What Do You Feel When You Feel Lost
I am right here. My screen is blinking, the mug of hot water is not hot anymore, the sun is quietly strolling from one horizon to another; it’s everyday stroll. EVERYDAY- why is this word so long, where does it end?
It spirals up and swallows those big and small moments, minuscule details, first words, the walk to the grocery store, that mug of hot water. It’s monstrous demeanor scares me throughout the night, as I see it preparing to slaughter and swallow the morning.
Last night I was it’s prey. It swallowed me swiftly down its throat; I rolled down just like the kid in the playground slide, in merriment, in anticipation of a fabulous landing.
I landed and it ended. The ride, the anticipation, the adrenaline powered screams. I am now inside “everyday’s” soft and cushy habitat. It is a vast expanse of circular nothingness, without a wall. The colour of the sky and the colour of the land is same here; a hazy smoky sheet all around. Everything looks the same; no contrasts, no turmoil, just an unending stretch of grayish existence.
I like it here for a few days. My mind is at rest. I get accustomed to the sameness. I feel comfort in the predictability. And then, out of nowhere, I felt lost.
How do I define lost now? How did I even realize that?
I realized it the day I wanted to paint my lips violet. I had my colour palette, my brush and my lips but I wasn’t able to tread through the colourless sheet engulfing “everyday”. I look for an exit or a knife to cut through this. I find nothing.
A sharp look around the vastness, I see small objects camouflaged by the gray sheet. They move a little but mostly they are still. The kind of stillness that scares me. The stillness between that millisecond separating life and death. I move closer to one of them, they look familiar, they look like me.
I ask them the way out. I say I am lost.
“Lost?” they ask me. “What does that mean?”
As I open my mouth to explain, I forget language and speech. I am fumbling, grasping for breath, words weren’t coming out of my throat. I look for signs to tell them I need help.
A little man with button eyes and plain face hands me a booklet. It reads “Guide to Everyday Living.”
Before turning his eyes away from me to the nothingness, he says, ‘I hope you enjoy your stay here.”
I follow him; I keep following him as my mug of hot water turns cold and the sun sets out for another stroll.