Every now and then, when we feel that life has dealt us a series of unfortunate cards, we may want to take a break, a vacation of one sort or other, to venture into unchartered territories of our souls. For some the destination can be reached by way of drinking, for others it’s a matter of contemplation and reflexivity. For Lily, it’s writing.
Where she is right now is a desolate place that’s desperate for more visitors. The land is vast and full of trees, branches tiredly dangling with the weight of ripe ideas waiting to be picked and consumed.
There, she walks past landmarks resembling memories and ideas that her mind has encountered in the past. She looks with a certain degree of cynicism at her very own short-sightedness. If you were to ask her as to what she sees, she’d say the following:
A middle-aged woman trying to establish where she wants to call home is toying with the idea of mortality. She has no clue as to whether her binary view of life is futile but is willing to take the risk and live it assuming that hers is a one-way ticket. She is afraid of underachievement but seems to do very little to debunk her apparently-inevitable fate. Indulging in escapism and premature disappointment, she forgets that her being is her very own making.
Instead of seeking absolute solitude in her existential sanctuary, she must apply strict rules as to how her character is played in what she, other characters and the general audience all think is ‘life.'
May be continued..
