Tag Archives: impermanence

Stream

Breaking out into a wild dance of joy. Thumping desks, mouth wide open in silent laughter. Hair in disarray, the theme is picked up, mutated and carried on. Dreams that won’t stop, reality that goes on. Waves wash a distant shore and the roar in a shell is ignored.  Eyes meet across new media, seas of soup separate. Recognition is fear. Each search leads to shunya, but the quest is a path in itself. Why seek outside yourself? March on, and leaves on trees remain as in August.

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Expt. #3146: Excited!

The key to being happy is not looking forward.

This is not to say that you shouldn’t take time out at points, evaluate where you are and where you are going, and how that matches with what you want to happen. You should. Just not every time you make a small(er) decision or the sun sets, whichever comes first.

You’ve got to live in and enjoy the moment. That is never going to happen if you are constantly falling short of whatever impossible standard you’ve set yourself.

I love introspection. I enjoy talking about it too. But that is a black hole, and I feel that it is my responsibility to only flirt with the event horizon.

So these days I am in a state that I would have, two years ago, called superficial. I worry about the assigned reading, the assignments, the fact that I still haven’t finished a story I have been working on for two months now (forget the editing). But not too much. Instead I throw myself for one hour periods into classes, or research, or camphor-time, or planning-the-week-time during which I create a hard hours schedule that can’t be changed, and soft hour schedule that can, and for that one hour worry and think and love nothing else.

And the result?
I am told I look, sound, and appear more excited and generally happier. I don’t know if I am happier or not: that question prompts introspection and questions along the lines of what-is-happiness; this is not the hour for that.

So I’m declaring this experiment a success.

Shiny!

I remember a glorious time, beautiful, painstakingly wrought. It was not complete, but the foundations were laid and I knew where I was going with it. The story had begun. Then I lost it. After an appropriate period of mourning, I spent forever imagining it and telling everyone who would listen of its beauty. And it grew in the telling, until even in my mind, the pearls were turned to diamonds, the rough edges were smoothed away. Where there was age, I saw comfort. Where there were cracks, I saw character. Everywhere the work of the hammer was softened by memory to the delicate work of a GrandMaster’s chisel.

Today I pulled out that book. Flipped through the pages. Read some of those words that I thought were … just beyond description. And the pages crumbled beneath my fingers, and even my memory turned to dust. The words that remained were painstakingly put together, true. The attempt to be mysterious made them merely opaque. And none of it had the magic I wove into the memory of my beloved.

I found an old “manuscript” today. Needless to say, it makes my dead writing look good.

Slipping on ice

I’m really uncoordinated today. Worried about the tan shoes, pink tank, brown sweater, black coat, giant black bag. It doesn’t go. This irritates me. 

I’ve run out of food in my room, and the wind is somehow cutting through my multicoloured scarf. I’m catching a cold. Hot boy walking next to me is talking, but since he doesn’t have more than two brain cells in his head, it’s easy to tune him out and just look at him. A dimple flashes, and I nod at him. Satified, he natters on. No doubt about the last time he got drunk, or this weekend’s game. Seriously, does no one have stories outside those two?

My career is heading downhill, I can’t seem to hold on. I know nothing, less than nothing, and what I know is probably wrong. Mendel’s laws are overthrown, stupidity is upheld as a virtue, epigenetics and cancer. My horizons are broadening, the land shifts beneath my feet and I am barely keeping my head over the water. Nothing fits right. I’ve hit the dreaded 60kgs. 

The world is changing. I want coffee. No one makes chai here, and I just want to return to the womb. But here I am, sharing personal space with a random guy who has nothing but a few genes and a whole lot of harmones going for him, politely pretend-listening, but really cataloguing everything that isn’t the way it ought to be.

Patch of ice. My head was turned towards the hot guy. On the sidewalk, looking up at a flustered, concerned him, ice below.

I don’t think I have the energy to pick me up again. 

Not quite fiction, but it isn’t all fact either. The boundaries blur.

More Cherry Blossom Obsessions

What should one do when life
slips out through crevices and cracks
1 didn’t know existed?

when there flickers a flame
that as long as it does, burns true?
and within, burns clean through?

when the rock breaks and the
cookie crumbles? : contemplate life —
— cherry blossoms falling?