I wake up to the sound of thunder and rain. The rain splashes the roof with an effervescent fury and the thunder loudly announces the lightning that preceded it. I groggily look at the timepiece to check the time, 6 in the morning. It is not light outside and yet is not completely dark. The outside, as perceived through my windows appears like a satin sheet draped over the world. A dull grayish tinge appears in the atmosphere just like the gray that exists in the hearts of all those who sleep at this early hour. There are those, countless faces who are probably in the nascent moments of their day, untouched by the luxuries of a holiday, they rise to carry forth a day just like any other. And then there are those, for whom this day is a blessing. A day in which they can catch up on nights spent in vagrancy; A day that they can dedicate towards the craft of immobility. And then there are people like me, who neither are fraught by worldly duties nor can afford the luxuries of nonchalance.
The mind wishes to embark on a carefree journey, sample moments of a recaptured past, a thought akin to a faint misty image like one gazed from a rain soaked glass window. A past with few worries, and fewer duties; one where the dawn of a day is announced by the crowing of the hen and the scent of wet sand, A day where the waves of the sea thrash against the shores in a routine that speaks of comfort. A world so perfect, that it does not exist in the physical world.
The mind does not function in its typical exuberance at such an hour, the clock ticks silently unlike the loud and jarring ticks of ancient timepieces. I lay for moments uncounted, caught in thoughts that have neither form nor function. As the sound of thunder and rain continue to pound life as I know it, I momentarily wish to be outside getting drenched in the storm and for once reclaiming a dream that was never born.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Insignificance
The day dawns with a damning silence interspersed with the drumbeat sound of the wind. The birds chirp enthusiastically, singing songs dedicated to the sunlight. The sunlight glows mightily, searing in its power and magnanimous in its grandeur. It shoots its rays around in a gesture of strength and power. The sun, this beacon in the sky, the sole source of all life, our guardian angel, It gives life and also extinguishes many.
My thoughts on this day are slightly morbid. The grandmother continues her fight against bodily disease and all of us are caught amidst circumstances that seem poised at a precarious juncture. They seemed careening off a precipice that has an abysmal fall lurking. She has been fighting a battle against her body for what seems like forever but is in reality, Ten days of our lives thrown awry into a vortex of emotion, a few moments of hope followed by nights of depression and fear. My mother has spent the majority of her time here travelling from hospital to the house, the sleep cycle has been thrown off, she barely eats, she sleeps laying a watchful eye on her mother who has been reduced to an entity barely breathing and a body emanating various tubes and wires more tenuous than a workman's office. Hope battles the same battle that my grandmother is fighting right now, she tries but the physical capacity of success seems to be diminishing.
I lay reading a book, the sunlight falling on my blinking eye lulling it to sleep. I blot out the sun with my hand, shocked by the power of my outstretched palm. I can block out the sun, deny it the joy of searing me and drenching me in my sweat. I regain my composure, realizing this newly discovered gift. If only life were the same, if only you could block out moments sorrow and desperation with the stretching of an outstretched palm. If only you could deny the disease and the dilapidation that force themselves into your body and gnaw at you incessantly. If only you could lie under a cool shade of the mangrove and stay there perpetually and become part of a natural tradition that has stayed with humanity for thousands of years. If only.
We are all seekers of a cool shade, searchers of comfort, and wanderers of a world too diminished and fraught with despair. We are gifted with a body that holds brilliant accomplishments but also is a harbinger of horrifying destruction. We, our bodies, our minds are all tired models of ingratitude, barely carrying ourselves, carrying a weight far greater than our comprehension, forever searching for a spot of shade, a few moments of comfort. But when we do not find this, we are shocked into reality of admission, an understanding of the seriousness of our mortality. The realization dawns on me today and cements my heart into a block as heavy as the cider blocks in the trunk of a swerving car.
Our lives have almost been thrown off balance, our regular lives replaced by a seemingly never ending cycle of visiting hospital waiting rooms and patient care centers. I carried forward this cycle tonight; I sat in the waiting room thinking to myself about the complexities of our existence. An outreaches wooden bust of some saint glares from one corner, surrounded by seats which appear neither comfortable nor particularly harsh. In fact, that seemed to be the theme of the room, light beige wallpaper, neutral ceilings interspersed with fluorescent floodlights defined this room. A large picture adorned the wall, an autumn walkway with dull sepia leaves conspicuously strewn around, a picture that oddly has a spiritual quality to it. Maybe that picture is a cruel way of getting those waiting in the waiting room to start accepting the reality of death at a subconscious level. It is a cruel way, seemingly ineffective but still made an impact on me.
I return from my brief stay at the hospital and let the night die its death. It’s my way of feeling significant in the large insignificance of all that surrounds me, this world and we as tiny creatures, who for fleeting moments are delusional into thinking that our lives are within our control. I will let this night bleed to death, like the deaths of countless others who were snatched at various stages of their mortalhood, snatched from families and rendering them limp. As the dying seconds draw close and I fade into a turbulent sleep, I hate the world for all that it takes from us, I despise the helplessness that I feel and in the grand scheme of things, I feel a growing insignificance.
My thoughts on this day are slightly morbid. The grandmother continues her fight against bodily disease and all of us are caught amidst circumstances that seem poised at a precarious juncture. They seemed careening off a precipice that has an abysmal fall lurking. She has been fighting a battle against her body for what seems like forever but is in reality, Ten days of our lives thrown awry into a vortex of emotion, a few moments of hope followed by nights of depression and fear. My mother has spent the majority of her time here travelling from hospital to the house, the sleep cycle has been thrown off, she barely eats, she sleeps laying a watchful eye on her mother who has been reduced to an entity barely breathing and a body emanating various tubes and wires more tenuous than a workman's office. Hope battles the same battle that my grandmother is fighting right now, she tries but the physical capacity of success seems to be diminishing.
I lay reading a book, the sunlight falling on my blinking eye lulling it to sleep. I blot out the sun with my hand, shocked by the power of my outstretched palm. I can block out the sun, deny it the joy of searing me and drenching me in my sweat. I regain my composure, realizing this newly discovered gift. If only life were the same, if only you could block out moments sorrow and desperation with the stretching of an outstretched palm. If only you could deny the disease and the dilapidation that force themselves into your body and gnaw at you incessantly. If only you could lie under a cool shade of the mangrove and stay there perpetually and become part of a natural tradition that has stayed with humanity for thousands of years. If only.
We are all seekers of a cool shade, searchers of comfort, and wanderers of a world too diminished and fraught with despair. We are gifted with a body that holds brilliant accomplishments but also is a harbinger of horrifying destruction. We, our bodies, our minds are all tired models of ingratitude, barely carrying ourselves, carrying a weight far greater than our comprehension, forever searching for a spot of shade, a few moments of comfort. But when we do not find this, we are shocked into reality of admission, an understanding of the seriousness of our mortality. The realization dawns on me today and cements my heart into a block as heavy as the cider blocks in the trunk of a swerving car.
Our lives have almost been thrown off balance, our regular lives replaced by a seemingly never ending cycle of visiting hospital waiting rooms and patient care centers. I carried forward this cycle tonight; I sat in the waiting room thinking to myself about the complexities of our existence. An outreaches wooden bust of some saint glares from one corner, surrounded by seats which appear neither comfortable nor particularly harsh. In fact, that seemed to be the theme of the room, light beige wallpaper, neutral ceilings interspersed with fluorescent floodlights defined this room. A large picture adorned the wall, an autumn walkway with dull sepia leaves conspicuously strewn around, a picture that oddly has a spiritual quality to it. Maybe that picture is a cruel way of getting those waiting in the waiting room to start accepting the reality of death at a subconscious level. It is a cruel way, seemingly ineffective but still made an impact on me.
I return from my brief stay at the hospital and let the night die its death. It’s my way of feeling significant in the large insignificance of all that surrounds me, this world and we as tiny creatures, who for fleeting moments are delusional into thinking that our lives are within our control. I will let this night bleed to death, like the deaths of countless others who were snatched at various stages of their mortalhood, snatched from families and rendering them limp. As the dying seconds draw close and I fade into a turbulent sleep, I hate the world for all that it takes from us, I despise the helplessness that I feel and in the grand scheme of things, I feel a growing insignificance.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Chaos Reigns
The visual crutch that I use in everyday life broke and rendered me into a handicap. Well, it did not break in the true sense of the world. The crutch is not really a crutch and I am not really a handicap. Logic gets mired into a convoluted mess when left in my restive hands. The fact is simply this; the tiny cylindrical entity of silicone that I so trustingly place in my eye fell out from its moist enclosure. It fell into the unforgiving expanse of this world and into the harshness of all that lay under it. It fell through the sky, travelling a distance far greater than its entire existence. It travelled not by its own accord but got yanked out by the mysterious force of the gravitational pull. It was a victim.
The world has lost the semblance that I had in antiquity. The images that form on my cornea are now confused and chaotic. Figures twitch in absent surrender, themselves victims of a fate beyond their control or comprehension. The figures themselves have no comprehension of their perception. They are not aware of the insanity of their appearance in my vision. They do not know how manically their entire visage dances in my existence. This got me thinking. If our existence is so mired in our own reality, why do we care about how others perceive us? None of what they say about us, or think about us should matter, right? But how often do we concern ourselves with lives whose reality has no bearing on ours. How often do we descend into the tired depths of despair when we get an understanding of the ulterior intentions of the other? The answers ring a shuttering truth about the fundamentals of our lives. We live, not in a bubble but in a communion of bubbles. We live not as one but a conjoined unit that lives with others, breathes with others and effectively bases itself on others perception.
But is that the best way? I wonder fleetingly as I stick a scratch paper over my eye to blot out its power of vision. Vision, a power that is irreplaceable but it can be quite a grievance when not at its peak of function. Is the best option in life, to base our existence on others expectation? I do not think so. Too often do we concern ourselves with an enduring struggle to flow into a mannequin of others expectation that we tend to forget about our own? Our existence, our precious definition of our lives becomes a convoluted mockery. We stand not as a mute witness but more as involuntary participants in a strange game, the significance of it lost on our infant minds. We allow others to mold us but in a larger system, allow ourselves to lose our significance.
Who are we, what is our purpose, what is this grand plan that we are seemingly part of. Are we bricks of a larger monument, tiny blocks all collected together leading to a larger purpose, or are we like a grain of sand, in an expanse of a desert, miles of nothingness, purposeless and comfortless. Who are we, are our lives with a purpose, do we live it with a purpose that we chose and whose existence is defined by our carefully crafted attempts at redemption. Or does Chaos reign? Chaos in our ways, chaos in our lives, a mish mash cluster of events which we so innocently are trying to fathom, Chaos….
The world has lost the semblance that I had in antiquity. The images that form on my cornea are now confused and chaotic. Figures twitch in absent surrender, themselves victims of a fate beyond their control or comprehension. The figures themselves have no comprehension of their perception. They are not aware of the insanity of their appearance in my vision. They do not know how manically their entire visage dances in my existence. This got me thinking. If our existence is so mired in our own reality, why do we care about how others perceive us? None of what they say about us, or think about us should matter, right? But how often do we concern ourselves with lives whose reality has no bearing on ours. How often do we descend into the tired depths of despair when we get an understanding of the ulterior intentions of the other? The answers ring a shuttering truth about the fundamentals of our lives. We live, not in a bubble but in a communion of bubbles. We live not as one but a conjoined unit that lives with others, breathes with others and effectively bases itself on others perception.
But is that the best way? I wonder fleetingly as I stick a scratch paper over my eye to blot out its power of vision. Vision, a power that is irreplaceable but it can be quite a grievance when not at its peak of function. Is the best option in life, to base our existence on others expectation? I do not think so. Too often do we concern ourselves with an enduring struggle to flow into a mannequin of others expectation that we tend to forget about our own? Our existence, our precious definition of our lives becomes a convoluted mockery. We stand not as a mute witness but more as involuntary participants in a strange game, the significance of it lost on our infant minds. We allow others to mold us but in a larger system, allow ourselves to lose our significance.
Who are we, what is our purpose, what is this grand plan that we are seemingly part of. Are we bricks of a larger monument, tiny blocks all collected together leading to a larger purpose, or are we like a grain of sand, in an expanse of a desert, miles of nothingness, purposeless and comfortless. Who are we, are our lives with a purpose, do we live it with a purpose that we chose and whose existence is defined by our carefully crafted attempts at redemption. Or does Chaos reign? Chaos in our ways, chaos in our lives, a mish mash cluster of events which we so innocently are trying to fathom, Chaos….
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Deprivation of Significance
I find myself pondering at the crux of civilization. I reflect with a very vague sense of perception. I sit at a precariously positioned desk typing words fervently that paint pictures that lie embedded in my mind. These pictures do not conform to any particular shape or form. In fact, they can hardly be called pictures. Pictures are more vivid, brimming with life and a factual representation of life as we know it. In a picture, you capture moments that are frozen for generations. It is a moment, that if not captured would forever escape and be lost in the annals of all the moments that define us. Each picture when looked back upon elucidates the definition of our history. So, yes I am not painting a picture.
I am purging myself of the thoughts and the vague forms that flash inside my head. These flashes are like dim lights, in a miserable lounge, masking the faces of all the patrons in an attempt to cloak their emotions. The face is the most reflective mirror of all and it becomes a goblet brimming with our inner self, overflowing with our secrets and our deepest thoughts. My deepest thoughts overflow from this goblet and drip callously onto the floor emanating whiffs of an acidic silence. The aroma captivates me, drowns me and yet in a strange manner, liberates me.
Often, I find myself caught reflecting upon the giant wheels that turn moving this great civilization forward. Countless stories spin around in this giant vortex of information, casting visions of the world as it being shaped. I read them and I find myself greatly troubled. There seems to be an unearthed sense of ailment that has affected everyone in the world. There is much discontent at the decisions that the pallbearers of this world are taking. There are lives lost over reasons that are difficult to comprehend. Anarchy is being touted as patriotism. Narrow divisions amongst ourselves are being widened like a gash carved on the face of an innocent child. I sense that the world is headed for divisions. There is a fragmented partition of those who demand action from greater powers and the others who do not want the powers to control their lives. This is not an issue that is domestic to any particular country, but stands true for all of mankind. We are victim of crimes that we commit. We kill and are being killed. We try to bridge divisions but are also confining ourselves into narrower walls. We exist and still are forgotten. We have deprived ourselves from the basic tenets that ameliorate us.
Anger wells in the streets in a foreign land. There are scores that are killed in riots. Our lives continue without even a momentary reflection on our fellow species. We concern ourselves more with the superficial clothing of a commercial pageant winner. We theorize over her ethnic group, her lineage and her religion. Some among us proclaim it as a victory and a statement supporting the plaques of diversity and there are some amongst us who lament the rise of political correctness and suffice it with conspiracy theories. Political Correctness? You reduce your existence to a reflective output feeding off the flourishing designs of the fourth estate and claim to be of significance. Do we not realize that what matters to our existence are not such trivial pursuits but awakening from this trance. We do not, we do not even try.
The visions in my head are now fading away slowly. My brief anger slowly subsides and is now drowned in the clear waters of fatigue. I sit morosely, realizing that I too belong to those who were deprived. The only difference is that I am struggling to free myself from these powerful clutches. My ramblings may not be extremely reflective but are still relevant to my disposition. They stand testimony to my fervent attempts at sensing a larger role for me. Whether I ever achieve that role is but to be awaited.
I am purging myself of the thoughts and the vague forms that flash inside my head. These flashes are like dim lights, in a miserable lounge, masking the faces of all the patrons in an attempt to cloak their emotions. The face is the most reflective mirror of all and it becomes a goblet brimming with our inner self, overflowing with our secrets and our deepest thoughts. My deepest thoughts overflow from this goblet and drip callously onto the floor emanating whiffs of an acidic silence. The aroma captivates me, drowns me and yet in a strange manner, liberates me.
Often, I find myself caught reflecting upon the giant wheels that turn moving this great civilization forward. Countless stories spin around in this giant vortex of information, casting visions of the world as it being shaped. I read them and I find myself greatly troubled. There seems to be an unearthed sense of ailment that has affected everyone in the world. There is much discontent at the decisions that the pallbearers of this world are taking. There are lives lost over reasons that are difficult to comprehend. Anarchy is being touted as patriotism. Narrow divisions amongst ourselves are being widened like a gash carved on the face of an innocent child. I sense that the world is headed for divisions. There is a fragmented partition of those who demand action from greater powers and the others who do not want the powers to control their lives. This is not an issue that is domestic to any particular country, but stands true for all of mankind. We are victim of crimes that we commit. We kill and are being killed. We try to bridge divisions but are also confining ourselves into narrower walls. We exist and still are forgotten. We have deprived ourselves from the basic tenets that ameliorate us.
Anger wells in the streets in a foreign land. There are scores that are killed in riots. Our lives continue without even a momentary reflection on our fellow species. We concern ourselves more with the superficial clothing of a commercial pageant winner. We theorize over her ethnic group, her lineage and her religion. Some among us proclaim it as a victory and a statement supporting the plaques of diversity and there are some amongst us who lament the rise of political correctness and suffice it with conspiracy theories. Political Correctness? You reduce your existence to a reflective output feeding off the flourishing designs of the fourth estate and claim to be of significance. Do we not realize that what matters to our existence are not such trivial pursuits but awakening from this trance. We do not, we do not even try.
The visions in my head are now fading away slowly. My brief anger slowly subsides and is now drowned in the clear waters of fatigue. I sit morosely, realizing that I too belong to those who were deprived. The only difference is that I am struggling to free myself from these powerful clutches. My ramblings may not be extremely reflective but are still relevant to my disposition. They stand testimony to my fervent attempts at sensing a larger role for me. Whether I ever achieve that role is but to be awaited.
The Advent of Futility
The rite of the everyday arrived today with an abrupt force reminding me of the rigidity of life. There is an incessant cycle of existence that is defined by a routine that never fails to exhaust. There will always be the weekend and there will always be the Monday. I will not pretend to be one of the many who lament the arrival of this despised event, mainly because that reaction appears too commonplace in our lives. Too many of us work at jobs that we don’t like and too many of us complain without failure. Frankly, the entire process reminds me of the futility of life.
Am I to be a nameless blade of grass in this evergreen expanse of lawns that always conform to an established tradition? Is my existence so utterly devoid of perseverance that I will, for the rest of my life hate one day of the week? People who choose to associate themselves with this thought process forget that we are essentially who we aspire to be. If we wake up in the morning and proceed with our rudimentary lives with a sense of resignation we destroy a small part of ourselves everyday. We accept defeat even before facing battle.
I don’t proclaim to be a saint. I am not any different from the sea of people that pass me by as I walk these crowded streets. I am also part of the entire system of resignation. I wallow in futility not wanting to escape or own up to my actions. Today I realize that what differentiates me from the nameless faces around is a sense of awareness. I am aware of my plight and of all those around. I realize that in order to change the fabrics of your definition, you have to stand up and proclaim divergence from futility.
My day started and departed in a hasted frenzy. I fought my battles with vigor and determination. I won some and also lost a few. What was lost was not important and nor were the victories. What mattered was me standing up and fighting. The Advent of futility was met with defiance. As the moonlight falls upon me, lulling me into a warm surrender, I drift onto lands fabricated with the tiny grains of the sandman. The Battles for the night are only just beginning.
Am I to be a nameless blade of grass in this evergreen expanse of lawns that always conform to an established tradition? Is my existence so utterly devoid of perseverance that I will, for the rest of my life hate one day of the week? People who choose to associate themselves with this thought process forget that we are essentially who we aspire to be. If we wake up in the morning and proceed with our rudimentary lives with a sense of resignation we destroy a small part of ourselves everyday. We accept defeat even before facing battle.
I don’t proclaim to be a saint. I am not any different from the sea of people that pass me by as I walk these crowded streets. I am also part of the entire system of resignation. I wallow in futility not wanting to escape or own up to my actions. Today I realize that what differentiates me from the nameless faces around is a sense of awareness. I am aware of my plight and of all those around. I realize that in order to change the fabrics of your definition, you have to stand up and proclaim divergence from futility.
My day started and departed in a hasted frenzy. I fought my battles with vigor and determination. I won some and also lost a few. What was lost was not important and nor were the victories. What mattered was me standing up and fighting. The Advent of futility was met with defiance. As the moonlight falls upon me, lulling me into a warm surrender, I drift onto lands fabricated with the tiny grains of the sandman. The Battles for the night are only just beginning.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Minutes Before Midnight
A restless midnight dies down to give birth to a new day, a day which holds plenty of promise. It’s a day that is anticipated by millions of the workforce with bated breath. The tired craziness of the weekday is tolerated only due to the promise of today, Saturday, a workforce soldier's reward for leading a life of discipline and courage.
This Saturday is different. I wake up with the entire day ahead of me but with no tasks on hand. It’s a luxury that is priceless and extremely gratifying. Lifetimes are spent in leading lives that conform to the rules set by others. We wake up each morning and go to jobs that we do not like and be nice to people who we don't like. Our expectation for this life is that after 5 days of relentless surrender, we should be rewarded with a couple of days to ourselves. Two days, where the rules are set by US. No tasks, no duties but a calm surrender to the numbness of nothingness.
This day was the same, Blankness on my mind and a book in my hand and the sun tricking down through the skylight in the living room, Perfection.
As has become a weekly routine, I was itching to make my way to the bookstore. It’s a pilgrimage that I make every week to a used bookstore. Whiffs of decaying papyrus make their way into my stomach as I walk through mountains of book stacks. It’s an indulgence that I cannot abandon. I go there every week to find which books are now on the clearance section. Then I purchase them and with great ecstasy, arrange them into my bookshelf. I started about a year ago and I now have about two hundred books. I travel regularly, often a great distance. The rewards are precious and the risks minimal. Such was also the case on this day; I obtained some valuable books after bartering it with worthless clunks of silver, more popularly referred to as money. Money in exchange for dreams and a surreal experience that will change you, a good deal I think.
Of course, I have probably not read more than a few handfuls but the thought of their presence amidst my surrounding has a calming effect on me. I derive intelligence by knowing that I have Faulkner residing in my house. Steinbeck has also found a home. These eminent authors are surrounded by various other literary stalwarts. Ernest Hemmingway lives here and so does Tennyson. These are residents of homes that are formed with thoughts towards literary rewards. We treasure these books because they comfort us and they reward us with knowledge of stories and lives that exist in different dimensions. They also help in shaping our philosophies and our values. We read about the consciousness of many protagonists and question our own. And cloaked amidst all these questions are daggers that carve the men and women that we become for the rest of our lives.
The rest of the day passes by with an uneventful haste. Minutes pass by intermixed with talks and words that are exchanged with others who live around me. Words those are not substantial and definitely not constructed without any ulterior motives. These are words of casual surrender, words that act as tenuous strings designed to hold relationships together. These do not demand a lot in their construction but do require their birth. You cannot expect the bonds of relation to last in the stormy weathers of life without any reinforcement. Words are our reinforcements against each other. They give us comfort and can also cause great pain. Like fire, formed to essentially help us live but can perish us when used incorrectly and without regard.
The moon rises and extracts the light from the world around me. I hear sounds of sickness that have affected the mother and thereby myself. I am reduced to making unpleasant sounds which I expect, with some futility to alleviate my suffering. How does one fall prey to the hostile whims of the body? Where do all our defenses disappear to and leave us standing naked in the midst of deadly storms. Each moment passes by asking me the same question. I stand witness to a day born and quickly killed. All that was lost and gained was a feeling of absence, Absence of meaning and absence of satisfaction. The body lulls into derision and the wounds left on my life and suddenly forgotten in the shattering rings of the last few minutes left before midnight.
This Saturday is different. I wake up with the entire day ahead of me but with no tasks on hand. It’s a luxury that is priceless and extremely gratifying. Lifetimes are spent in leading lives that conform to the rules set by others. We wake up each morning and go to jobs that we do not like and be nice to people who we don't like. Our expectation for this life is that after 5 days of relentless surrender, we should be rewarded with a couple of days to ourselves. Two days, where the rules are set by US. No tasks, no duties but a calm surrender to the numbness of nothingness.
This day was the same, Blankness on my mind and a book in my hand and the sun tricking down through the skylight in the living room, Perfection.
As has become a weekly routine, I was itching to make my way to the bookstore. It’s a pilgrimage that I make every week to a used bookstore. Whiffs of decaying papyrus make their way into my stomach as I walk through mountains of book stacks. It’s an indulgence that I cannot abandon. I go there every week to find which books are now on the clearance section. Then I purchase them and with great ecstasy, arrange them into my bookshelf. I started about a year ago and I now have about two hundred books. I travel regularly, often a great distance. The rewards are precious and the risks minimal. Such was also the case on this day; I obtained some valuable books after bartering it with worthless clunks of silver, more popularly referred to as money. Money in exchange for dreams and a surreal experience that will change you, a good deal I think.
Of course, I have probably not read more than a few handfuls but the thought of their presence amidst my surrounding has a calming effect on me. I derive intelligence by knowing that I have Faulkner residing in my house. Steinbeck has also found a home. These eminent authors are surrounded by various other literary stalwarts. Ernest Hemmingway lives here and so does Tennyson. These are residents of homes that are formed with thoughts towards literary rewards. We treasure these books because they comfort us and they reward us with knowledge of stories and lives that exist in different dimensions. They also help in shaping our philosophies and our values. We read about the consciousness of many protagonists and question our own. And cloaked amidst all these questions are daggers that carve the men and women that we become for the rest of our lives.
The rest of the day passes by with an uneventful haste. Minutes pass by intermixed with talks and words that are exchanged with others who live around me. Words those are not substantial and definitely not constructed without any ulterior motives. These are words of casual surrender, words that act as tenuous strings designed to hold relationships together. These do not demand a lot in their construction but do require their birth. You cannot expect the bonds of relation to last in the stormy weathers of life without any reinforcement. Words are our reinforcements against each other. They give us comfort and can also cause great pain. Like fire, formed to essentially help us live but can perish us when used incorrectly and without regard.
The moon rises and extracts the light from the world around me. I hear sounds of sickness that have affected the mother and thereby myself. I am reduced to making unpleasant sounds which I expect, with some futility to alleviate my suffering. How does one fall prey to the hostile whims of the body? Where do all our defenses disappear to and leave us standing naked in the midst of deadly storms. Each moment passes by asking me the same question. I stand witness to a day born and quickly killed. All that was lost and gained was a feeling of absence, Absence of meaning and absence of satisfaction. The body lulls into derision and the wounds left on my life and suddenly forgotten in the shattering rings of the last few minutes left before midnight.
The Balance of the World
I woke up in the morning with a deficient feeling of wakefulness. Time ceased to exist and all that was lost was forgotten and in a different era. The souls that screech out towards the heavens announced a paean of a lusty and hurried ingratitude. In the realms of all that connects us with the elements of our surroundings lay fragmented strands that sow us into harmony. I was lost in the nightly bliss of sin and pleasures of sleep for moments not short enough to remember but longer than most would ascertain. I had failed to realize the effect of a good night's sleep. It is heavenly, and I woke up with a restored mind raring to exist for another day.
The day is a Sunday and is a mixture of sadness and happiness, Happiness at the prospects of indulging in some casual moments of unity with the soul, and sadness due to the ominous foretelling of the days to come. Truly, this day is one that complicates the concept of pleasure and relaxation. The feeling is similar to what a man on death row would feel if he was told that he could have one day of freedom during which he could do whatever he wanted, but would be killed the next day. My freedom is similar. For each one of us today is a day of freedom marred by the thoughts of tomorrow. Once again, we soldiers of routine will be thrust back into battle. Wars will be fought in the business world and existences would be forgotten and realized in the infinitesimally small blimps of the world. But let me leave that conversation for another day. Lets make today about Today.
So wakefulness greets me with a cheerful smile and embraces me with warmth. The body is still weak, drained of the energy by the relentless attack of the bacteria. It’s a harrowing and daunting battle. Little do we realize of the effects of the tiniest of organisms in life. Bacteria, an organism that exists in a miniature world unseen by our naked eyes. But unseen is not unborn. Because invisible to all those around thrives a different dimension of existence. Millions, no Billions of tiny organisms are born, multiply and die in seconds. One such bacterium, a definite relative of the common cold had decided to be an unwelcome guest. He has weakened my body but has yet to have an effect on the soul. My free soul on this free day will not let mere bodily dysfunction affect its disposition.
The day progresses with a startling pace, I look at all that surrounds me and make mental notes of actions to be taken and reactions to be expected. The blanket of greenery that adorns the backyard and the front yard screams for attention. I look at it and am aware of its suffering but still do not attend to it. Procrastination is the virtue of the tired and downtrodden souls and I am the same. I will attend to the grass when its time arrives. It’s close though, and I realize my folly, but that time is not today. I have never had a yard and such work is alien to me, somewhat similar to the unworked that get thrown into the fires of a new task and fight their way out of it. Such tasks which demand close attention are not ones that I enjoy and do not necessarily entertain. But every moment has a un-moment, the exact opposite of existence that seeks to negate the positive and negatives in life. It is a structured balance established by the artists who have shaped our world. We exist as mere puppets dancing to the strings pulled by a force that is not understood by us, but definitely not ignored. Hence unwritten laws are followed and spoken rules are broken in defiance. Hence the grass will be attended to, the thirsty plants will be quenched and some who pine with hunger will be fed with mounds of corpuscular nutrition. This is our world and our burden, which we will attend to. I live in this playground and therefore will follow the rules established. The casual freedom that I have been rewarded with comes with certain preconditions. It is my small allowance for playing a role in the grandness of our existence, the balance of the world.
The day is a Sunday and is a mixture of sadness and happiness, Happiness at the prospects of indulging in some casual moments of unity with the soul, and sadness due to the ominous foretelling of the days to come. Truly, this day is one that complicates the concept of pleasure and relaxation. The feeling is similar to what a man on death row would feel if he was told that he could have one day of freedom during which he could do whatever he wanted, but would be killed the next day. My freedom is similar. For each one of us today is a day of freedom marred by the thoughts of tomorrow. Once again, we soldiers of routine will be thrust back into battle. Wars will be fought in the business world and existences would be forgotten and realized in the infinitesimally small blimps of the world. But let me leave that conversation for another day. Lets make today about Today.
So wakefulness greets me with a cheerful smile and embraces me with warmth. The body is still weak, drained of the energy by the relentless attack of the bacteria. It’s a harrowing and daunting battle. Little do we realize of the effects of the tiniest of organisms in life. Bacteria, an organism that exists in a miniature world unseen by our naked eyes. But unseen is not unborn. Because invisible to all those around thrives a different dimension of existence. Millions, no Billions of tiny organisms are born, multiply and die in seconds. One such bacterium, a definite relative of the common cold had decided to be an unwelcome guest. He has weakened my body but has yet to have an effect on the soul. My free soul on this free day will not let mere bodily dysfunction affect its disposition.
The day progresses with a startling pace, I look at all that surrounds me and make mental notes of actions to be taken and reactions to be expected. The blanket of greenery that adorns the backyard and the front yard screams for attention. I look at it and am aware of its suffering but still do not attend to it. Procrastination is the virtue of the tired and downtrodden souls and I am the same. I will attend to the grass when its time arrives. It’s close though, and I realize my folly, but that time is not today. I have never had a yard and such work is alien to me, somewhat similar to the unworked that get thrown into the fires of a new task and fight their way out of it. Such tasks which demand close attention are not ones that I enjoy and do not necessarily entertain. But every moment has a un-moment, the exact opposite of existence that seeks to negate the positive and negatives in life. It is a structured balance established by the artists who have shaped our world. We exist as mere puppets dancing to the strings pulled by a force that is not understood by us, but definitely not ignored. Hence unwritten laws are followed and spoken rules are broken in defiance. Hence the grass will be attended to, the thirsty plants will be quenched and some who pine with hunger will be fed with mounds of corpuscular nutrition. This is our world and our burden, which we will attend to. I live in this playground and therefore will follow the rules established. The casual freedom that I have been rewarded with comes with certain preconditions. It is my small allowance for playing a role in the grandness of our existence, the balance of the world.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Musings of a Wanderer
Diminutive and stoical silence transcends around me. I wait for moments aplenty staring into the glaring silence of my computer screen. A plethora of thoughts slosh inside me waiting for me to sketch them out. Unfortunately, I am at a loss. Not a loss akin to the vagrant wanderers on nameless streets, not a loss akin to the absence of meaning to the depressed soul, but a loss that an artist feels when he runs out of canvas paper. I am an artist who ran out of canvas paper.
Writing has always been easy. From Infancy, I have found comfort in the flat stiffness of paper and solace in holding a blunted pencil scribbling away my thoughts. Writing has always been cathartic; it helps me unwind and helps me brood over my own thoughts and observe them from a distance. Writers have always done this; we transport ourselves to a different dimension and reflect on this current one. These reflections can be refined and some can be extremely erratic. My thoughts have often been the latter.
I have often been faced with a peculiar conundrum when asked to define myself. Am I really a writer? What have I written recently and more importantly, are my writings of any substance. Well, I take a pen or pencil and I write words and that should be enough evidence to qualify me as a writer. I do not feel ashamed to label myself as such and moreover do not feel dishonest. But if you ask me whether my writings have been substantial enough, I would be faced with a harsh reality, the brevity of which weights down my confidence in declaring my identity.
You see, my writings are not really writings, but more a pondering rambles of my state of mind. If I feel elated, my writings reflect a brightness and elation that would be difficult to ignore. However, if I am despondent or melancholic, my writings transform and change into a different beast. They transform themselves into monsters and beasts, each foretelling a story soaked in a different mood. I used this to my advantage, writing erratic and refined stories mired in tradition and besought with all the dreams that I had left untold. From my youth, I had a natural inclination towards masking my thoughts and ideas. I liked to maintain a mysticism about myself and being reticent helped considerably. The childhood was also marred with stories that I did not wish to retell anyone but also wanted not to forget lest I find myself repeating the same errors. Hence was born the Poetic sentence and my baptism into Poetry.
I am not a natural Poet; I have never studied the forms and the structures of this glorious style of story telling. I do not know the difference between a quartet and a sonnet. But still, I have written poetry my entire youth and through most of my adult life. I find an incredible ease in twisting a basic idea and presenting it in a new format. I wrote poems about sorrow, about love and also about all that was lost in life. This gave me a great source of pleasure. I could finally not hide under the mask of a writer. I could strip all artificiality from my skin and expose my true identity, I was a poet, Well, I still am a poet.
Poetry has a infinity to it that is hard to describe. You take a basic story and you cloak it in words and retell it in a voice that is distinct and omnipotent. This had a lasting effect on my writing. I became extremely verbose and started expanding basic sentences. Of course, this had a lasting effect, both positive and negative. The positive effect was that my language skills improved considerably. I began to develop a voracious appetite for the literature. I began devouring words and works about words continuously. It was a rewarding experience, the basis of which defines my existence to this very date. The negative effect was that my literary skills became confined in the narrow walls of poetry. I couldn’t write a sentence without reflecting on the veracity of its literary content. This has to change.
The past few months have been a revelation. I have emerged from my own shadows and discovered myself in ways that I did not know exist. I have begun to write more often and produced works of a more potent poetic quality. However, I wish to write a more current and relevant body of work, because despite its beauty, poetry is largely confined to the tired minds of diminished wanderers. We are gentry of a population yearning to escape the rituals of life and we embrace a craft that is not universally accepted. Being proficient in this should not preclude anyone from embracing a different path. This blog is my attempt at achieving that. I could have done this within the boundaries of my earlier blog, I could have. But my though process was different. I am not working on poetry on this particular canvas. I feel like “dreams for an insomniac” severely constricts me from exploring more adventurous themes. I do not want my work to be judged, especially when its in its infancy and developing. I want to work on honing my writing skills, not in the poetic realm but more in the long form.
This is the first entry in what I hope should be a regular trend. I will try to write more often, creating essays and stories of different lengths and obviously of varied quality. This is a place where my mind, the eternal wanderer will reflect on life in all its glory. It will muse upon stories as varied as the tireless winter is to the glory of the summer sun. It will be my attempt at creating a distinction, in my craft, in my dreams and more importantly, within me.
Writing has always been easy. From Infancy, I have found comfort in the flat stiffness of paper and solace in holding a blunted pencil scribbling away my thoughts. Writing has always been cathartic; it helps me unwind and helps me brood over my own thoughts and observe them from a distance. Writers have always done this; we transport ourselves to a different dimension and reflect on this current one. These reflections can be refined and some can be extremely erratic. My thoughts have often been the latter.
I have often been faced with a peculiar conundrum when asked to define myself. Am I really a writer? What have I written recently and more importantly, are my writings of any substance. Well, I take a pen or pencil and I write words and that should be enough evidence to qualify me as a writer. I do not feel ashamed to label myself as such and moreover do not feel dishonest. But if you ask me whether my writings have been substantial enough, I would be faced with a harsh reality, the brevity of which weights down my confidence in declaring my identity.
You see, my writings are not really writings, but more a pondering rambles of my state of mind. If I feel elated, my writings reflect a brightness and elation that would be difficult to ignore. However, if I am despondent or melancholic, my writings transform and change into a different beast. They transform themselves into monsters and beasts, each foretelling a story soaked in a different mood. I used this to my advantage, writing erratic and refined stories mired in tradition and besought with all the dreams that I had left untold. From my youth, I had a natural inclination towards masking my thoughts and ideas. I liked to maintain a mysticism about myself and being reticent helped considerably. The childhood was also marred with stories that I did not wish to retell anyone but also wanted not to forget lest I find myself repeating the same errors. Hence was born the Poetic sentence and my baptism into Poetry.
I am not a natural Poet; I have never studied the forms and the structures of this glorious style of story telling. I do not know the difference between a quartet and a sonnet. But still, I have written poetry my entire youth and through most of my adult life. I find an incredible ease in twisting a basic idea and presenting it in a new format. I wrote poems about sorrow, about love and also about all that was lost in life. This gave me a great source of pleasure. I could finally not hide under the mask of a writer. I could strip all artificiality from my skin and expose my true identity, I was a poet, Well, I still am a poet.
Poetry has a infinity to it that is hard to describe. You take a basic story and you cloak it in words and retell it in a voice that is distinct and omnipotent. This had a lasting effect on my writing. I became extremely verbose and started expanding basic sentences. Of course, this had a lasting effect, both positive and negative. The positive effect was that my language skills improved considerably. I began to develop a voracious appetite for the literature. I began devouring words and works about words continuously. It was a rewarding experience, the basis of which defines my existence to this very date. The negative effect was that my literary skills became confined in the narrow walls of poetry. I couldn’t write a sentence without reflecting on the veracity of its literary content. This has to change.
The past few months have been a revelation. I have emerged from my own shadows and discovered myself in ways that I did not know exist. I have begun to write more often and produced works of a more potent poetic quality. However, I wish to write a more current and relevant body of work, because despite its beauty, poetry is largely confined to the tired minds of diminished wanderers. We are gentry of a population yearning to escape the rituals of life and we embrace a craft that is not universally accepted. Being proficient in this should not preclude anyone from embracing a different path. This blog is my attempt at achieving that. I could have done this within the boundaries of my earlier blog, I could have. But my though process was different. I am not working on poetry on this particular canvas. I feel like “dreams for an insomniac” severely constricts me from exploring more adventurous themes. I do not want my work to be judged, especially when its in its infancy and developing. I want to work on honing my writing skills, not in the poetic realm but more in the long form.
This is the first entry in what I hope should be a regular trend. I will try to write more often, creating essays and stories of different lengths and obviously of varied quality. This is a place where my mind, the eternal wanderer will reflect on life in all its glory. It will muse upon stories as varied as the tireless winter is to the glory of the summer sun. It will be my attempt at creating a distinction, in my craft, in my dreams and more importantly, within me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)