September 2, 2010 § 7 Comments
For the last few months, I’ve been exerting myself. Towards producing objective view-points and making a meaning out of my writing. That seems futile though. The more I write from that stand-point, the more I’m pushed down the slope of undeserved expectations. Not only that, I tend to be more stressed, angry and at times, frustrated at refused space or unqualified criticism from other quarters.
The only solution I can think of right now it to take a break. Right now, I miss so much so terribly that it becomes a living illusion at times. Starting into empty space, I can see boats lying by dark castles on low tides, men hiding by the boats, silently embracing the truth of their defeats; scenes from back-yard of mud-houses, a reigning eve making it a greyish brown musk and I playing quietly, all by myself; a faint memory of laden mango trees and happy cackles in the orchard. Perhaps it’s not a tad bit loss to bargain childhood for everything.
Some times, I wish I could simply lie under the bare sky and make wishes over shooting stars. And I could stay like that forever. That reminds me of a childhood occasion when I ventured to spend a night on the bare roof with a piece of cloth and a pillow. Back then, it was the pinnacle of bravado. Today, I’d give a lot just to get a few moments in that feeling. Solitude still is something I cherish most. And it still is something I afford least. Our choices are so limited in their freedom that they really are no choices. They are pre-planned, pre-decided fates handed over to us and we are mere acting pantomimes. A few years ago you’d have met a highly optimistic being in my place who’d never have accepted this statement. A few years down the lane, and I’m forced to admit the validity of it.
But maybe, there are still choices that can be made. I wonder if everything could be abandoned at any point in life and we be permitted to take a different course altogether. The nomadic gypsy-lust is such strong at moments that I feel like losing myself on the steppes in those far-away lands. Purpose or no purpose, vastness and granduer shrivels the fear insignificance of being creates. And beauty only adds a faint hope to it. When all is lost, it’s best to throw us into something that’s too engaging – or too deep for a careless stupor. Tired, dejected, depressed and entirely lost, I feel like going for this void – that of a random, detached vocation. An undecided, unknown, uncalled-for calling.
Winters are in the coming. I feel something astir in the dim cold that drifts on the north-wind. I hope I’ll have my moments, my time in the silent months. For silence is all I desire for now.