There I was, minding my own business, in front of the florescent glaring computer screen and I felt it, foreboding and chilling. I shrugged it off and went on typing, a little more precariously and jumping at any suspicious rustles of movement.
Dragging my eyes back to the screen, I forced my concentration to trigger back on- I felt it again. The uncomfortable feeling of having the hair at the back of your neck prickle and stand on end. A premonition, more likely. Paranoia unsettles and befumbles the mind and as I sat there, stiff as a poker, my eyes strained to the corner to sniff out the presence of a watching soul.
Fixated eyes stalking me when my back is turned makes me cringe, rock still, my heart thumping against the cage and racing with my pumping adrenaline. The very idea makes me uneasy and I confess, it makes me feel more insecure than I am usually.
Like any other normal person(cue for eyebrows to arch;taking into account that we're talking about me), or more specifically teenagers, that sense of closure, security and privacy is a guarded treasure; sacred and territorial. Crossing the boundaries of a person's drawn imaginary perimeters of their life is a crime of its own; intruding into the very folds of their life's delicate, fragile fabric.
Unlike usual households, the 'Do Not Enter' or 'Trespassers will be thrown to the sharks' signs are decorative ornaments that spruce up a blank door and are not respected in the least at my house. They are scoffed at and even worse, no one ever follows the holy code of knocking before entering. The gilded handles with their pathetic peeling paint are jammed down in full force and the door is yanked upon without any warning. It's a miracle it's still on its hinges.
When people barge into 'my room', (note the quotes: an ornamental name which holds no value) ready to rant away or simply for the joy of irking me out of my secure parametres, I'll freeze, dumfounded, and my eyes will swivel madly to look at the intruder.
As a writer-in-the-making(self proclaimed), I enjoy the still silence, the comfort of closure and best of all, the right to privacy of my complex, jumbled thoughts and emotions. I am a lion of my space; growling and baring teeth at those who dare defy the fence that proclaims my sanctuary.
Yes, my sanctuary. My sanctuary, from humans, from the world, from life.
With the door closed, a feel of 'completeness' and stability overwhelms me. I am at ease. My mind clears to welcome openly thoughts- for me to muddle over, to think, to feel, to believe.
Alas! Here comes another hurdle, more like a road block due to an excavation site where sweaty workers with their pneumatic drills, whirr their contraptions into the solid rock under a merciless sun. I am no longer at freedom to shut my door, let alone lock it(I haven't been given a key).
Cue Card: Audience- Audacious gape. Blonde, frail lady in midnight blue feel flustered and then faint.
Yes. It is true. I may seem pompous to you, ranting about unclosed doors. But to me, it is like uncorking the plug of my person and letting my self drain and suck out to a vacuum, a void, a blackhole.
These prying eyes, these door pressed ears, these conversation eavesdropping, these over-the-shoulder reading of messages and mails, this lack of trust...
All of these are unsettling, unstable and uncomfortable.
I, like most other people, like living normal, quiet lives, without being watched by the all-seeing-eyes of CCTV cameras and peeping toms.
And now, I must leave my keyboard, for that weird, insecure feeling has returned and my skin is rising in goosebumps. Big Brother must be watching.
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