lachesism

n. the desire to be struck by disaster—to survive a plane crash, to lose everything in a fire, to plunge over a waterfall—which would put a kink in the smooth arc of your life, and forge it into something hardened and flexible and sharp, not just a stiff prefabricated beam that barely covers the gap between one end of your life and the other.

 

How would it look like?
When I turn into what I became from.
Sand.
Will it all be white?
with benches of white marbles,
and snow clad trees.
That’s how I think it’d be.
But I want to know it for sure.
You see, I don’t have a lot of confidence in my imagination.
Let’s just say, things don’t turn out to be the way I think they will.
Like when I was in class 9,
I imagined to spend my life with this girl.
And now she’s dead.
I bet she knows how it looks like on the other side.
But she will do what she used to do,
Smile and give mixed signals.
Like when I was in college,
waging a war with puberty.
I imagined I would have those marks on my face forever.
But I turned out fairly okay.
Usually I don’t bother about it.
It is inevitable people say.
That’s a relief.
But on days like these,
and nights followed by,
days like these;
I quietly wish it to end.
Because everything is so perfect.
Like a round baked cake,
or a spotless white shirt,
Like a set of sharpened pencils laid equidistant to each other,
OCD’s Paradise.
All I want is someone to shake the bucket,
or nudge it a little,
so that the water spills.
So, listen to me you seeds of misfortune,
come, my life is ready with the warmth,
the water and love,
come grow.
No?
Eh. Love? You there?
come, let’s hang out.
No?
Then I will just do what I do best.
Just be.
That should do the trick.
But if all these doesn’t work out,
I am afraid I am ready.
Because the events of my life,
are like spaces between the sentences of a book.
so close to something interesting or beautiful,
or horrific.
So close, but still unaffected by all the adventure it carries.
All I want is the ink to just spill and it is okay if it leaves a mark.
This arc is terrifying.
Not that I don’t love living,
But the wait,
The wait is killing me.

Er, Not quite.