life under a ceiling fan…

While others might think if they should hang themselves by their ceiling fan at times of desperation, he is always worried about the ceiling fan dropping on to him while he sleeps on his queen-sized bed below it. So obviously he doesn’t contemplate hanging himself by the fan, for he knows it wouldn’t take his weight and he would just make a fool of himself. He doesn’t know why the room hasn’t got just a single bed in it, which he could have moved to a corner away from the fan but it wasn’t his house, nor was it his decision to furnish it.

The fan has to be kept running all night else he wouldn’t be able to sleep, one thing he can sleep with is the low humming noise of the fan, everything else would have woken him up, but not his fan; as if its humming is his lullaby. But still he is probably subconsciously aware even in his sleep that the fan might drop on to him spinning its blades at mid-level rotation. And its no wonder that he pushes everything on to the side directly below the fan and lies himself on the other edge. If he was sleeping like this during his childhood, he would definitely have fallen over from the bed, but he is an adult now and his body is probably used to being on the edge – edge of the bed to start with, but also edge of the relations and relationships, edge of the society, edge of the country, edge of this world even.

Indeed he always wanted to situate himself on the edge where he could jump over from if need be. It often occurs to him on the mid-flight how it would be to jump over from the plane some 35000 feet above. He imagines crashes and emergencies, the exits opening and the plane going down, and all of this doesn’t worry him a bit. He knows he can’t swim, but still thinks he can float. He cannot fly but he thinks he could survive the free fall. All the things that he cannot do, he thinks he can “manage”, and this confidence (or over-confidence rather) has been his boon as well as his curse.

He alienates his friends but also can’t live without them, he struggles to maintain relations and relationships but also rejoices in them, he can’t stand treacheries but weaves them himself, he is a contradiction of all contradictions, yet can appear perfect in everything and to everyone. And no, after all this neither he thinks he can play god nor does he believe in one existing. He is thankful to his creators but also resents their gratefulness to “god” that apparently created him. He resents their belief in something that he doesn’t believe in, and resents at their lack of self-appreciation, for he believes they did a pretty good job in his creation.

His life under his ceiling fan revolves in its own rotation, probably at the mid-level speed as does his fan. He neither wants it to rotate faster nor slower. All it matters to him is that it keeps rotating. But even that doesn’t always matter. He always thought he could live a century, but also thinks he would be happy to die a quarter. He neither loves his life, not hates it. He just lets it rotate in its own pace under his ceiling fan rotating at a mid-pace…