Russian Roulette

Today I’m acquainted with a peculiar sensation – a sense of life revolving recurrently around a game of Russian roulette and I’m holding the gun to my own head. Why else then would judgments make or break a person with such permanence? People aren’t always allowed to make hopeful choices in life; every shot you partake of comprises of loaded chambers, a series of hits and misses, chance and luck. My finger on the trigger, I’m left deftly undecided.

Today I’m looking upon the future like I’m staring down the barrel of a loaded gun – how long more before the bullet hits me? Murakami’s gaping black hole were thou always lying in wait or have I always carried that infinitesimally bottomless abyss within? One day perchance it shall swallow me whole and hungry. When that comes I shall pray to my atheistic goddess that my fall into the chasm would be quick and painless. All I know is, no one would really be there to catch anyone. Rather, we selfish beings have learnt to save our own asses. Afterall, we all perish alone.

It is a cold night and I am smelling like the sea from the walk I just took along the river. Unless I make a choice now, the big ocean would be out of reach and I would end up a washed up sea-shell. Close up now and keep swimming against the current, only then will you really get somewhere.

Perhaps it’s really time to go.


Published by VIKTORIA JEAN

"Do you see the story? Do you see anything?... It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream - making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream sensation... No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence - that which makes its truth, its meaning - its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream - alone." Marlow in Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad.

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