I see my memories fading. I no longer remember the good times. It like each new day is refreshing, deleting or storing my past happiness where I couldn’t find it. What remains is this empty life full of anguish and pain.
Such melancholia and this constant sorrow are all left for me to endure. My adult life needs a reboot it’s all corrupted and waste. My job and university nothing makes any sense. I loathe for what the future holds for me. I had no good hopes nor I’m trying to make it better.
I’m on a quest in search of lost time just like “Proust” It’s no different than the quest of a treasure or the mythical fountain of youth.
My daily labor is in vain to capture and recall the lost memories and I had tried to drink tea and coffee of all kinds nor could I find “petites madeleines” in Pakistan. When I couldn’t find any sensations I have also tried different kinds of cakes but nothing is giving that immortal taste to my lips and sometimes I take only a sip with the view that maybe drinking all of the cups loses its virtue.
Whoever read Proust knew its to find in oneself, not in the object. Separate the object “Tea” from reality its serving as gateway seeking not in the cup but in oneself.
Do you know French writer Proust’s novel is the worlds longest Novel with 7 volumes?
As Proust wrote:
“The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, in some material object (In the sensation which that material object will give us) of which we have no inkling. And it depends on chance whether or not we come upon this object before we ourselves must die.”
Some dark memories I recall the most!
All I remember from childhood is the existential crisis I have at 7. Looking towards dark clouded sky apprehending whether my appearance as body and soul justifies my existence or not?
What if my being is not being in appearance and I’m not as I appear to myself or maybe my being is there and I’m unaware to see it. I closed my eyes, shut ears to the noise of the world, my consciousness betrays me now nothing exists not even me, something starts in me I could feel it the echo of transcending up to the sky. From where I look at myself a fragile body shivering, and asked What does my life matters and the worries? Desperately waiting for my Mother to come home in fear I had my mind to slip through reality
For a moment I had thought if it’s not my being or appearance then what all this life amounts too leading to nothingness which “Sartre” has elaborated beautifully in “Being and Nothingness”.
What makes me happy back then? I’m dying to discover and to enjoy that moment again. Escaping from my present life. I have all forgotten what it’s like being happy and joyful.
All I want is the Proustian effect. To go back in time and live the life I love the most. I want to see my grandmother which is no more now. How it pains me to lose the persons I love.
Tears and in vain I drink tea with absolute imitation for just a glimpse. What was that Proust drink? I could give my whole life for one sip. For on the last trip to all-powerful joy.
And always take with utmost pleasure and calmness with a hope that I may grasp the happy time I had in my childhood. Full of innocence and love.
Here watch this video and discover the Proustian moment.
The Portrait of an Artist 