Mt. Daily Everest

Though I know I can't afford to, yet I sit idle on my bed. My opaque eyes stare intently on a spot right in front of me, perhaps waiting for someone to materialize out of thin air. Apparently the tiny electrical messengers responsible for trans-neuron communication in my body have had enough and called it quits. I imagine the life flowing through me slowly seeping out into the nature from whence it came, mingling merrily with the mother of all existance. I wonder, "Am I brain dead then?"

In response, my brain conjures up random images from fact and fiction. People I've been with scream for attention among the multitudes of fictional characters my mind was forced to toy with for all these years. Actuality catches up with lightning speed and soon I close my eyes, the pain of an unsupervised and overworking mind being just too much for me. Frantically I search for a subject to focus my line of thought on, going from one to another, and ultimately increasing my agony multifold. The thought of the most sought after medicine comes unbidden and I gain a new-found understanding for occasional drinkers.

But its too late in the night, as it always is, for any ammends on that frontier. Now a desperation envelopes me as I blink away the moisture threatening to spill over onto my cheek, and bludgeon the frail mouse button multiple times in hopes of getting a way out of this insanity. Roaming the random streets of the web of all webs, I stumble onwards in a frightening state of stupor, grabbing onto the iota of belief that someone I know may be there somewhere, willing to hear me out, willing to pat my back assuringly and maybe, just maybe grab my hand and rescue me from my own mind.

Serendipity takes me to a social networking site I know to be teeming with familiar faces. "Blasted examinations!", I snigger, "You can keep people offline but you can't erase the traces of their online presence." Some random clicks and punches later, the condition somewhat subsides and I slowly return to my own self. Marvelling about the effect a few familiar faces can have on a bereaved mind, I stumble across a picture which makes me think about what exactly have I become? It admonishes people for sticking their noses where they should not be and calls them losers. Though recuperating, a new seed sprouts in my mind, it races to overkill, and in no time, I am back where I started.

Heaving a sigh, I shudder as the torture sequence starts all over again. I silently acknowledge defeat and reach out for the magic pills ensuring me a baby's sleep. "Yet another day's battle lost, yet another one to come soon." The last thoughts before I drift into an artificially induced yet peaceful reprieve is that whoever said it wasn't joking, that a mind is a dangerous neighbourhood to be in and one should not roam its streets alone.

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