The Imaginarium

Rants, ramblings, stories, and all other crap.


I feel dead. I want to say ‘I have never felt this dead before,’ but I have felt dead so many times in the past, and I’m not entirely sure if I’ve felt deader before. How do you compare feeling dead to feeling dead? In fact, ‘feeling’ is a word that shouldn’t be used here. Dead is lack of feeling; a lack of everything. I don’t feel anything.

I stare straight ahead, aware that I am staring ahead; I used to stare straight ahead, lost in my thoughts, unaware of staring ahead until someone waved a hand in front of me and brought me back to the present. Now, though, I stare ahead aware of staring ahead. Not ahead, really. I just stare. I stare without looking. I can’t look. Looking leads to reality, and I don’t want reality. Reality is everywhere I look, rearing its ugly head from every direction. I don’t want reality or people or anyone who talks to me, but fucking reality is everywhere, weighing me down. I spend my time in bed under the blanket, not the most comfortable place but under the blanket is where reality can be ignored. Pull it over your head and the world disappears. But people are always around. Why can I never be alone? I want to be left alone.

“What do you want to eat?”
“I can ask, or make myself something, if I’m hungry.”
“Stop fucking asking me all the time.”

People are reality. I hear things they haven’t said, reality checks and shit. They don’t say anything, but I know exactly what they will say. And I don’t want to hear any of it. But I hear it all the time, without them having to say it. They will say it if I give them a chance to. They will say it without knowing, like they’ve been saying for years without knowing.

I know…

“You don’t know shit.”

Just believe…have faith.

“I don’t have faith. I don’t fucking believe. I can’t. It’s not a choice.”


I have stopped trying. I am too fucked-up, too complicated for anyone to understand. Even my friends, so now I’ll stop trying. I will pretend now, pretend to be alright. I am good, hopeful, optimistic. I know things will workout this time. If not, they will workout eventually. I am hopeful. Yes, thank you, that’s what I think. I totally agree, never stop trying.


But I’ve given up. No more justification, no explanations. What happened, happened. I am what I am. I can narrate the same story over and over, explain the intricacies in detail, but I am the one with this sick mind, the one trapped in this body, under this skin, and only I understand. I will save myself the trouble by saying what they want to hear, whether they believe or not. In the end, it is up to them what they choose to believe. They can call my bullshit for the bullshit it is, or they can believe it. I won’t hold them to it.

I will do what I have to.

I had to say it out loud, so I tried. “I feel dead,” I said, my voice hoarse and wheezy. I thought I had a pretty convincing voice, yet the sound that comes from the vaseline-slathered, chapped lips is utterly unconvincing. My own words, my own voice fails to convince me of what I know to be true. But then that’s just a part of being dead, you lose the vigor, the power, the persuasive and strong voice. You can’t believe your own words.

I stand in the middle of a tornado, 27 years of life whizzing around me, hitting me everywhere. Needles poking in my face, my eyes. My face is bleeding, my eyes have turned cold, the sockets empty, the fluids dry on my face, yet I can still see. I can see my life without my eyes. And it hits me over and again. The whooshing sound of the wind, of the cancerous life enveloping me, trying to destroy me, hellbent on ending it all, even itself. Careless, stubborn, headstrong. I am destructive. Destruction is trying to destroy destruction. I am collapsing into myself, isolated, alone, and misunderstood among the faces of support and love. My life and I, fighting, embracing, trying to become one, digging nails into each other, pulling away, pulling each other apart, locked in a deadly kiss.


The 27 years.

“There’s always a bright side.”

I feel like a wannabe parent. Trying for 27 years to be a parent. 27 years, I say heavily, tired. More than 27 fruitless attempts.

1- Nothing

2- Miscarriage

3- Stillbirth

I have tried and tried, with one of the three results each time.

“It will happen,” they say, “when the time is right.”

But fear is now stronger than the desire, so I know that it is time to quit. The optimists will be optimists, until they walk in my shoes and feel the way I do. Then they’ll understand. But these shoes are too heavy, too damaged, so I’d rather no one walks them. Only I know my path. Only I understand. So only I get to make the decision.

It is, after all, a miscarriage of life.




I was walking, just as I had been walking. I looked to the left, to the horizon, where the sky met the earth. I looked back, a long winding road that I’d been travelling on. I looked straight ahead and the road continued forever. I shake my head, lost. It looks the same whether I look forward or behind. I have been carrying a rucksack, collecting things on the way. I should have dropped it, but the only way I know I have come far is by collecting the thorns, the pebbles, and all the miseries that came my way.

Where from? Where to? I don’t know.

I look to the left again. I drop the sack, get off the path, and start walking toward the horizon.

I see it, a dark cloud. I continue walking, one foot in front of the other. Tired to death, my feet seem to have a mind of their own, walking automatically, refusing to stop, sapping my energy.

As I get closer, I see a wall and a gate in the cloud. The more I walk, the clearer the picture gets.

The gate is open. A shadow is moving mechanically, repeating the same motion over and over.

I reach the cloud, the open gates. There is no wind, no breeze, but it’s freezing. I look back to where I came from, that abandoned path.

I walk in. Dead trees greet me. Not a single leaf on them. Somewhere in the distance a crow caws. One single ‘caw,’ as if signaling to the shadow, announcing my arrival. Now it is eerily cold. This is like a scene from a horror movie, and I know better than to go in. I am the one who calls the actors stupid when they go in. ‘Run, run, run you idiot! Why must you go in? You’re going to get killed.’ I am the one who says, ‘If it were me, I’d get the fuck out and run the fuck away.’ The movies never made sense in that regard.

And, yet, here I am, not running away.

The shadow is busy in the center. My feet are bare, the soil cold on my feet. I walk on moist, dead leaves. Not a sound. Silence is the only sound.

The shadow is aware of my presence, but doesn’t look up. A wave of cold runs through me. Goosebumps.

I reach the shadow. It’s a human wearing a cloak. I can’t see its face or hands. His sleeves are long, a hood pulled over his face. A shovel in his hands, digging.

Caw! The crow caws insistently. The shadow turns its face toward me, without looking up, then starts digging again.

“Whose grave are you digging,” I ask.

The shadow floats to one end of the grave. A staff appears in his hand.

“Rest,” he writes. It is a command. I look back once more, turn around, look in every direction. The horizon is crashing, the earth disappearing from all ends, chipping away in black squares, disassembling. The world starts getting smaller, the sky falling lower with big square holes in it.

Chipping away, disappearing into nothingness. 

The shadows taps the staff on the ground lightly, points toward ‘Rest.’

I am tired. The journey has been long. I want to rest.

The grave appears inviting. I climb down and lie on my back.

A gust of wind blows, lifting the hood off the shadow, and I get a glimpse at my own face.

I lie in the cold, lazily, ready to sleep, and watch my shadow cover me with dirt. I watch my own body lying cold as I cover it with dirt.

My eyes remain open. I can’t close them. I realize I am not breathing.

I look up at my shadow. I look down on my cold body.

Dirt. Darkness. Death.

The shadow picks the staff again and continues writing where he left off.

“In Peace,” he adds.

The world continues chipping away. A strong gust of wind turns my shadow into powder, blowing it away.

Square tiles.






One with the universe.


Writing Prompt # 2

When they tell my story, it will always start at the end. I am life, and life can only be understood backwards.

But if I tell my own story, where would I start?

I would start at the kettle. An imaginary kettle, in an imaginary home, on an imaginary stove. The water beginning to boil, the kettle whistling ever so lightly that no one could hear. The flame so low that it could continue heating the water for years without drying it up. But the flame is always hot, no matter how low, and after all these years, I suddenly realize there is no water left as the kettle begins to wheeze.

The water vapors envelop me as the wheezing grows louder. No one but I can hear it, for its my life, and suddenly my own life begins to make sense to me. The shattered dreams, the wounds, the pain, the pleasures, the mistakes, the people, the friends, the misery, the purpose, everything, all the pieces start coming back together to form a whole. Mismatched pieces of a puzzle suddenly form a picture.

The wheezing and the vapors turn into voices and surround me, making a cocoon for me to rest. I stop, I pause, and I listen. And it makes sense.

‘Everything is as it should be.’

‘Everything makes sense.’

I just had a different purpose.

I draw in a long breath as the cocoon closes around me. I exhale quickly, greedy for another breath, but the instant I exhale it all goes dark.


Coming Up for Air!

Have you ever drowned…for like two seconds?

We all have, at one time or another, right? You know that disorienting feeling when water rushes up your nose the second you lose control for a second.

And have you ever drowned? Even drowning for less than 30 seconds, or almost drowning, counts. You know the feeling right? Getting from one side of the pool to another, but suddenly you are so tired. The land is very close, you just have to hold on for 15 seconds, but how do you hold on when your body is too exhausted? There is that moment when you realize you just don’t have the strength. The water currents can push you to edge and you still won’t be able to hold on. You don’t want to drown, your spirits are still high, primal instincts have kicked in, but your body is failing. What do you do then?

It doesn’t matter what you do. You automatically give up and drown. That’s what happens.

Have you tried holding your breath underwater? A friendly competition with friends, perhaps, to see who can hold it the longest? You have every intention of beating them, you know you can do it, but your lungs want air. You fight, you hold on, you wait for others to come up first, but suddenly something – you don’t know what – comes over you and the next thing you know you are out of the water, gasping for air, taking in huge breaths, right?

You lose the competition but it doesn’t matter. You come up for air automatically because you have to. You can’t hold on, you know your limits. Perhaps, if you could come up for some air every now and then, you may be able to hold your breath underwater for a really long time.

It’s kinda the same with depression. People tell you to hold on. They tell you it will get better. They tell you that they know it will get better. ‘I know it will get better.’ And they say it with such conviction that for a moment even you believe that things will get better. But, see, the thing is they have no way of knowing things will get better. If things get better, these people will tell you, ‘I told you so!’ and if they don’t get better, they’ll stand by your corpse and say, ‘I’m glad he’s in peace now. Had a hard life.’ or some variation of that. Because they don’t know.

My point is, we can’t hold on forever. Now and again, we need to come up for air. We can’t hold our breath underwater forever. We can’t keep ourselves afloat forever. The body gets tired eventually, and we have to drown. And it’s okay. It’s okay to drown. They don’t know so they won’t approve, but you know. You know and that’s all that matter. You know, only you know.

People with depression, people like me, we need something good to happen to us too. Something good is something that we consider good, not you. Don’t tell us what good happened to us, what’s good according to you. This is our life, so our rules apply. We can’t keep holding our breath, listening to people telling us to ‘hold on’, that everything will be alright, because we all know what happens when we keep holding on. What happens if you hold your breath under water and don’t come up for air for an hour? You die. Telling us to hold on is no different. Another dilemma, I know.

Light a candle. Let it burn. It’ll melt away but it’ll continue burning. It’ll end up in a pool of liquid wax but it’ll continue burning. But, after some time, the wick will burn up and the flame will go out. There won’t be any wick left. There will be wax but you can’t expect it to burn. You have the fire, you have the fuel, but it won’t burn without the wick. Life won’t go on without some hope. I know people who haven’t had anything good happen to them. They are still alive. But they are barely alive. They go on from one day to the next, on and on, but if you talk to them, you will see that there is nothing beyond the polite greeting. They are empty, dead, nothing to look forward to, no memory to be fond of, nothing at all. Alive, but barely.

You can’t hold your breath under water forever. At some point you will inhale, even if you are under water. You will inhale the water to fill your lungs with something. And then you will die.

Even the candle of hope has to burn out.

Depression is a process of sorts. You are optimistic, but nothing good happens, so you are not as optimistic. It goes on and on until you are no longer optimistic. It becomes about hope then.

You hope a little less each day. You lose a little more hope each day. Then there is no hope left, and you become like those people. Empty. Blank. A living piece of mass with nothing. A zombie. There is nothing to you beyond the polite greeting. You are dead.

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The Peacock Who Rocked…And Rolled!

Once upon a time a peacock hatched. An ugly little mass. The sparrows flew by, the lions and the cheetahs ran around chasing prey, the animal kingdom continued on its way, and so did the nature. No one gave a shit about the peacock. But isn’t that how it is? Who gives a shit about the ugly little peacocks? No one. No one cares, no one stands or stares, and no one stops.

But the peacock grew. And it grew up to be the most beautiful peacock ever. The birds would fly a little slower when passing him by, the lions would run a little less fast around him, and everyone would stop and stare when it unfurled its tail, for it had the longest, most vibrant, and the most beautiful feathers. And when the peacock danced, everyone loved it. The peacock was proud and arrogant, and rightfully so. But the peacock was also oblivious to the others. It was so vain that sometimes it felt like it had nothing inside of him, it felt empty inside. There were times when the peacock felt it was filled with beauty inside, but mostly it felt empty. It wasn’t a good feeling. When its tail wasn’t unfurled, no one cared. Sometimes people and animals would stop by, waiting, hoping it’d unfurl it’s tail. When it did, they cheered; when it didn’t, they didn’t care.

So the peacock knew it was beautiful and it was obsessed with itself. The peacock rocked! It knew it wouldn’t be able to accept itself or live if something changed or fell short. The peacock was also painfully aware of its ugly feet. When the tail was unfurled, no one looked at the feet, so no one cared; when the tail wasn’t unfurled, people weren’t around to see the feet, so, again, they didn’t care. But the peacock cared! It mattered to him.

On a beautiful spring day when soft breeze ran through the jungle, the entire animal kingdom sang. The peacock went on a walk and something unfortunate happened. A rusty knife that had been lodged in a tree for ages, suddenly fell. The peacock jumped in fright, but the knife chopped off its foot. So the peacock bled and bled and hopped back home. It was now the peacock with one foot. It knew it was the peacock with one foot, but nobody cared because it still had a beautiful tail, and they still liked it when it unfurled it. They liked it more when the peacock danced now, because it had one foot and it hopped and its dance had become different and unique.

A year later, the peacock with one foot met another accident and lost its other foot. Now it was the peacock without feet. Now people could see it was a peacock without feet, but they still didn’t care. The latter wound got infected and started spreading. It was painful and there was no help around. The infection spread to its entire body, and now it could feel something else inside. It wasn’t beauty inside of him, it was just pain. The sick, festering, painful, miserable, agonizing pain! And there was nothing that could be done. Everyone still wanted to see it unfurl its tail, but the peacock was wounded and sick, and so it would unfurl its tail no more.

One day, a hawk landed beside him. The peacock asked the hawk to carry him to a great height and then drop him so he could experience proper flight once in its life. The hawk declined. It was an ordinary hawk, and it told the peacock it wasn’t meant to fly. The hawk didn’t realize why the peacock had asked it and what it meant for the peacock. The hawk told the peacock to just unfurl its tail and do its things, like all other birds do. They do their thing. But the peacock wasn’t quite a bird. It was a flightless bird, really.

Another day, the peacock asked the fox to take it to the river so it could see its beauty itself. The fox, unlike the hawk, was smart. She knew what the peacock wanted and what it meant, and so the fox declined. It was against the laws of the animal kingdom, said the fox, and left.

In the months that followed, the peacock sought help from a few other animals. It was either told to unfurl its tail and do its thing like all animals do, or it was refused flatly. The peacock was dying a slow and painful death from the infection, and yet all that the people and the animals cared about was its tail. No one understood its pain and its misery.

So, on a beautiful summer day, the peacock decided to roll. The peacock rolled in the mud, and it rolled in the swamp, and it rolled through the thorns and the trash, its tail and feathers now dirty with bald patches, and it finally reached the river. And the peacock unfurled its tail and dirty feathers one last time, and rolled into the river.

The peacock went with the water. The water washed its dirty feathers, its tail, and it washed away his pain and the sorrows. The peacock somehow ended up on a clean patch of grass in the end. Its feathers were clean now, and brighter than they had ever been in its entire life. The peacock was at peace in its entirety now, more than it had ever been in its entire life. And all that the people and the animals now saw was the dead peacock.

“What a shame!” they said.

No one said how beautiful its tail and feathers were, or how vibrant. No one said how peaceful it looked with its eyes closed. No one said…no one did…no one could.

Existence is Meaningless

What’s wrong with me? I don’t know.

Is it the depression, the anxiety, the fucked-up things that happened? I’m not sure. I wouldn’t blame them. My problem lies beyond the roots, before them themselves.

Let me attempt to explain, drawing from a conversation I had.

Excerpts from The Fault in Our Stars

He said: “I regret that I cannot indulge your childish whims, but I refuse to pity you in the manner to which you are well accustomed.”

“I don’t want your pity.”

“Like all sick children, you say you don’t want pity, but your very existence depends upon it.” – “Sick children inevitably become arrested: You are fated to live out your days as the child you were when diagnosed, the child who believes there is life after a novel ends. And we, as adults, we pity this, so we pay for your treatments, for your oxygen machines. We give you food and water though you are unlikely to live long enough—”

That was just context. Here’s the main part:

“You are a side effect, of an evolutionary process that cares little for individual lives. You are a failed experiment in mutation.”

[Excerpts End]

Now, see, the thing is, even when you’re not a side-effect in the context that he means, like you don’t have cancer. But if you think about it, you really are a side-effect. Not in a negative way. Just like rabbits having kids, or grass spreading.

Assign whatever value you want to it, make priorities, believe in god(s), get a lavish house, get famous, research, yada yada…The real thing is the evolutionary process. Evolution. Not me, not you, not us.

Even if I make it to the history books as the greatest man ever alive, none of it matters.

It’s hard to explain my point.

Think of it as rabbits or grass. They can multiply, make homes and all, and in the end it isn’t worth shit.

You: Quick question, do you want to matter?

Me: I don’t know or care. I’m just a side-effect that can think. I’m not depressed btw. It’s just I question existence.

You: It is good to question, as long as you don’t fixate on finding answers. As long as you’re learning it is fine, because in universe there are no right or wrong answers.

Me: My point is, suppose the rabbits or the donkeys, the mangoes or the grass get brains too. They make houses and get PhDs and make millions and all, what does it matter? I mean who really gives a shit because it’s already happening. Apes are beginning to hunt with spears, fish have learned to walk out of the water to eat birds, birds make beautiful nests, honeybees make honey; these are accomplishments. But who gives a rats ass about it all?

Someone once said the same thing to me. He said it is good to question, but if you get stuck on how you came into this world, you’ll go crazy. He said it disparagingly. Anyway, whatever.

You: What I get is that you are worried that you don’t matter. I was worried about it too. Remember when I wanted to have kids to leave someone behind to remember me?

Me: I am not worried about it. I know I’m brilliant so it doesn’t matter to me. The only thing that bothers me is living.

Think of it as Diana’s children. They are born princes, they know it, so they don’t have to prove shit to anyone. They don’t have to do those princey things to prove they are princes or be more princey. They are princes, they know it, and that’s that.

Now, look at you, living like you might die any second. And then there’s me, smoking shitlessly, not giving a rat’s ass, yet alive, day after day. This long journey, going on living, that’s what I don’t want. Take The Alchemist here, it’s not the destination, it’s the journey. You have to walk on burning coals. You know you will get to the end this way or that. The journey matters here. Why walk on the burning coal when you have to die in the end. Why walk at all? Suppose you don’t want to walk at all. There’s that option that brings the destination to right where you are, but that’s not okay.

Yet, according to the universal laws and rules of the world, it is not okay to kill yourself because you don’t want to live. You have to adapt your thinking to what this world deems appropriate. You have to change. That’s why I feel like an alien, an exotic plant in here, in an environment that is hostile to me. I can’t change or evolve fast enough to adapt to it. I’m doomed. I was doomed from the beginning.


You wonder whether you’re still hung-up on the one who wronged you, after all this time.

Me: What I think is, you’re not hung-up on him, but since you have been wronged by him, there is this thing that you want. Not from him but in general. A compensation, not monetary. You forgive and all but it is sort of embedded in us from childhood. All those fairytales. Cinderella gets the prince, Snowhite gets the prince, Beauty gets a prince, etc.

I mean you don’t give a shit about him to be honest, which is good. It has nothing to do with him really. It’s just the want for justice. Religion puts that in us too. God will avenge you and all. And your faith is partly to blame there, because as long as you believe in a god, you believe that you will be compensated. That he will be punished or he will ask for forgiveness. If not in the world then in the end. You hang on to it, that he will realize his mistakes. It’s all religion and those fairytales.

Where are the real tales? Life is like Game of Thrones.

You believe in god, but there is no god or any controller.

Why is Game of Thrones so popular?

It is popular because it is real. It shows the world as it is. We are too used to justice and crap. Why do people love GoT so much?

People love it, mostly because without realizing they love how real it is. The good people aren’t safe, the heroes aren’t safe, they can be killed anytime, like real life. People think justice will be served, a saviour will come save our hero; that’s how it is, our minds are trained that way, and while we anticipate, we know he will saved. Except it doesn’t happen. That’s life.

Once you give up on those wants you have in the subconsious mind, things you dont even realize you want or desire, then you realize how pointless life really is. But i hope you never get there.

You: But I believe in karma. I do believe things happen to compensate or punish for the wrongs that have been done to you.

Me: That’s where you are wrong, but that’s only according to what I believe in.

It’s like two different movies in two different languages. Two people, they understand one language each, hence only one movie makes sense to them. They can’t perceive the other one. To them, the other doesn’t make sense. That’s where we are, you and I; only one of us is right.


To think normally, to fit in, you carefully create a bubble around yourself. No matter how concrete you think it is, no matter how strong your faith is, or beliefs are, it remains a bubble. You carefully draw a boundary around yourself and you make it a rule to never step out of it, and you never do, and your world ends at that boundary and you limit yourself to such an extent that even the thought of what’s outside never crosses your mind. But, remember, it is you who does that. In your heart, maybe in the subconscious mind, you do know without realizing what the truth is. But the truth, you know, again without realizing, is going to hit you like a 15.0 magnitude earthquake. It will rock your world, challenge everything, destroy you quite possibly, so you never think about it. But no matter what you do, the truth, the tattered truth, remains the same. You carefully craft the world around you, adapt to it and all, give in and accept things as they are.

I can’t. I wish I could but I can’t. There’s no going back from here. One may forget, though.

Another Dilemma

I find myself faced with another dilemma, one I’m all too familiar with. It’s not the first time, after all. It’s been about a month and I haven’t really been depressed. I have had more than one anxiety attacks almost everyday. (Once I didn’t have them for two days in a ray, that worried me, but they came back the third day.) I’m not sure if they are anxiety attacks or what, maybe only palpitations and intrusive thoughts.

Remember when I said there are two difficult times when you have depression? One was when you got so depressed, and nearly suicidal, that you had to take meds? And the other was when you got so miserable with meds that you were ready to give up and you’d rather be depressed again? Well, for me there is a third dilemma. It’s the calm before the storm. I can’t take it. I have had anxiety for a month and very little depression. It’s killing me now, like I have lost a part of my body. How would you feel if you lost your arm? That’s exactly how I feel.

I know, I know it sounds absolutely retarded to want depression back. But if you had a rotten had and the doctors amputated it, all for good reason, because it was rotting and would’ve soon rotted your entire body and all, and you had to get it amputated to stay alive, you’d give it up or something, right? But, then, wouldn’t you want it back too? Wouldn’t a part of you say you’d rather have a rotting arm then no arm? Wouldn’t you want to be whole again? I don’t know if this is something with all depressed people, it probably isn’t, but it certainly is with me. I want it back.
This slight depression isn’t good enough. I want it to hit me full force. I want those panic attacks and misery. I don’t know why. I just feel so incomplete. The best way to describe it would be Katy Perry’s song. I do feel paper thin and drifting through the wind. I’m no longer as tired as I used to be. I can stay up for hours on end, like 15-6 hours, like everyone else. I still have bouts of depression and I know it will be back in a month. It always comes back in 3 months at most, so I know, but I can’t wait.

I feel it coming slowly. The anxiety attacks keep getting worse. The palpitations keep getting stronger. The slight depression that I have keeps increasing. But all of this happens on a very micro level, so it takes a week or two to realize that something has gotten stronger, or worse.

I shouldn’t be saying this. I remember being actually suicidal, ready to go. That was a dark place, but I think I’d rather be there. It’s not black and white, you know. It may seem black and white to you. I see the difference too. I know the difference between a healthy state of mind and an unhealthy one. But I choose the unhealthy one. It’s what I’d be comfortable with. It sounds absolutely retarded, but it is also true.