Sunday morning is the silence of gold light intruding into my unconsciousness. I hear myself breathing amidst the intermittent chirps of mynahs: it is slow and unwilling, malignant and exhausting.
Never in my life have I hated the renewing light of dawn so much. It nauseates me for all its unrelenting energy and as much as I try to shut it out from my eyes, it is as inescapable as it is uncompromising. I am raped by it. Sunday morning is forced upon me, the physical and the soul. And all the vestiges of solitary night is culled by the loquacious mynahs. I wish I too could have been culled. But no, there I am. There I exist.
I am consumed by a violent desire to create something beautiful. But yet, there I am, smothered by the self-indulgent folds of ennui. It is my invariable lot in life to forever live in the shadows of inaction and self-inflicted mediocrity. What beauty can ever come from my hands.
Where has all the years flowed? The days are passing but not swiftly enough – a mere slow march of pained breathing.
I tell myself that it is that time of the year where I must again view Akira Kurosawa’s 1952 masterpiece, Ikiru. Then again, I know I will amount to no more than the very pencil-pushers that Kurosawa reserves his ultimate reprehension for on his silver screen.
Yet. Yet. I cannot allow my life to pass so listlessly without a grander narrative of self-importance.