Sober Songs beside Jupiter- When Prozac is Not So Loving Anymore!
Have you ever been on antidepressants that it literally made you alive and dead at the same time? The sounds that are filled with frenzied butterflies have long left, and all that is—a house with no books or what is this art that you speak of—Van Gough left for us to live for in such a beautiful tragedy.
It’s quite a thing for the ordinary mind to be able to absorb antidepressants quite addictively. And Prozac, my lover from the other end of the world—what will I even do without you? These times are rough, and easy is never meant to be under this coincidental skin, I can no longer tolerate or what is this phenomenon such inexplicable.
Have you ever been so depressed that no amount of Prozac could heal you, times when the sea is filled with empty waters and the land gets flooded with ferocious currents.
It is a game, always has been and the minds which have been drawn towards it. I cannot re-call, for the melodies of each antidepressant have been glued to my life right from the moment I regained consciousness. Each day, every day—none but every one of them, winter which has become so uninteresting and love songs which is just an eulogy for my birthday.
Seated here, and yesterday—I was a zombie with such stagnant emotions trying my best to harness the features of this human form. And still, the chemicals that are rushing inside the mind such gently yet sinisterly—what is hope and if it is something good, then I don’t need it anymore.
Today, as the winds roll back and forth, seated am I inside my own mind—least what I could expect from me. I wish and I wonder such articulately, lives which have never touched the extremes of this surrounding—how much on earth I wish for it.
Being sedated with Prozac is such a fancy thing, with nothing to make sense and all that is, a mind which knows that it knows not itself. O beautiful creation, unaware of its existence, and life is meant to be this artistic after all.
It feels quite good to be without one, at least the mind is as creative as it could ever be and my heart is nothing but an untouched flesh which wants to connect with a female. Prozac seemed to be just too overwhelming, cutting off such societal norms and delicacies. Presented with my endless grief in a sober state is quite natural and it feels real. For once, I’m not a zombie anymore.
The leaves of the virgin tree makes sense now and the tides of August is beginning to touch me like I never felt before. Each melody, the crimson of heaven and the paintings in love—they make sense now.
O gentle wishes of my mind, seated beside the quiet winds and the glossy gala whose guests have been reminded not to be drawn to Prozac, and still they sit here, under the pointless ceiling and the jolted chair, expressions which are numb and they do not want to give up on it such casually.
Let me talk to you, for it is me talking to my imaginary skin, wasted and bruised for the last six years, and life has been nothing but a bucket of Prozac at each second. Some wise man once said that it made you feel happy—perhaps he were true after all.
The rays that are dead are no longer around to make you sad or even a human anymore. Such a comforting truth, denial of life when breathing and each lung is nothing but a rhetoric call for death, one that waits for us at each step. O my lover—Prozac presented by the arch-angles, where art thou mind, brief and unsteady stars during the tempests of July.
-Yogesh Chandra