Squalor

It’s that time of the night again when I sit to unload the squalor of my thoughts on to a pristine paper, thereby tainting it. Must this page not resent me? There are better things that could have been scribbled on it. But, no, this accursed paper is now obligated to bear witness to my sordid thoughts. What a pity! Not all of that squalor comes out though. Some of it is filtered by codes of propriety and some by subconscious that quails at the prospect of revealing it all. And thus, some of it that refuses to get impressed upon this blank page will continue to gnaw at me from within. Vice, too, seeks company. By putting it out here, by letting it take shape of intelligible words, I could have allowed it to seek its kin that reside in other souls who may have chanced upon this mindless nocturnal scribbling.

”O! So that happens with him too!”  “Darn! I so know that feeling!”  they would have exclaimed in their heads as their eyes would follow my words imbued with my vices and my lapses. It could have helped someone lessen their burden of shame. It could have made someone feel only human, more human. It could have given someone a sense of belonging, a sense of commonality, and could have made them feel less estranged. But I deny them this experience. A certain fear keeps me from it. The same fear which keeps you from stepping out of your house without any clothes on. Call it shame, if you will, but it is a fear after all. Despite their universality being established beyond doubt, our vices have, we believe, some distinct flavour that manifests only in us. We wonder if this distinctness marks us out and makes a spectacle out of us, or earns us the disregard of people we love— but, mostly and sadly, the people who do not even care for our existence.

What if they use it against us at a later date, we fear. What if we are seen only through the prism of such revelations in the future and every action of ours is judged in the light of our confessions. Riddled with all such deliberations, the mind rules against letting the filth flow unchecked. Elisions are made. Reality is made more palatable; its brutality is toned down and its sordidness is sanitised lest it offends the delicate sensibility of the delinquents.

It’s that time of the night again when I sit to unload the squalor of my thoughts on to a pristine paper, thereby tainting it. Must this page not resent me?