Hopeful wait

It's morning 3'O' clock. He woke up to a deafening silence. It's chilling winter out there somewhere at the end of a North Indian unkind but decoratively foggy November. His feet were cold. He slept unintendedly on his bed after eating the food at night. His throat was dry. He had the reminiscences of a song that he kept playing for several hours the day before. "What day is it?", he thought.. "where is my mobile?".  "Is it Tuesday today?".. "damn, it's cold"... "oh, life.."

He lived on the sixth floor of his building. That's the top floor, the farthest he could go to avoid the people on the ground and any human touch. For the longest time he believed in a fake charisma he projected in himself. He kept betraying himself. For his mighty goals and his genuinely unexpected setbacks, oh, he felt terrible and utter shock. He felt shame flowing along with blood in his veins. He looked messy, put on the long rough hairs, thick unkempt beard, unironed clothes over a pale looking dry skin.

He kept ignoring calls from his relatives. He lost all his friends in a social accident that never made it possible for him to build up a conducive thought process and self-esteem that he could actually make. He had none, though he faked many. He had tried enough to mingle with people who he finds bully for many reasons. Okay, he is an introvert, a deep-seated one, the one who thinks too wide and diverges quickly from various possibilities before actually converging on one. He stood up to look at the mirror hooked opposite to the wall of his bed. He looked at his eyes and the brown ball that reflected upside down.

But, what is this current situation? Where is he stuck? He is in his mid-20s and nearing 30 and he feels done. He feels purposeless. It's a dead end. He doesn't feel like connecting with anyone and in the belief that he once possessed of 'giving back to the underprivileged and lesser lucked'. He just found out that he has nothing to give and that he is an incapacitated mortal to be one. Is he poor? What he must do? He doesn't know. He is confused. He is in between several dilemmas. The thought of 'what next?' keep on lingering in his mind, awake and asleep.

Everything looks unchipped from the window of his one-room apartment. He is at least privileged enough for the savings in his bank account, continuous supply of water and food supply for a living. Is he a monk? No, he is not meditating. He is surviving his days and keeping awake at untimely hours. He had stopped tracking days, just the last ounces of savings in his account. He knew that he would have to go down soon and refill his life worth. He knew that he has to struggle again and get on a footing. It's no war, but, as of now, it seems tough. 

The sky is unusually dark. It used to be yellowish-orange with the blinding lights of this dying city. Dogs had kept on barking and cooing for their usual reasons. Sirens from the ambulances would add to his chills once, but he no longer cares now. Life, death, perhaps it matters little when you are hung in between and could not decide which way to go. He knew that he would come out of it. He knew that his heart rate would be normal in some time and he would let go of his anxiety and could interact with people and would be able again to fake the smiles, just in case otherwise... 

When he sometimes tries to look down through the window, to the passing emotionless crowds, he does feel like screaming and to ask for their help. He is not there yet. He is healing at his usual time. He knew that what it would be an exit is a step by step process and no miracle is going to happen as it has never since his birth. What he was doing will not help until he ingrains consciously and directs to high roads himself rather than the infinite waiting. But he came this far. He could convince himself for giving yet another chance. He has partially forgiven himself. He is somehow on the right path...

In the coming week, he was ready to rejuvenate. He went down the street to pick up pots for his white lonely balcony. He would water them and see them grow. That would be a good start. He would eat better and more nutritious. He would shave and clean himself better by taking regular hot water baths. He would try to read and slowly replace the dying ideas with new flourishing ones. He would stretch, do pushups and sit-ups. He would start picking up phone calls and come back to the social world by dialing new calls to distant and near. He would help himself. As much as to the climb, so much to push, and to regain the confidence and the hope...

It's cold. He is doing good. He has maintained a routine, visited friends, ate in restaurants, and laughed for real. So much to live. So much to contribute. So such to breath.