Dear Diary, I’m dead.

Dear Diary,
I sit here counting minutes, counting seconds, counting moments, and I know my count wouldn’t reach to triple digits. I do not possess the power to stop the slipping sand, the changing shadows, and the intricacies of time.
I have swallowed 16 sleeping pills diary, in full attendance and it is a conscious decision. A conscious decision I might begin to regret some seconds later, but I should not, because regret is just that- regret, and it can never reverse such big impromptu decisions.
I’ve understood life diary (isn’t it funny how I call you, an inanimate writing tool ‘diary’, as if you were a real person). Nearly all my life I have heard people- old and young, stupid and wise, alive and alive- describing life, trying to decipher this code that a certain God (which one?!!) has designed. I’ve had reassurances, stupid remarks, and unbearable taunts being directed towards Him, the Almighty. Wise men say do something worthwhile with your life. Funny ones say laugh and keep others happy. Workaholics say work; teachers say teach; artists say discover; doctors say save; and wretched ones like me say loot. Loot whatever you find, for you really wouldn’t find much, and the things you do find, are really yours to keep.
Anyway, back to how I’ve understood life, and why I’ve decided to end mine, at 52 years of age.
I cannot do everything. I am a mere spectacle, a pawn that he very cleverly designed, to play whatever shit role I’m supposed to play and then go away. Shakespeare said that the world is a stage, and all men must play their parts, and he was darn right in saying so; but I refuse. My dignity has refused to play the part of a lonely old man; I do not want a second childhood to my story.
Do you know, diary, that more than flowers, I like the initial stage of blooming buds? They give a weird sense of hope and joy to me, because I can’t see them as approaching their end, but rather striking a beginning and it makes me very mad when those buds grow up into those big wards of petals that make me sneeze and attract those disastrous insects.
I cannot do everything, diary. As I feel the effect of 16 pumps of poison slowly oozing and mixing into my blood, and see my handwriting getting messier, I really do feel that I cannot do everything, and so I cannot do anything.
I refuse to be part of a big film, the biggest film actually, that some director has chosen for me. My ego is much bigger than those who think they are ‘destined’ for their characters. I want to leave this world with my integrity intact, with my hopes high and I want people to say, “Mr. Jones chose to take his life away”. Chose to.
I will be the element that fails His Big Master Plan, that dissolves this Grand Play into nothingness, and it makes me happy.
I finally can do something. Something big enough to change everything and I die a solemn

(I think it is safe to say that Mr. Jones dies before completing his entry and also to say that this purely a work of fiction. I am very much happy with God, and my part in His master plan. Mr. Jones, a lonely man, dies an even lonelier and sadder death. Don’t consider yourself a mere spectacle; you are the hero to your film.)


Of wants.

I wanted pretty lilacs and orchids I

Could sway away in lakes but

You wanted big red roses with

Thorns that paint my hands

In the colours of deep crimson reds.

I wanted exquisite nets, and chiffons

And silks, but you

Like polyesters and cottons and threads

Entwined with golds and beads in steps.

I wanted a dark maroon, or a

Beautiful mauve, yet you gave me

Peaches and lime and a kind of

Green I could never really explain.

I wanted grapes and mangoes

We could eat on a hot summer’s day but

You gave me melons

And pears that were far too big for

My fragile hands to hold and share.

When I wanted you, and solely you

You gave me everything else instead.

Of Observations.

“I only observe” I’ll inform you. You’ll think it’s a funny habit. Then you’ll shyly ask what I observed about you .I’ll say nothing. I’ll try to distract you by entwining and twisting my fingers, or I’ll pretend that I didn’t hear you. When I see an expectant look still plastered to your face, I’ll resign. “Nothing” I’ll say simply.

And then a year later, when we are walking on the beach all alone, you’ll catch me looking at you and you’ll ask “what did you observe about me,” I will just shake my head. When we are angry with each other, you’ll see a look of deep remorse etched onto my face, and my wide open eyes gazing intently at yours, you’ll think I am observing you. You’ll smile deep inside, and moments later it will creep onto your face, because you are still waiting. Waiting for the compliment I’ll never give you. Waiting to discover something new, but you never will. At least not from me.

The thing is, I do observe keenly. I have scrutinized everything about you. But my eyes won’t decipher beauty the way yours can do. My brain isn’t accustomed to look and marvel for long periods of time. It works, perhaps way more than necessary, and it keeps working. Then it moves on to the next fascinating thing you have to offer. It’s like a machine working overtime, with an inbuilt sense of urgency. And when it has completely scanned you, and seen you, and perceived you, it will stop. You’ll be reduced to a mere object it has already viewed, already judged, and already moved on from.

Five years from now, when we are sitting at your front porch sipping our evening tea, and I’ll have that look on my face again and I haven’t spoken in an hour, you’ll ask me. I’ll still not know how to answer you. I don’t really realize what I’m doing, until I am finally done with it. So I say yes. Yes I’m observing.

“What have you observed about me?” This time you won’t be shy. Your voice will be sharp, and your tone will be accusing, and your face will be expressionless. You’ve asked me this question a million times and I’ve contemplated the answer a million times. I look away, and you know I have avoided the question again. I have never told you what I saw, what I see, and even though you kept asking me, I was pretty sure I never will.

And finally, when years from now, when the look shows up on my face again and you see it too, you don’t bother to ask. You look at me, with part amusement and part loathing, you gaze intently. There’s a certain kind of fire in your eyes.

“I only observe” I proclaim to you, and to the universe.

“I know,” and then you won’t have anything else left to say.