I have been eyeing on a province lecherously , devising stratagems to annex it but in vain. They say , if I could conquer over it, I shall be all powerful.
The possible outcomes of the annexation are very enticing. I try relentlessly but I reach nowhere.
The subjects of the Province are rather delirious, they have no ruler to administer them. They run astray with no authority to rein them. They go berserk, they go frantic, they go extremes like a wild mad horse running amuck with no one to lasso it.
But, howsoever , deranged they may be, they have a potential immense. If used properly, they could yield wonders. I decided to churn out their potentials , to extract their genius for my favor.
The territory is but a small topographic entity. Howsoever small sized it may be, I can’t give up the avarice to annex it. I want it, anyhow, at any cost.
I have seen its soil. The alluvium is of the most superior quality. If one could irrigate it, it shall yield the best crops, its trees shall be laden with the best fruits…fruits that would be ambrosial in nature. But, I see no one irrigating it. The land stands idle and apparently looks barren. The trees are leafless let alone any fructification. I have decided to reap the benefits of its land. I shall see to the day when its trees shall be borne with Ambrosia.
I dream of the day when I shall pronounce my kingdom ship over the subjects and they shall work under my administration as one being…United... I shall bring about a fraternal brotherhood among them. There shall be no chaos, no speck of disorder and no delirium. There shall be Concordance , Bonhomie and Peace. I shall aspire for the productivity of the highest quality.
The Province has a quite popular name. They call it 'The Mind'
Sunday, 19 February 2012
Friday, 17 February 2012
Is this THE ONE?
I sit in front of this blank piece of paper, rather numb with a wistful desire to ink it with one of those writes that I would be simply penning down but it shall, in actual, be a decree of the Providence…my pen, as if , dictated by some mystic power, shall just run an errand of His.
The pen shall run effortlessly , its ink forming letters , thus words and thus sentences…my pen, as if, possessed by the divine spirit.
I still stare at this piece of paper point blank waiting for His command…my motor senses waiting with baited breath for the time when they would involuntarily lift the pen and start expressing what they have been commanded to.
I write this scrawling while I wait for His decree. His decree shall be far more superior than this filthy thing that I have been writing that makes no sense, whatsoever. After all, how can a low despicable wretch like me, compete with the one who is immaculate, with the one who is invincible, with the progenitor of the Universe, of the galaxy, of the countless stars, of the sun, the planets, the solar system and several such systems that we still have a very inconspicuous idea about, the creator of all that which is still unknown to us, our Father… ?
How could I ever compete with the all pervading, the omnipotent , the omniscient?
The waiting still continues. It’s a long wait indeed. Doubts start arising in my mind regarding if ever I shall be decreed by Him, if ever I shall be bestowed on the privilege to run an errand for Him.
As time passes, my faith in THE DECREE fades. I feel there must be some obstacle between His declaration and my pen. An obstacle equivalent to darkness, to ignorance.
Now, I wait for this darkness to wane. Even the mighty earth waits for the sun’s rays for eight long minutes to illuminate it, can’t I wait for some more time before He illuminates me with His Word?
Meanwhile, I prepare the reservoir in me. I cleanse it. I remove the clutter so as to make space for the Word to ensconce itself comfortably.
Then, all of a sudden, a thought settles in me and sets my mind afire. Thoughts are indeed inflammable. My faith starts forming roots anew with that one last realization that if He is the creator of all, if everything around is His design then that implies that even I am one of His designs, even I have a part of His in me that I need to unearth by digging myself, by delving deeper in the oceans in me.
I come to realize that there is no reason that shall keep me aloof from His divine intervention, of His decree. Its bound to come or may be it has come in the form of this very write that I had previously, so disrespectfully deemed as ‘a filthy scrawling’.
The pen shall run effortlessly , its ink forming letters , thus words and thus sentences…my pen, as if, possessed by the divine spirit.
I still stare at this piece of paper point blank waiting for His command…my motor senses waiting with baited breath for the time when they would involuntarily lift the pen and start expressing what they have been commanded to.
I write this scrawling while I wait for His decree. His decree shall be far more superior than this filthy thing that I have been writing that makes no sense, whatsoever. After all, how can a low despicable wretch like me, compete with the one who is immaculate, with the one who is invincible, with the progenitor of the Universe, of the galaxy, of the countless stars, of the sun, the planets, the solar system and several such systems that we still have a very inconspicuous idea about, the creator of all that which is still unknown to us, our Father… ?
How could I ever compete with the all pervading, the omnipotent , the omniscient?
The waiting still continues. It’s a long wait indeed. Doubts start arising in my mind regarding if ever I shall be decreed by Him, if ever I shall be bestowed on the privilege to run an errand for Him.
As time passes, my faith in THE DECREE fades. I feel there must be some obstacle between His declaration and my pen. An obstacle equivalent to darkness, to ignorance.
Now, I wait for this darkness to wane. Even the mighty earth waits for the sun’s rays for eight long minutes to illuminate it, can’t I wait for some more time before He illuminates me with His Word?
Meanwhile, I prepare the reservoir in me. I cleanse it. I remove the clutter so as to make space for the Word to ensconce itself comfortably.
Then, all of a sudden, a thought settles in me and sets my mind afire. Thoughts are indeed inflammable. My faith starts forming roots anew with that one last realization that if He is the creator of all, if everything around is His design then that implies that even I am one of His designs, even I have a part of His in me that I need to unearth by digging myself, by delving deeper in the oceans in me.
I come to realize that there is no reason that shall keep me aloof from His divine intervention, of His decree. Its bound to come or may be it has come in the form of this very write that I had previously, so disrespectfully deemed as ‘a filthy scrawling’.
Monday, 6 February 2012
Bellum
I heard the clouds rumbling , the sky distraught and overcast. The good old Phoebus too frightened to fight the marching clouds. He hid himself somewhere yet streaks of his golden hair could be seen behind the retinue of clouds , through the cracks in them. Then , slowly, not a single strand of his golden hair could be spotted. The sky was weighing with clouds. Their army in a belligerent mood. They wanted to confront the earth, to beat it with their pouring.
The clouds burst and lightening shrieked and thus ordered its army to attack. It thundered It rained , it rained and the unarmed earth put down slain.
The gusty winds rustled through the trees , assaulted them. The poor ones shuddered in fear.
The clouds announced their victory with one loud deafening roar. I closed my ears as tightly as I could.
The sky couldn’t bear the torment anymore and at once commanded the clouds to cease fire. And, the clouds having drained their belligerence , retracted.
The old Phoebus came out slowly with diffident steps, replacing an obscure murky sky with a lucid blueness.
Phoebus smiled enchantingly .
His golden locks shimmered and a rainbow arched against the vault of the sky.
The clouds burst and lightening shrieked and thus ordered its army to attack. It thundered It rained , it rained and the unarmed earth put down slain.
The gusty winds rustled through the trees , assaulted them. The poor ones shuddered in fear.
The clouds announced their victory with one loud deafening roar. I closed my ears as tightly as I could.
The sky couldn’t bear the torment anymore and at once commanded the clouds to cease fire. And, the clouds having drained their belligerence , retracted.
The old Phoebus came out slowly with diffident steps, replacing an obscure murky sky with a lucid blueness.
Phoebus smiled enchantingly .
His golden locks shimmered and a rainbow arched against the vault of the sky.
Tuesday, 31 January 2012
The Rebel
He was fed up of writing about the skies and the stars, the sun and its rays, the stars and their shine, the night and its solemnity, the morning and its gaiety, the birds and their chirping, the rivers and their gushing, life and its perpetuity.
He was somehow fed up of writing about Life & the living. How could he betray himself when he actually held conviction contrary to what he wrote ! He didn’t wish to stay a hypocrite anymore and the truth was life had exhausted him to an extent that he , in reality, was a weary, wretched person. Life had sucked the marrow out of him.
His words were like mere show pieces…embellished…like filthy trinkets… Others read him and derived a certain pleasure….they reckoned him to be a ‘literary prodigy’. They praised his writes … they said how flawless he was, how fluid his writing was while in reality, he was the only one to know how much he had to struggle, how much he had to shred his soul , how much he had to articulate those ghastly lies to his conscience to come up with an embellished deception that THEY so ardently exalted!
While he mystically and radiantly lauded life in his inscriptions, the one inside him believed Life to be a shroud covering a despicable dead body of his.
But how long could he confine the rebel in him… The one that wanted to break open this catacomb of myth that he had been creating in his pieces ? He ardently waited for the day when he could no longer take the weight of his own lies. He waited for the grand mutiny to happen.
And the obvious did happen.
Once he picked up his pen to begin writing a new piece of mendacity. The pen revolted. The ink dried and so did his soul that could bear the anguish no more. The bitterness of his rotten inside swelled up in the form of the saline tears in his eyes. The drops trickled from his eyes, tumbled down his cheeks to reach his lips and he tasted them.
He tasted his own bitterness, his own excrement, his very own venom and he dropped dead on the paper ! The mutineer in him bellowed, broke open the vault of the carcass and came out with one sudden spurt of his breath through his mouth. He moaned shrilly and closed his eyes.
Who could stop the rebel? It smirked at the dead carcass. It knew it was liberated. It flew away promptly to a region beyond the understanding of an ignorant Euclidean brain.
He was somehow fed up of writing about Life & the living. How could he betray himself when he actually held conviction contrary to what he wrote ! He didn’t wish to stay a hypocrite anymore and the truth was life had exhausted him to an extent that he , in reality, was a weary, wretched person. Life had sucked the marrow out of him.
His words were like mere show pieces…embellished…like filthy trinkets… Others read him and derived a certain pleasure….they reckoned him to be a ‘literary prodigy’. They praised his writes … they said how flawless he was, how fluid his writing was while in reality, he was the only one to know how much he had to struggle, how much he had to shred his soul , how much he had to articulate those ghastly lies to his conscience to come up with an embellished deception that THEY so ardently exalted!
While he mystically and radiantly lauded life in his inscriptions, the one inside him believed Life to be a shroud covering a despicable dead body of his.
But how long could he confine the rebel in him… The one that wanted to break open this catacomb of myth that he had been creating in his pieces ? He ardently waited for the day when he could no longer take the weight of his own lies. He waited for the grand mutiny to happen.
And the obvious did happen.
Once he picked up his pen to begin writing a new piece of mendacity. The pen revolted. The ink dried and so did his soul that could bear the anguish no more. The bitterness of his rotten inside swelled up in the form of the saline tears in his eyes. The drops trickled from his eyes, tumbled down his cheeks to reach his lips and he tasted them.
He tasted his own bitterness, his own excrement, his very own venom and he dropped dead on the paper ! The mutineer in him bellowed, broke open the vault of the carcass and came out with one sudden spurt of his breath through his mouth. He moaned shrilly and closed his eyes.
Who could stop the rebel? It smirked at the dead carcass. It knew it was liberated. It flew away promptly to a region beyond the understanding of an ignorant Euclidean brain.
Wednesday, 18 January 2012
When parenthood needs a child like nurture
Neera’s eyes were glued to her son’s cherubic countenance. Anirban, her son, was engrossed with his sand castle… He diligently mounded sand, tried to give it a castle like shape... With his little hands, he kept heaping sand to make it larger and bigger.
Neera thought how guileless he was. Anirban , didn’t know that his castle was ephemeral. He had no clue that the slightest wave of the sea would demolish it, leaving not even the smallest trace of it. He thought it would last forever and that he would visit it everyday and heap more sand to it to make it larger than before.
For a moment, Neera felt if she could stop the sea , raise a wall to protect her son’s castle from its waves. She knew, how disappointed Anirban would be to see the sea devouring his prized belonging. She didn’t want to see a tear in his eyes. She wanted to take him away, before a wave could perish his creation.
Anirban, caught his mother’s sight. He smiled at her and resumed his work again. She felt a warmth in her heart to see her child smiling. She wanted time to stop forever for she never wanted him to grow up. She wanted to treasure that very moment, she wished if he could continue building the castle and she could keep watching him, happily engrossed in his work forever. She wanted his innocence never to fade away... She wanted him in her bosom at that very moment… She wanted him to stay far, far away from the cudgels of time, from the brutalities of the world, from the harsh realities of life. She wanted to savor that very moment when life’s race appeared to take halt and everything was as tranquil as the sea.
While she thought about such things that were beyond the scope of practicality, she heard him calling her.
“Mumma , mumma, how does my castle look?”
She fervently exclaimed, “Beautiful!”
She went to him, stroked his hair and kissed his cheeks.
He felt rewarded. He thought his efforts have been paid. He hugged his mother tightly.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sea, seemed to look at the castle, with a devouring hunger. Its waves, like raven claws, relentlessly endeavored to pounce on it. It continued to eat away the castle little by little and then the sea, with one lashing wave, annihilated the entire structure. The sand heap fell decapitated and was entirely pulverized. The sinister wave, after satiating its evil hunger, retracted, as if its contrivance had been successfully executed.
Anirban, witnessed it all and so did Neera. She felt her heart torn asunder. She saw a tear drop trickling from her son’s eyes. He rubbed it soon, however.
“Lets go Ani”, she said in a mellowed voice.
“Why are you sad, Mamma? I would make you a stronger castle tomorrow.”
Pointing with his little fingers at a place where the waves were not creeping in, he remarked “I shall make it there and the waves won’t be able to touch it.”
He smiled at her consolingly, reassured her that nothing had been lost.
She kept gazing at him. She wondered, “Perhaps, he is growing up. Perhaps, it’s me who is relying on him. Perhaps, time doesn’t always decay things.”
He took her hands and she grabbed his little fingers.
She found herself guided by him all the way to their home.
Neera thought how guileless he was. Anirban , didn’t know that his castle was ephemeral. He had no clue that the slightest wave of the sea would demolish it, leaving not even the smallest trace of it. He thought it would last forever and that he would visit it everyday and heap more sand to it to make it larger than before.
For a moment, Neera felt if she could stop the sea , raise a wall to protect her son’s castle from its waves. She knew, how disappointed Anirban would be to see the sea devouring his prized belonging. She didn’t want to see a tear in his eyes. She wanted to take him away, before a wave could perish his creation.
Anirban, caught his mother’s sight. He smiled at her and resumed his work again. She felt a warmth in her heart to see her child smiling. She wanted time to stop forever for she never wanted him to grow up. She wanted to treasure that very moment, she wished if he could continue building the castle and she could keep watching him, happily engrossed in his work forever. She wanted his innocence never to fade away... She wanted him in her bosom at that very moment… She wanted him to stay far, far away from the cudgels of time, from the brutalities of the world, from the harsh realities of life. She wanted to savor that very moment when life’s race appeared to take halt and everything was as tranquil as the sea.
While she thought about such things that were beyond the scope of practicality, she heard him calling her.
“Mumma , mumma, how does my castle look?”
She fervently exclaimed, “Beautiful!”
She went to him, stroked his hair and kissed his cheeks.
He felt rewarded. He thought his efforts have been paid. He hugged his mother tightly.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sea, seemed to look at the castle, with a devouring hunger. Its waves, like raven claws, relentlessly endeavored to pounce on it. It continued to eat away the castle little by little and then the sea, with one lashing wave, annihilated the entire structure. The sand heap fell decapitated and was entirely pulverized. The sinister wave, after satiating its evil hunger, retracted, as if its contrivance had been successfully executed.
Anirban, witnessed it all and so did Neera. She felt her heart torn asunder. She saw a tear drop trickling from her son’s eyes. He rubbed it soon, however.
“Lets go Ani”, she said in a mellowed voice.
“Why are you sad, Mamma? I would make you a stronger castle tomorrow.”
Pointing with his little fingers at a place where the waves were not creeping in, he remarked “I shall make it there and the waves won’t be able to touch it.”
He smiled at her consolingly, reassured her that nothing had been lost.
She kept gazing at him. She wondered, “Perhaps, he is growing up. Perhaps, it’s me who is relying on him. Perhaps, time doesn’t always decay things.”
He took her hands and she grabbed his little fingers.
She found herself guided by him all the way to their home.
Saturday, 7 January 2012
After a long hiatus
Hey Word!
Its been long since we last had our clandestine tryst. I won’t say that I missed you… You never were a necessity as such but you lend me a meaning and make a part of me complete. The intercourses that we have had have always left me wanting for more. You have always implanted in me a lust that I had to satiate somehow. Today, after days of practicing celibacy, I could resist myself no more and here I am once again, to have a grand communion with you.
During your absence, I read , I reflected, I meditated, I principled and even transgressed those principles. I continuously underwent the change. The learning and unlearning in me kept happening. Some life changing events happened during this course. I got a ‘job’ that the world hankers after. I sometimes wonder, I got something that I know no value of. I tried to be happy.
I was happy when I thought about my loved ones. I wasn’t quite happy (wasn’t sad either) when I thought of me. Did I actually want this? I am yet to find an answer.
Mind and its perpetual quandary. May I release myself for a while from this cage of confusion? Yes, I must for life is way beyond the crossroads that it puts us at or the TWO choices that it presents before us.
I have been reading ‘Walden’ by Thoreau. Every sentence that I understand, my consciousness voices that ‘This is how a perfect life is built.’ Thoreau was a man of true genius and he devised his way to a perfect transcendental life.
Thoreau and Nature are one and the same. Nature being unable to vociferate her feelings, Thoreau voices them. Thoreau is Nature’s vocal cord.
I want to visit Walden once to let Thoreau seep in me through every pore in my body. Walden or any other place of such exemplary beauty, of such panoramic landscape , of such virgin purity, of such reflective divinity. Through the book, I have pictured Walden in my mind. A Walden where solitude speaks, where silence reverberates, where a mind is at its most active state, where happiness is tangible, where life metamorphoses into eternity, where time takes a halt, where age and senility never cast their dark somber clouds.
I want a cottage as Thoreau’s. A cottage where necessity and space complement each other perfectly, a dwelling where Sun’s and Nature’s infringement is highly welcomed, a place where energy is never exhausted and it gets replenished at every moment.
I cannot lead a life as ascetic as that of Thoreau but still I can replicate a meager percentage and imbibe some of his values to improve my life.
Quoting Thoreau , “Most of the luxuries and the so called comforts are not only not indispensible but also a hindrance in the elevation of mankind.” A man can NEVER find solace in property and status. Freedom lies in much simpler items that money cannot buy, that status or power cannot achieve.
When I read Thoreau, I find no pretense in him, no urge in his writes to be read. Those are some prized reflections, something that Thoreau recounts from his experience, from his learning. They are so honest, so rustic and so fresh.
I can well interpret how clear headed Thoreau was. While you read Walden, never for a moment you shall feel dull or depressed. You’ll feel recharged every time. That is Thoreau’s magic. He infuses in the soul a reinvigorated spirit to live, to see life through a different prism.
Walden is a poem, a Nature’s melody that can never become a monotone. A melody that drives you to depths of your inner self or that elevates you to heights unfathomable. Thoreau is a pearl that his book Walden safely caches. While you read Walden, it isn’t necessary that you shall get the Pearl. Thoreau isn’t easy to access , isn’t retrievable but is ever shining. You will be left bedazzled by the Pearl while you explore the Walden. For certain!
Its been long since we last had our clandestine tryst. I won’t say that I missed you… You never were a necessity as such but you lend me a meaning and make a part of me complete. The intercourses that we have had have always left me wanting for more. You have always implanted in me a lust that I had to satiate somehow. Today, after days of practicing celibacy, I could resist myself no more and here I am once again, to have a grand communion with you.
During your absence, I read , I reflected, I meditated, I principled and even transgressed those principles. I continuously underwent the change. The learning and unlearning in me kept happening. Some life changing events happened during this course. I got a ‘job’ that the world hankers after. I sometimes wonder, I got something that I know no value of. I tried to be happy.
I was happy when I thought about my loved ones. I wasn’t quite happy (wasn’t sad either) when I thought of me. Did I actually want this? I am yet to find an answer.
Mind and its perpetual quandary. May I release myself for a while from this cage of confusion? Yes, I must for life is way beyond the crossroads that it puts us at or the TWO choices that it presents before us.
I have been reading ‘Walden’ by Thoreau. Every sentence that I understand, my consciousness voices that ‘This is how a perfect life is built.’ Thoreau was a man of true genius and he devised his way to a perfect transcendental life.
Thoreau and Nature are one and the same. Nature being unable to vociferate her feelings, Thoreau voices them. Thoreau is Nature’s vocal cord.
I want to visit Walden once to let Thoreau seep in me through every pore in my body. Walden or any other place of such exemplary beauty, of such panoramic landscape , of such virgin purity, of such reflective divinity. Through the book, I have pictured Walden in my mind. A Walden where solitude speaks, where silence reverberates, where a mind is at its most active state, where happiness is tangible, where life metamorphoses into eternity, where time takes a halt, where age and senility never cast their dark somber clouds.
I want a cottage as Thoreau’s. A cottage where necessity and space complement each other perfectly, a dwelling where Sun’s and Nature’s infringement is highly welcomed, a place where energy is never exhausted and it gets replenished at every moment.
I cannot lead a life as ascetic as that of Thoreau but still I can replicate a meager percentage and imbibe some of his values to improve my life.
Quoting Thoreau , “Most of the luxuries and the so called comforts are not only not indispensible but also a hindrance in the elevation of mankind.” A man can NEVER find solace in property and status. Freedom lies in much simpler items that money cannot buy, that status or power cannot achieve.
When I read Thoreau, I find no pretense in him, no urge in his writes to be read. Those are some prized reflections, something that Thoreau recounts from his experience, from his learning. They are so honest, so rustic and so fresh.
I can well interpret how clear headed Thoreau was. While you read Walden, never for a moment you shall feel dull or depressed. You’ll feel recharged every time. That is Thoreau’s magic. He infuses in the soul a reinvigorated spirit to live, to see life through a different prism.
Walden is a poem, a Nature’s melody that can never become a monotone. A melody that drives you to depths of your inner self or that elevates you to heights unfathomable. Thoreau is a pearl that his book Walden safely caches. While you read Walden, it isn’t necessary that you shall get the Pearl. Thoreau isn’t easy to access , isn’t retrievable but is ever shining. You will be left bedazzled by the Pearl while you explore the Walden. For certain!
Thursday, 17 November 2011
Did I make sense?
You know, people, on general, are the worst things to get addicted to… they never stay…as a matter of fact, nothing has its permanence in the world… Even if it has, what purpose shall it serve? Above all, even we are not permanent…we are all a collective mass of transience. We are transitory and this world is shaped through our perceptions.
So that implies, even our perceptions about the world are momentary. With us, they too shall fleet away. May be, the perceptions of a few greats among us will remain…they might hold a somewhat firm ground through books, through literature, through handed down philosophies.
No matter how much we philosophize about life and its transience, about attachments and their futilities, we still can’t convince our mind that “we” actually doesn’t exist…its all “I” that is of paramount importance. I am not talking about being selfish…it’s the individual existence that counts… Only! People who we love or rely too much upon shall leave one day… Death is one of the reasons… there are several other reasons too…
Man is a social animal… He is gregarious in nature and he can’t live for long in isolation… But, is there any guarantee that if a man lives in association, he shall stay happier? Is there any validation? No, I suppose…
I have seen or heard about or read about men who hurt themselves equally when in association. There are attachments that man unknowingly forms and attachments do not always work in expected ways… They work unexpectedly ..
Unexpected things may not be always pleasant.
Why do we hold on to memories? Memories are the remains of something long dead…they are barely some redundant remnants of a whole that had its presence in the past. Clinging to memories is another futile activity that we subject ourselves to. However, can we live devoid of memories? Can we live entirely for “the present” and let the bygone things be matters of the oblivion? No, I suppose.
Unknowingly, there are some futile things that we do to impart meanings to our life. Sometimes, these insignificant things form the basic foundation of life. Does being “Pragmatic” always make sense? To see practically, is it always wise to be wise, to be prudent, to be pragmatic? Had it been so, we would have never clung to memories or held on to people who were deemed to leave us … But, we still do no matter how much pragmatism we may advocate.
“Blues and Melancholy” drove me to such a dismal stupor… I blabbered something that I have no idea about… I retched… I am relieved!
So that implies, even our perceptions about the world are momentary. With us, they too shall fleet away. May be, the perceptions of a few greats among us will remain…they might hold a somewhat firm ground through books, through literature, through handed down philosophies.
No matter how much we philosophize about life and its transience, about attachments and their futilities, we still can’t convince our mind that “we” actually doesn’t exist…its all “I” that is of paramount importance. I am not talking about being selfish…it’s the individual existence that counts… Only! People who we love or rely too much upon shall leave one day… Death is one of the reasons… there are several other reasons too…
Man is a social animal… He is gregarious in nature and he can’t live for long in isolation… But, is there any guarantee that if a man lives in association, he shall stay happier? Is there any validation? No, I suppose…
I have seen or heard about or read about men who hurt themselves equally when in association. There are attachments that man unknowingly forms and attachments do not always work in expected ways… They work unexpectedly ..
Unexpected things may not be always pleasant.
Why do we hold on to memories? Memories are the remains of something long dead…they are barely some redundant remnants of a whole that had its presence in the past. Clinging to memories is another futile activity that we subject ourselves to. However, can we live devoid of memories? Can we live entirely for “the present” and let the bygone things be matters of the oblivion? No, I suppose.
Unknowingly, there are some futile things that we do to impart meanings to our life. Sometimes, these insignificant things form the basic foundation of life. Does being “Pragmatic” always make sense? To see practically, is it always wise to be wise, to be prudent, to be pragmatic? Had it been so, we would have never clung to memories or held on to people who were deemed to leave us … But, we still do no matter how much pragmatism we may advocate.
“Blues and Melancholy” drove me to such a dismal stupor… I blabbered something that I have no idea about… I retched… I am relieved!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)