An Author's Confessions

A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession." had said Albert Camus.

I ask myself as I write, "What are you trying to confess, my soul? What sin are you trying to absolve of yours now?"

I get no answer. Only a stubborn, egoistic face stares back at me. My own face. Silent, nonchalant, unmoved.

Then slowly as I reach out and touch that face with my loving hands, a voice from within slowly speaks up.

"Absolving the star-lit sky we shared...absolving the dappled meadow where we sat and fed each other our eccentricities...absolving the stain on my skin left behind by another hand that once held mine and we walked into a valley...absolving expectations, absolving memories, absolving nostalgia, self-deception, self-destruction...absolving passion, fever, fret, false promises...absolving self-pity, rage, narcissism, fake  smiles, conforming, adjustments, compromises, self-humiliation, journey into self-destruction...I owe it to myself...I write for absolution of myself in the highest court of law - the court of my own conscience!"

Inner Monolouges

Getting back to my dear 'self' after a very long time...

Much has happened meanwhile, while you, my dear 'self', were lost in a trance of self-destruction...

You were engaged in your destructive merriment, oblivious to the whole world, and all the while, I witnessed your fatal dance with Life, quietly...

I wanted to stop you much earlier, but somehow I was intrigued by your sado-masochism...you may call me a voyeur...I wont take offense to that...yes, indeed I, like a pervert, kept ogling at your fake orgasmic Pralaya-tandava...only, you were not on your verge of destroying the Creation, but only yourself...

And tonight, I have come to meet you in the silence of your pain, because I know, now you will listen to my voice, finally...