Short Story: The Monologue of a man’s scorched soul

The Monologue of a man’s scorched soul
Mayborn Lyngdoh Ryntathiang

There is so much I want. So much do I desire. But what I want, I do not know. Do I want the unknown for a mere want? What I want, I do not want – what I don’t want makes me want it even more. I am exhausted of the aged love – wanting to escape yet can’t help but stay. It’s getting old, it’s getting boring. It’s a discovered America; the riches of India from a European’s perspective. I can’t see what riches I have. I am adventurous yearning to explore a new Martian. Self-destructive to be precise, but there’s always that half-grin curiosity.

There was a thick layered wall of inferno, majestically erecting towards the sky. “Do not fiddle with the beauty of incinerating fangs”, said Mei. I raised the Serpent to the pedestal with honour and dignity. She ate the fruit from the middle of the garden, but this time she left me none. The oil from the lantern I saved to attend the marriage of the lamb were all spilled on the floor, matched to an inferno, yet I still despised her not.

Who’s to blame?
We are mechanically excited to disobey. My father did, as did his fathers and forefathers and their forefathers, too. It’s a pretty perfect dodged accountability. The thought is tempting, very tempting, but temptation froze the air down my spine, as it did Adam.

Guilt – imagine waking up to a face every day to be reminded. The stars were as pretty as the light in her eyes, in perfect romance. Love flashed. You can’t describe or feel anything better than the first time around. She went with the prince, but the mangled jigsaws still yearn the scent I’ve sinned. How do you erase the natal sin?

Love flashed – the vow of yesterday for a tomorrow. “Is it worth it?” I asked. She plainly said “No”.

Emotions are but hands of a watch, resting on speed, zone, atmospheric pressure, and force, simple or magnetic. Flawed with an everlasting exposure, never static. Emotions stem from the mind echoing uninhibitedly at 60-100 (bpm) in the normal, while 132-150 (bpm) while running towards an oncoming train – “In sickness and in health”, the heart also tends to fluctuate. We are aware of the unaware, blind to the visible, and seeing to the false narrative. Yet, “What if?” I still asked. Is it not worth it? It is my life that I seek to improve; I know me well. The Wise man still search for answers?

Oh, Poetry heals the scorched heart and purges the parched scow of a man in chains of agony.

True love is the sun that burns, eternal, sometimes hidden under a heavy cloud, sometimes covered in the beauty of rain or fog, temporarily. It is but a paltry period of happiness. There is nothing wrong in admiring, but in embracing the unstable, there is no positive. We all need a little rain, but it’s the sun that sustains us. Temptations are but intervals with a meaning of their own to devour the half-way worthiness of the journey.

Love is patient, Love is kind. We learn to be more appreciative of the One, not when we have lost it but when we still do have them, holding tight in our arms. The feeling that we experience when they’re gone is of loneliness; a hollowed missing jigsaw puzzle.

In childhood’s pride of an immature, trivial emotive psychological misinterpretation, we have often given way to be deluded by the lust of the many flowers in the garden compromising the rose because of the thorns that it possessed. I was not ready for the Rose then, for I wasn’t one too. Now that I can see how my thorns have grown, the scent of my rose is oozing too.

                        So much I want. So much I desire. What I want, NOW I KNOW.

Also read other write-ups by Mayborn:

A literary essay: The immortal evolutions and revolutions of Art

Poetry: The picture on the wall