An Existence Parallel

Before I could accept the reality in my own life, my parallel identity had announced it to the world. I have no idea why...Did this person value my need for privacy? Far from it...She decided to engage in a dialogue with other people who seemed familiar from the real world but not really. People who I did not feel comfortable telling details about my personal life but nonetheless was sharing details like who I was infatuated with and whom I wanted to be with. Things like I was bored right now and that I had left paradise far behind. This person seemed more at ease with the person she was then I ever can be. She does not seem like she is searching for an identity. She has a confidence that I envy, a personality that I show just glimpses of but she is not much different from in many ways. Same hair, same eyes, even the same black spot on the upper lip. She is me. I am her. A reflection of each other, with such diverse, varied interests that take off from the same place but seem to find their own place in the universes they reside in. Sometimes it scares me, that my virtual self is more of a person then I am, that she seems to be more friendly than I am but then I guess every pitfall has those ropes handed down to climb out of it. I can almost see the ends of the rope that I have being lowered into my personal form of ditch. Maybe it is not the end after all. There are other pits and more ropes...

Questions and Answers...Maybe

There are days and then some more. Days when you fell like you can take on the world and everything yet unidentified. Then there are other days, when you fell miserable and alone. Every quality of yours becomes a shortcoming. Every fault is magnified. Every disappointment seems writ large on people's faces. Every victory becomes small. Everything you do, insufficient. Every word you articulate falls short. Every sentence you type becomes redundant. Every syllable simplistic. Every pen stroke becomes a burden, a weight difficult to bear, your personal Sisyphus like punishment. Every blob of paint, a defacement.

Those are the days when loneliness comes to bite you, maul you and devour every single tissue in your body, like a leopard that has been starved for months. Your non-existent gladiator skills obviously fail you, even survival instincts get lost in the temporary amnesia, that seems to be a recurrent disorder. A child like helplessness overwhelms you. The path ahead seems unsure. And when you raise your hand searching for that reassuring grip, you realize the gravity of being alone and the fear that grabs you as the darkness threatens to eat you up.

The light does seem to stream in and then your senses starts failing you. When once you started out with six senses (including the fabled sense of intuition), you refused to use them. When today you plead for the use of the same, they elude you. And thus the light is invisible, the frame of black hiding everything beyond.

Out of these discrepancies that seem to haunt you, there come several questions. Is it okay to dislike yourself? Is it alright to feel inadequate about yourself while being frighteningly aware about the qualities you have? Is it normal to have a gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach that makes you feel like there is a deep hole in your life, something that has literally been snatched away from you?

Happiness can only come from within. Clichéd but true. How many times have you felt like someone is squeezing your innards to cause pain which you thought was impossible to experience? After all the only reason for false hope is the existence of hope.