.

What do you do with yourself then? You realize, that this is pain. The kind you've been introduced to, in the initial part of this whatever-of-an-essay. This pain poisons you. You look back, and begin to ponder. Abstruse ideas begin to meddle with your thought process, and you begin to turn perplexed. Has it been going the way you wanted it to? Have you really been doing what you wanted to? What some of your closest people wanted you to? Are you in the process of making some good out of your existence? Or are you, simply, going on, and on, and on... humming across valleys and mountains, conquering peaks that have little or no consequence... are you moving for the sake of it?

Think, think, think. Let the warm thoughts flow out, and onto this whatever-of-an-essay. May be it alleviates the pain. Mom said I shouldn't touch booze. She says its not good, and that my dad never did. So I don't touch booze. I simply drown away all my thoughts, into nothingness, onto my keyboard, typing away uselessly... with no intent in mind. No motive, no direction.