Stirring an Empty Cosmos: Part 1
Ariktha M Koundinya
The sun stood to spite me - the clouds had settled in front of him for a moment, letting everything go dark, and the sky didn't seem so distant anymore, almost like I could reach and touch it, but they moved and he was out again.
Nightfall, I liked - I could lay in bed and look up at the shadows spilling from the windows as the cars moved under the street lights. They ran across the walls and onto the cupboards and then disappeared, they wailed and wept as they danced. I often thought of them as tortured souls. Sometimes they screeched and the shrieks tore through the paint on the ceiling and kept me awake. Oftentimes, I held them with my reigns and rode them as horses, prancing, ceiling to wall and then out through the bedroom door.
The shadows gave me a lot to think about. They were mostly quiet and quick to die until I gave them life and made them scream, whirl, frisk about to my will, past the stone walls and out the door. I pondered of my own life. Perhaps I was one of the shadows in the mind of a poet, who spun poetry, weaved me into a tragic comedy and then disposed me once the ink ran dry. The thought fascinated me - existing, merely as a fragment of imagination in the mind of a child. To think that science and math and the laws of the universe, governing our existence, the very definition of human life lay in the fickle mind of a two year old. I like to think that a two year old was our God - things made sense this way.
Perhaps, I was God, the possibility was unlikely, but the notion was to be considered; the reasoning seemed sound - the world in my head was undeniably real to me, and the people in there, that I raised and killed, had lives. I was cruel, yes, but still a God.
But somehow through the evolution of thought, the term "God" moved farther away from a being that created mankind to a haven of comfort in one's mind. The thought of a creator that acknowledged our existence serves as an illusion safe from the realities of the (mostly) nihilistic chains of life. The thought of existence without purpose is strong enough to lead a man to madness, for the lens of nihilism is grey and holds no respect for everything the human race stands for and considers dear, eventually leading one with the exasperating urge to scream into the empty abyss with the simultaneous thought of not hearing oneself at the same time. But as the walls of nihilism closes in, it serves, in some ways, as a direct stairway to surrealism.
Stick around for Part 2 of the series
Ariktha M Koundinya is a 16 year old who believes in fairytales and is deeply frustrated by the crushing reality of human existence. She writes poetry of her madness, winding it with metaphors so as to make it look pretty. More often than not, she is found with ink stained fingers, looking up at the sky expecting it to shatter and fall to the ground like shards of broken glass. But more than a poet or an artist, Ariktha is simply a little girl, lost in Enid Blyton fantasies, who knows that magic only happens when she closes her eyes, and so she smiles in the darkness.