Stranger In My Own Home

As I dropped the top of that all-too-familiar black iron gate back into place this evening, I realised how fragile my sense of inner alrightness is. Within a span of a few hours this evening, I went from being at peace, to being in place, to being concerned, to being confused, to being grateful, to feeling a sense of loss, to feeling alone, to feeling like I've got to keep going before ultimately getting dragged down into the miserable dark abyss of the inconsolable. As ever, my shaking hands reached for my phone and reached out to my safe haven. Fifteen minutes later, despite much prodding and reassurance, I couldn't, for a moment, feel that silence within.

I was told everyone has days like these - days where nothing makes sense; days where you have to simply fold your hands and pray to God to bring calm again. Yet, like the wailing cat on the roof and the uncontrollable wheelspin on the car with the crocked clutch and the insidious white thread that furtively and unfailingly dragged across the foot and the income tax road that led from Ghaziabad to the middle of nowhere, there was a sense of inevitability about this - a forced sleight of the supernatural that caused my "ship of hope to capsize and be tossed upon the stormy seas". 

    

And as I trudged up the numerous flights of stairs back home for the fifth time today, I asked myself one biting question - How long will you keep singing this jagged, faithless song to yourself?