The Ambiguities That Men Create

“I always believed there was something out there, in this crazy world.  I used to be in great misery. Then, one day, suddenly and inexplicably, I ceased to believe such a nonsense.  A brief period of happiness engulfed my soul like a rapist in his paroxysm of malevolence, gratified.  But, the happiness swiftly passed away and into a darkest abyss of senselessness. Today, there exists both stream of rationale in my consciousness, the being and the nothingness. Still, I am in great misery”, Jean Paul Baalayar looked dejected. His tiny fingers pressed against his gleaming countenance, his hair unkempt and his lips parched and pallid.

“I am tired of your nonsense, you idiot of a cynic”, said his sister, nonchalantly.  “The more you think, more you make my life miserable and here you are talking about misery and sense, the essence of our existence and all the gibberish ideals our father used to talk into us when he used to be drunk.” She looked at him with her cold eyes and she assumed a grim countenance, her fingers touching her temple, she was caressing it. This diffused a strange warmth inside Baalayar, an uncanny feeling of love from a mere stroking of her fingers, but then suddenly, he heard a faint crack, he reiterated his head and before he could speak, she blotted out, “Only that he used to be drunk but you needn’t have a sip, like a devil to torture my life you were sent, what have I done to deserve this inferno, how can god be so callous and inspire such vanity among men?”

Baalayar was rather taken aback from her paroxysm. He did feel guilty for coming up about the forbidden subject but moreover, he felt pity towards his sister. He was just cold inside, he wasn’t the empathic or compassionate to people but he thought he was rational at least, he knew he didn’t have much ability to love or express it. He just entertained the idea of living inside his head while a lengthy monologue ensued throughout long nights.  Not even a speck of rationality was to be apprehended yet he maintained this habit. Each day his patience would elevate more and more until it became bearable for him to survive the this folly.  He now was completely at rest, perishing his inherent ardours in a-‘counterpane of stoic ennui’s and ludicrous interstellar ideals’ as his sister would have said.

“You have need of a wife who can produce you a couple of naughty children, then you and your wayward life will be confounded  for the good”, she added sharply. “Well, I guess that needs to be done sooner than later but I don’t want to have a wife like you”, he sighed and assumed a faint smile.

“No, you need a wife who can yield up to your unusual fervours, eh? Why don’t you find a real beauty and marry her, you know, the ones who participate in some Missy competition and don’t know anything about your Camus or Dylan, that would be a real treat huh?”, eloquently put the sister, “…and guess what, you can go on telling her all your nonsense and she won’t be angry at you because she would think of you as a piece of art, an intelligent philosopher, a maverick. You will get your attention and I will get my peace that way……..and the poor Barbie will finally get her Kenny”.

Baalayar gave a chuckle and said, “ Well, I bet there are lots of pretty and intelligent ladies in most Missy contests that you so much hate my ugly duckling. You should also try your chance at such contests, who knows you may win yourself a ‘Miss Beautiful at the Inside Only’ title”, he laughed, his smile stretched wide and his Greek nose seemed to point at the direction of his ridicule.  “Oh, my philosopher of a brother, I can’t help but notice that you have lost your sense of humour a long time ago”, gagged the sister.  “Well, isn’t that the whole allusion of existence?” said Baalayar suddenly with a hardened melancholy. “Get outta here, you runt, again……..again this is happening, I can’t believe these men, wretched creatures delving into pits they make for themselves and wonder when the lights went out………why wouldn’t the God harden Pharaoh’s heart then……..”.  She rushed out of his dark, small  and macabre room and slammed the door. Baalayar was ruminating and gaping already.

A Day In Life of Mr. Floyd

On a glorious afternoon of June when the sun shone in all its grandeur, Mr. Floyd was treading in short steps with his big brown boots, down the steep of Chabel contemplating his lack of passion for everything. He considered that all was over for him. The will to live, to be amused by the trivialities of human deeds, the splendor of nature which induced paroxysm of joys in ordinary of circumstances, the ingeniousness of human beings along with their foolishness which incited innocent laughter among others were all getting trivial to him. He felt like a man thrown into an abyss of hopelessness from where even light couldn’t escape. The world didn’t make any sense at all.

With every step he took he began to ponder at the senselessness of the world. Not his world. The human world. The whole of human existence was getting in his nerve as he was unable to answer the question of our purpose in such an uncanny universe. Such constant flux of hopelessness was evident in his countenance and the passers-by could easily misjudge him for a neurotic patient. Such disturbed was his appearance.

Floyd’s sense of senselessness increased along with the dusty and mundane road which stretched across the Bagmati River bridge and into a small park. He muttered involuntarily, “ I cannot be an accident”. He was wondering the origin of the universe and what ensued after the Big Bang while considering all those scientific hypothesis which explained our existence. He thought it to be pathetic. If such were the truths then he reflected contemptuously, “my life is nothing but a product of an accident! This cannot happen”.

Mr. Floyd subconsciously felt that there was something divine in the origin of the universe and the creation of human life. He did not believe in God and refuted the very idea of such a bizarre creature, yet, he doubted science.  He didn’t suppose this to be contradictory ideas but an integration of his experience with surreal elements of the world.  He was one of those people who would spit into the face of “God” if it appeared out of thin air and proved its existence.

Upon reaching the park he made himself comfortable in a green wooden chair where he was suddenly taken with one of those desolate lassitude’s which are overwhelming in their attack upon soul and the body. He began to delve into the same abyss of hopelessness but now he went deeper and darker while the strings of hairs from his arms became erect and he shivered in this radiant summer’s day. He was clenched by such paroxysms of sadness and senselessness that he felt his heart being squelched by some invisible hand on the inside.

His eyes began to blur and dimmed gradually while his breaths grew slower and slower. He was now certain that these were his last breaths and for the last time he thought.

He thought about Earnest Hemingway. He thought about Dostoevsky and Paolo Maldini. He thought about  the red rose that had withered away in his study table and that he had forgotten to replace it. He wondered what his ugly and fat wife was doing at home. Probably cleansing the chinaware.  He imagined the grandeur of nature which he had beheld. The rivers and streams, hills and fields, the snows and the rains, “oh! Sweet rain”, he thought. Now he could smell the doughnuts that were made at the nearby shop and he longed for it. Alas!

Then, a child suddenly appeared and began to play with her Pug. She ran, giggled, fell down and laughed again while the Pug followed her everywhere in the park. And for the last time Mr. Floyd took a long breath and whispered, “Hark! The meaning of life”.