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.
We are the patches of our parents, teachers, heroes, villains. We’re the quirks we picked up from old friends, habits we learned from family. We’re a little bit of everyone we meet, by being what they want or being what they don’t. We’re touched and moulded and changed by every little thing, some more than others.
Beneath this all there is a pattern to our absorbtion, the things we choose to be. There are influences that are stronger than others, are there not?
We are patterns. We are a legacy of a life lived and a journey undertaken, the final product of an unfolding story.
I’m a bit lost, a bit adrift
Straying along the galaxy
Sleep deprived a little
Working overtime. Yes.
Wondering about loss and pain
and what they mean, really.
How very unfair it is that
some few can drive daggers into hearts &
some have and some lose, but all hurt
What does it matter anyhow?
Nothing is to stay, and maybe just maybe neruda was too full of pain and bitterness to see:
He had her once. He’ll never forget. And for those moments she was only his. You can’t control or be sure of what will happen. Or what happened before. And if ownership is a concept real, then to have had is to have, because you’ll never lose your past unless you choose to.
Or you forget.
I feel like an onion. Every time I turn around, I see a new bit of me, and I am not sure the peeling is comfortable. Why is every little thing a surprise these days? (Don’t tell me I’m growing. … Continue reading
Three years of this blog (and the older one – but it’s like just the one blog to me) have gone past. I’ve blog addiction to no blogging, to a post every other day. I’ve been reading a whole lot more than I’ve been writing. And I had two epiphanies today.
- I don’t know what to do with this web-log. I mean, I’m not really into journals. I’m not very open, and I don’t think I can deal with spilling my guts – even about, say a neat eat-place I found (Tadka, Jayanagar 4th block). So not journal-blog. The poetry has been leaving me feeling a bit exposed and a bit vulnerable. I can’t put up – just can not – the latest I’ve written. The descriptive snapshots are no longer fulfilling. I’m not writing that stuff anymore.The basic problem seems to be that I don’t know what I want to do, except write something. (I’ve joined ScriptFrenzy, btw. I have no doubt it’ll go the NaNoWriMo way – halfway to the finish line and ka-splat!)
- Camphor-the-reader is an illusion. I’ve been re-reading this past month or two, and I realise that my willingness to read stuff has taken a sharpish dip. Familiar territory, here I come. And that scares me. For as long back as I can remember (4th standard, but I don’t remember much before that except school and rain and throwing salt on leeches in Gauwhati) books have been there. Why am I going off my most reliable addiction?
I’m not sure why this is here. Like I said, the journal makes no sense to me. But I think the ultra-organised logical phase is about to hit me again, which means the traditional blogroll may go back up; and the writing will dry up.
EDIT: #2 is no longer valid. I went and started the Amulet of Smarkand, and segued into the Anasi Boys and StarDust and now am reading O! Jerusalem again. And I am writing too much. Mom always said I did things by extremes. Looks like I’m doing too much rather than too little again. And then will come the burn-out phase.
IF hedonism is the avoidance of pain, rather than the pursuit of pleasure, then are those who avoid conflict cowards, hedonists or both?
What would you?
Seek beauty — happiness –,
or avoid pain?
OR seek it,
thinking you would find the path to the temple of pain cathartic?
Or seek naught but live your life as you will or it comes?
… is the process of going up alleys to see if they are blind. – Marston Bates
Still love it, though.