This is a short story to commemorate the one year anniversary of my blog.
The jazz was a healthy break, from all the commotion around. It was comforting to his burdened soul, or so he liked to describe it. Anytime he took a breath he felt as if walls were closing in on him. But the soft piano chords accompanied with the soothing sound of the perfect instrument- the saxophone, alleviated the pain effectively. The jazz was one of the few distinct feature of his life. A habit he picked up in a coy attempt to be different.
He had been depressed for a majority of his youthful years. Everything was always the same, depressingly so. He had to learn to bring about variations in his life. It was extremely hard, and additionally stressful. He social and institutional arrangements of which he was a member did very little to curb this worrisome phenomenon. Like the endearing life cycle of a worker ant, his was bound to end the same way. In misery with no reward for his labour.
Hmmph, he sighed heavily as this thought came to his mind as this soft sounding jazz faded into oblivion. Most of the people around him were un-perplexed by this trend. It was as if the whole world was spellbound in monotony of a sort and only he had escaped, and he relished his “gift” to be able to view the world differently. It was one of the healthy breaks he occasionally enjoyed. But the jazz was special, near heavenly actual mainly because it made him special. If not in anyone’s eyes, then his. For he had convinced himself that it was only his opinion that mattered in life. Look closely and you are bound to agree. After all it was his life and no one else’s, so why should an opinionated, not so true or critical developed opinion matter to him?
Despite the conviction he had consciously and unconsciously developed, he was still a lone crab in a barrel, itching and struggling to crawl out whilst the ants around him hurried about their normal activities. So.fucking.unconcerned!?? But then again why should these dutiful creatures be perturbed? As long as he stayed out of trouble and did all that was required of him, why then should he try to disturb the peace with his unorthodox thinking. This typical mentality of most of his compatriots he confided in, most of whom were comfortable, and saw no need to disrupt it. He tried to convince them he never wanted to be treated specially or to become an outcast, nor did he want to become extremely introverted. He just wanted…..a fucking break!!! A little bit of spontaneity and serendipity. But most importantly he wanted happiness.
This confession was always accompanied by deep, piercing, insulting stare: then the cliché, “you have certainly lost your mind”. Tired of trying to convince the world he became almost certain of his insanity, and with it come the depression. Or maybe quite not. After all it was “his” opinion that was worthy of thought. And to him his mental faculties were in pristine condition. He then decide to bring about his own variation in life. This was sort of the teenage ritual of trying to fit in but instead he was focusing on standing out. (For the right reasons). The reasons for his actions you can question but his results leave a somewhat critical after thought.
Objective introspection was his chosen method to bring about a supposed happiness in his turned to grey life. Soul searching to find what truly made him happy. First to crop up was music. The wonderful and most unique form of art and expression known to man. All genres from highly learned and passionate hip hop to the emotional and sincerely soul, he fell in love with most of the genres of music. It always had his back, provided him with inspiration, lifted his spirited, help him admit the emotions he was scared to admit, and most importantly made him go to sleep with a wide retarded smile on his face. After a while he began to question the joy he got from music. The lyrics where the opinions of other people which he had struggled to convince himself didn’t really matter to him. The melodies were all part of the same monotonous patterns of life which he felt were exceedingly boring. So why then did they give him joy? Was he going to keep on finding new exciting thing to help his depression and after a while they’ll become boring to him? Wild thoughts plagued him. He began to question his basic philosophy. Was he bound to a life of monotony or he will one day find pure joy in his life to rid him of his albatross?
Too disappointed to think he stormed out of his house and began to walk. Away.
“Words of a Martyr yet to be born,
Strings of reality already torn.”
*this is purely a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any character living or dead is purely coincidental. *