The moon looked radiant. I am not quite familiar with the concept of lunacy and how the term ‘lunatic’ is derived from the moon. The waxing and waning phases affecting a person’s sanity sounds absurd but then when we look at Van Gogh’s painting of starry night and the fact that he was in an asylum for a couple of years makes me wonder if it is a myth after all. I looked out through the window, the night was still. There was no usual hissing of crickets or the rustling of leaves. It was as if time has altogether put itself to a halt. As if time was tired of moving incessantly, period after period and ages after ages.
I have a dangerous hobby. Moving out through the corridors at the wee hours of the night is one. Reliving people’s lives in my head over and over again is another. How sad is it that the day we are born, we get tied to our fate called Death? That we live carrying with us a ticking clock that can explode any minute. I get fascinated when I read poems of Emily Dickinson where she imagines Death to be her lover. But the question is how does one really feel while living the last minutes of their lives? Is the ‘memories of entire life flashing before your own eyes’ while your brain is shutting down, a hoax?
I cannot stop thinking about Ruby, my roommate. Ex-roommate now. Mrs. Long says she was adopted by a well-off family living in the outskirts. It is sad that she left, without a word, without a note. It feels like an eternity since I have known her. The corridors seem to have stretched themselves at night as I walk down the hall. How long have I been strolling aimlessly? It is difficult to think straight when you are under depressants. I tried recalling what I ate for lunch or breakfast or why was there blood on my hands for that matter?
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