It’s 3 a.m. and I’m wide awake, staring at the clock ticking .. a mocking rhythm, a percussive reminder that sleep is a distant fantasy. The fan above me whirs lazily, completely indifferent to my existential dread, while shadows tango across the walls like they’re in on a cosmic joke I have yet to decipher. I’m nestled in a mountain of laundry that’s somehow morphed into my sanctuary. Crumpled shirts and empty snack wrappers are my only companions as I drift in and out of an emotional tug-of-war between laughter and bewilderment. “Is everything happening inside me?” I ponder, and just like that, the absurdity wraps around me like a comforting hug .. a very warm blanket of chaos.
In this wild, vivid chaos, I can’t help but marvel at my own limited perspective. My eyes, those fickle little windows to the world, only offer me a dull slice of entire spectrum. Out my window, the world outside bursts with colors I’ll never truly experience. It’s infuriating, yet oddly poetic—like a Shakespearean tragedy filtered through Instagram. “Oh, how beautiful the world must be, if only I could trade my beige existence for a splash of vividness!” I muse, and for a moment, I imagine myself as the tragic hero in a play, perpetually caught between the profound and the ridiculous.
Ah, sound—what a supposed symphony life offers! Yet here I lie, trapped in a soundtrack dominated by my neighbor’s dog, who’s convinced the universe is one giant chew toy waiting to be barked at. Maybe this dog is just mad at the cosmos, I think, stifling a laugh at the absurdity of my life. “Is the dog auditioning for ‘Canine Symphony No. 1: The Nightly Annoyance’?” I chuckle, wondering if I’m missing out on the sweet serenade of distant trains or the gentle rustle of leaves .. Nope, instead I’m left with this four-legged philosopher yelling at the void.
And let’s talk about the weather—an absolute goldmine of absurdity! Take rain, for instance. One minute, I’m a tragic hero, peering out at the dreary, dripping landscape, lamenting my fate with an imaginary piano score swelling in the background. “Oh, woe is me!” I sigh dramatically, feeling the gloomy ambiance settle over me like a damp blanket. But then, just like that, I’m twirling in my living room, arms raised like I’m the star of a pop anthem, celebrating each drop as if it’s confetti at my surprise birthday party. The rain, of course, couldn’t care less about my melodrama—it’s just doing its thing, hydrating plants and ruining someone’s picnic.
It’s absurd, isn’t it? We craft elaborate narratives around something as simple as precipitation, convinced the universe is sending us secret messages through raindrops. “Is this a sign of my impending doom?” I wonder, while the rain probably thinks, “I’m just here to mess with someone’s day; chill out, would you?” And yet, in this madness, there’s a strange beauty to be found. Perhaps the rain is just a reminder of life’s unpredictability, that we’re all actors in this grand cosmic play, waiting for our next scene to unfold.
And then there’s hunger—the universe’s cruel joke. One moment, I’m happily going about my life, and the next, my stomach decides it’s time to audition for a horror film, rumbling with a ferocity that could wake the dead. Suddenly, food becomes my only focus, like I’m on an epic quest for the Holy Grail of snacks. Meanwhile, I hear about monks who go weeks without food, acting like it’s no big deal. I skip breakfast, and by noon, I’m one missed meal away from launching a diplomatic incident with my hangry rants. “Who knew my stomach had such strong political opinions?” I muse, clutching my rumbling belly like it’s a rebellious teenager.
Ah, love! What a wonderfully absurd game we play. Here I am, trying to catch someone’s eye while balancing a spinning plate on a wobbly stick—my stick, mind you, which feels like it’s one gust of wind away from total collapse. I pirouette through the emotional chaos, convinced that the object of my affection is a master magician casting spells with just a glance. In reality, they’re probably just wondering if they left the oven on. The only real magic here is my brain, which manages to conjure heart palpitations over someone’s casual smile.
It’s comical, really. One minute I’m falling for a total stranger on the train, and the next, I’m spiraling into a daydream because they wore that charmingly disheveled look and shared a fleeting smile over a cramped seat. It’s not them; it’s just my overactive imagination throwing a party in my head. And speaking of emotions—ah, what a delightful circus! I take my memories, toss them into a blender, and whip up the most intricate narratives. I’m like a psychic at a carnival, torturing myself with twisted plotlines. It’s like riding a roller coaster designed by a sadistic architect—nothing about this ride feels real, except for those memories I cling to like a life raft in a stormy sea of existential dread.
The pain, the joy, the heartache? All expertly manufactured right inside me. It’s like I’m running an emotional factory where the workers are perpetually on coffee breaks, churning out the wildest tales while I sit here twiddling my thumbs, waiting for them to clock back in.
And let’s not forget the big question: God. Is God real, or is that just another feeling we’ve whipped up in our emotional kitchen? It’s like belief itself is a cozy comfort blanket we wrap around ourselves when life feels like it’s spiraling into chaos. If God exists, does that mean He’s more of a “within me” kind of vibe? Because at this point, the deeper I ponder, the more my brain feels like it’s auditioning for a circus act.
After what feels like an Olympic-level mental workout, I arrive at a dazzling conclusion: everything, and I mean everything, is happening within me. All those sights, sounds, and experiences? Just my mind interpreting whatever random stimuli life throws my way. Yesterday, tomorrow—they’re just handy constructs we’ve created to avoid losing our sanity. We’re trapped in this eternal present moment, desperately trying to make sense of a universe that seems to revel in our befuddlement.
Maybe that’s what nirvana is all about—a zen acceptance that I’m the center of my own little universe, and everything else is just background noise. The real trick is getting to the point where I genuinely believe it. Until then, I’ll keep overthinking my way through life, navigating one absurd, baffling moment at a time, and chuckling at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.
So here I lie at 3 a.m., contemplating my own absurdity while my neighbor’s dog continues its late-night philosophical tirade. Because honestly, if this is what it means to be human—to grapple with absurdity while wrapped in laundry and snacking on crumbs—then sign me up for the next wild ride.
And who knows? Maybe one day I’ll figure it all out. But until then, I’ll embrace my inner circus performer, juggling my thoughts like flaming torches. After all, if life isn’t a ridiculous, chaotic show, what’s the point?
Our emotions are not real
Built only in our heart
A rain can make me dance
While you may cry wrapped in sadness advance
- an excerpt from the poem Maya ,Sep 2021