A morning so unfit to write

Or fit to write, depending on what you think an optimal condition for writing is.  Whether a day full of bliss is perfect to write as a memento of your successful struggle or a day full of self-loathing moments a genuine time to write to resort to paper as your only faithful pal?  This is something a writer has to live with for the rest of his life.

Anyways, as far as I am concerned, I write when I feel like.  I couldn't drop my eyelids for the entire long night.  I went to bed at midnight, straightened up again after rolling back and forth in the bed for couple of hours, listened to Nusrat's qawalis and Late Jagjit's ghazals in the dark and with the resulting adrenaline rush, it wasn't a surprise that tunes didn't end up as sleeping aids for me.  After a very spiritually depressing night, here I am, writing.

Sometimes, I guess when your life is so full of colors, mostly shades of gray, there are nights when you regret you should've never drank that much and staggered onto the expressway, alone and stripped to the bone and relying only on your intoxicated senses, and failed to see an upcoming eighteen wheeler behemoth that ends up flattening you without a sign of warning.  And I am just lying on the side pavement with a ripped abdomen as ruthless but cute geese and seagulls from nowhere fly away with my guts and intestines, thinking that one day I shall learn from these mistakes.

On a second thought, you give yourself a chance of redemption by stating you were only a child. A child who knew nothing but the immediate joyous of life -- bunking classes, flunking them as well, trying to find a way to impress your first crush, and things of that sort, and had no understanding, due to inexperience, that living in a false trance of blind faith can reduce you to a roadkill.  But your parents should've stopped you for they were fully aware of the consequences.  They should've screamed at you and clobbered you for not listening to them.  But they didn't.  Not that they didn't care but perhaps some of the matters that you faced were even new to them.

Such helplessness, that people who are responsible to strengthen you display, disgusts and demoralizes you to no end. But then again, is this a disguised lesson of morality in itself? A helpless person in the world must rise for himself once more, once more challenge the odds, once more strike, since nobody else can and nobody else will.

With this in mind, I shall start this "morning so unfit to write"  and expand it to a day "so fit to cherish."

P.S.  The truck, the drinking, the expressway - it's a metaphor.