Once again, the wheels screeched along the whistle and rumbles of the train. I waved through the tinted glass to my little sister, expecting her to begin sobbing any moment.
Maybe the tiny girl had really grown up. Maybe her heart is being replaced with heavier emotions bit by bit, and her head filling up with sober sadness. Maybe she’s heading to what I remember of my childhood- spirit of a child, and senses of maturity.
I sighed a bit, as the train pulled farther away. It felt as though the sigh was substantial, for I felt the leather seat beneath me sink slightly deeper than what my weight offered. But it was just the fellow passenger with the seat number 6, beside mine.
She gave me a brief smile which told me nothing about her- if she’d want to chat, or travel in silence, or make things uncomfortable, or change seats with someone else.
The window glimpsed past outer-city scenes… Slums and naked children, hills of garbage and valleys of sludge in between, scanty trees, dry patches of land, rows of cars and probably inaudible honking, houses with peeling paint and their residents who probably complained of sleeplessness and noisy trains.
Diseased, decreased humanity with a whole lot of rouge hopes.
The world goes on how it does. What can I do, sitting in a train and watching it unravel before me?
I can do naught but write.
I question myself sometimes, if there is any meaning to writing. Is it of any use to the rest of the earth, or just mere self-indulgence?
And when I question, I think and fabricate answers with words. More words for more reasons, more thoughts for reasoning. Each word, a spark. Each reason, a hope. Each hope, a way to spread that spark.
What is life without questioning and reasoning, without randomised muses and absurd thoughts, without sparks and senseless ramblings of the heart?
Is it important to be presentable and structured in the way I express myself to anyone who reads me? I would think not sometimes. Not- because raw emotion cannot be replaced with elegant aphorisms.
Sometimes, I choose to be unedited, and random- just as my head and its thoughts.
Maybe we need to embrace the Chaos in us. Chaos is what makes the polars cohere, and makes existence of conflict possible. Conflict is the resolution of confusion. And conflict would make sure truth is discovered and referred, hearts are expressed and acceptance be wider.
It isn’t always important to make sense. It is important to realise that sense is derived from chaos.