Imagine

from an imaginary notebook I am yet to imagine...

- Naveen Kishore

No fingerprints on the last glass of wine.

Nor any footprints on the clouds as you climb the stairway.

No letters. Thoughts. Unread books. Not even a discarded bookmark.

No dreams. Unrealised or fulfilled. Or nightmares to breathlessly wake up from.

No impression of your reclusive body as you sink into your bed for the last time.

Imagine leaving nothing behind. Not even a trace.

Imagine. That which inhabits the mind and fills it with longing. Therefore, Melancholy?

Imagine being a refugee in your own mind.

Migration. Of thought. And Self. From one state of being. Of emotion. Of presence. To another. Or many others. One feeding the other. Often parasitically feeding off the other. As in the more powerful emotion will win the tug of war. The weaker being drained of strength and left to decay. In a landscape of shifting ideologies and political leanings; in a setting that espouses the philosophy of both the commodity and the spectacle of the Self; Often the Spectacle of the commodity itself is as alluring as the promise of something aspired to but never gained in another sphere of emotion. There is a downside to aspiration. It has built into its very desire a sense of leaving something behind. Of abandoning. And therefore, of being abandoned. The comfort of leaving one’s nest for something new, however exciting, promising, desirable is still an a-sundering. Therefore, a sense of unease is a state that will visit one’s Self both metaphysically and as a bodily invasion.