A journey through the labyrinth of 'I'

I was sitting near the river bank. I was staring at the river. Changing waters. Drops of water. The river was going somewhere. I wasn’t sure where. Somewhere it meets the ocean. What’s the difference between the river and the ocean? The form? The structure? But I must know which one is the river and which one is an ocean. I was sitting near the bank, with a journal and a fountain pen. 

I think one writes when one is torn between two or more worlds. The bleeding heart manifests itself in words and punctuations. Lost and disordered with this tearing apart, I took my pen to pen down my thoughts on one of the spare pages of my journal. Lost and disordered, I wasn’t sure if I was writing with my pen or my pen was writing with me. Torn apart, one does not recognise oneself. Shredded into pieces, the surviving parts are thrown apart, away from each other. In this manner, I did not know what I was writing, I did not know if I was writing at all, I did not know if it was me that was writing. I felt however, that some words flowed down in blue coloured ink on one of the ruled pages. Should I be scared that I can’t find myself? Lost and disordered was my fear. My fear? Ah! where is this ‘I’?

I was sitting near the river bank. I was staring at the river. It was during sunset. Now I am not sure if I am staring at the river or the sky. I could stare down or stare up, either way to watch the sunset. Both would show me the sunset differently, but either way I could still stare at the sunset. All these are not thoughts, these are feelings. The ‘I’ in the statements are a misfit, when a lost and disordered world is felt. It is strange that I have to note down my feelings, eliminating this ‘I’. This is almost an impossible task. What is this ‘I’ then, when used again and again. This ‘I’ must not be used. 

The pen does not remember. The pen has no memories. The pen says, “I don’t remember if I was staring up at the sky or staring down at the river. I am interrupted. A tall man with a round face, blue eyes half hidden with full rimmed black glasses, blonde and clumsy hair interrupts me. He looks perplexed.” “Why is no one allowed to enter the cemetery at 6pm?”, he asked, “I didn’t know the dead needed security from the living?”

The pen answers, “I don’t know. I am not even sure if the living needs protection from the dead. My ink agrees with me.” 

The pen continues, “The man goes away with the same perplexed face he interrupted me with. It is already dark now. The last rays of the setting sun are struggling their way out to reach out to me. My ink is glittering in the last surviving rays of the day.There is a small bridge nearby. I don’t remember how it looked, but I know it is painted in deep brown with alternate red stripes. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. Now I am not sure of this knowledge. It looks black now. Is it the darkness? Must be, but if it looks different in light and different in dark, which one is true? I don’t know. I am finding somewhere to look at. I decide to stare at the small bridge now. A young girl walks up on the bridge. She is staring down. I can’t see her face clearly but somehow I can figure out that she looks worried and scared. Should I go up and ask? Or does she want to be alone? I don’t know what to do. I am sitting here thinking and staring at her. Suddenly, she jumps off the bridge. She is drowning in the river. Should I run and rescue her? She wanted to drown herself. Who am I to interfere in her wants and wishes? Who am I to stop her from doing whatever she wants? Again, I don’t know what to do. So, I am just sitting her and watching her drown. Sometimes, it is best to do nothing. Especially, when one does not know what should be done. By now, she must be dead and gone. 

It is a full moon night. The rays of the sun make their way to the earth through the shining moon now. The night is glittering in its luminescence, so is the river. It is not completely dark, but it is still called the night. I think this is because it takes effort for the rays of the sun to reach out to the earth. Darkness is associated with hard times, so a notion of this effort gives a sense of difficulty. Thus, we have the night. The moon looks beautiful. Most people appreciate its beauty. Yet, it is flawed. I am thinking of counting its craters. How flawed it is! Do I want to go to the moon? What if it looks uglier when closer? How can distance decide if something is beautiful or ugly? No! I don’t want to count craters anymore. I feel disgusted with the idea of counting craters. I am sticking to the idea that the moon looks beautiful.”

“You look beautiful tonight”, the pen says to the moon. “You look beautiful too”, the moon replied back. “Don’t you feel lonely up there”, my pen asked. “Don’t you see the stars?”, the moon asked back. “Not really, it is a little cloudy I think”, the pen answered. “ Well, I feel sad for you then. You don’t see them even when it is cloudy. Don’t blame the clouds. You simply don’t know how to see them. You know whats the consequence of this? You will write me as beautiful and lonely. Yet, you won’t see the truth, only because you don’t know how to see.” 

My pen continues “ I look deeper into the clouds. Can I see the stars now? Few peep out at times but that isn’t enough to say that I don’t find the moon lonely.” The moon smirked and said, “You are staring at the wrong direction. The clouds are not in the sky, but in your mind.”

The pen looks disappointed, the ink is terrified. The letters are shivering in fear. Suddenly, the punctuations become thicker. The pen was not feeling, ‘I’ realises. ‘I’ looks down at all that is written and find they are only thoughts. ‘I’ can only feel, ‘I’ cannot write. The pen can indeed write, but the pen does not know. ‘I’ cannot write, but ‘I’ knows. ‘I’ can see the stars. ‘I’ can even listen to them. ‘I’ can feel the moon and the sun. ‘I’ cannot think, so ‘I’ cannot write. ‘I’ can only feel. So who is ‘I’ and how can ‘I’ write feelings without thoughts? Only the pen can write but the pen does not know. ‘I’ needs the pen. The pen needs ‘I’. 

The pen writes, “Where is this ‘I’?” The writer agrees, “Where is this ‘I’?” Everything around gets scared. Everything around gets angry. Everybody is searching for ‘I’. 

“No one will read what is written, no one will know what beauty is, no one will know light if no one finds I! My god! Hurry, hurry! The living must find ‘I’.” 

It is a dark, dark world. All will be dead if one does not find ‘I’ while living. One must find ‘I’ before the sun sets, before it is 6pm. All are in quest of ‘I’. “What kind of a strange riddle this is?” says the scholar. “What kind of havoc has God created?”, says the priest. All keep thinking and thinking. Where can ‘I’ be found? 

The pen writes, “Someone is holding me. I feel someone is writing with me. All that is written are not just the pen’s thoughts.” 

The writer writes, “Someone is writing with me. These are not just thoughts. Yet, it feels strange. why is the ‘I’ looking for itself?” 

The moon smiled and asked, “Can you see the stars now?” The writer replied, “I don’t feel lonely.”

It is dawn now. The sun is rising.

I looked into myself. It isn’t cloudy. It is only a labyrinth. My heart found its broken wings and I flew above to only look down at myself. Now, 'I' can write what 'I' feels. 'I' has found itself.