I am tired and spent. Life has whipped me enough and I took the whip from its hands and threw it away. I have this feeling that I am holding back something - something rather intrinsic to my existence. However, beyond the fact that I do know that I am keeping something to myself, I cannot decipher what that something is...
My neck hurts. Probably, it's the travel, probably the manner in which I exercise - the erratic manner in which I count my repetitions is indeed irritating; I must learn to count well...
I am afraid of things happening in quick succession. I worry if I do not follow a schedule and I most willingly start to panic in times of great difficulty. The other day I sat and kept sitting at the computer till 7:30 am and then realized I had a quarter to eight bus to catch. So, I rushed through my socks, shoes, trousers, and walked quickly to the bus stop and made it on time...
I am lying! Good God! Why ever did I lie about the 7:30 am incident? Truth be told, I hardly panic. The feeling is more a thrill than a pang of worry! So I relished the thrill of bordering on being late to work as I kept sitting at the computer till about 7:45 am IST. I did not want to let go of the thrill and yet I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that I must make it to work on all accounts. So, I dressed and then put my shoes on and walked with a relaxed gait to the bus stop. I did not - as I said earlier - sprint to the bus stop. I walked quite slowly.
I really don't understand what made me lie in the second last paragraph. Was it the need to appear the way I am supposed to? Was it because I am habituated to writing about I being in this cute hurry of sorts that is very endearing to all? See? I don't know nor do I understand why I deliberately lied about that account.
I am not sure whether I am lying now as well. What's the world anyway? Just a mass of lies that one faction sees as the gospel truth and the other knows to be a faked reality. Some day, someone might walk up to me, twist my head away from my neck and place it in some jar made of alabaster. Probably the jar might be full of perfume and therein will my head drown - with an intoxicated sense of smell. A smell it couldn't make out when it stayed on my neck and allowed the man or woman to twist it away from my being.
What's life anyway? People walking by, rushing to catch the 7:19 Vasai Road in the morning and then rushing back to the stations to catch the train back! In between these two acts, they have worked, laughed, cried, got jealous, schemed, gossiped, ruined a reputation or two, and have gloated about the ingenuity with which they have done so as well.
Life... It's all about doing something to obtain something that will keep you going back to doing something so that the stock of something you obtain doesn't dwindle away. It hurts my eyes as I begin to see it all fly past me with a fury ingrained in its speed. It's as if that fury were created to spur life on and over boulders of boredom, acres and acres of disinterest, miles of burnt out people who lost the battle with this furiously fast fury, oceans of sadness that just dig deep into the bed that they rest on so as to make way for more to come occupy the waters, and expanses of skies bereft of any colour whatsoever....
It just runs past all this, flies past all of it, swerves around ruthless bends of compromising morals, and jumps over hurdles meant to be dealt with a conscience.
I never seen it stopping anywhere for anyone though its very existence depends on those it has let fall or swept into its path.
I doubt it will ever stop and let the tired winds hovering around it howl to a standstill. I wonder whether it will ever open its eyes and look into the darkness that it has lost track of. I wonder whether it does understand why it has to stop in the first place.
For I remember sitting with it in school.
And I do recollect - very well - that it never made an effort to learn about the period.
My neck hurts. Probably, it's the travel, probably the manner in which I exercise - the erratic manner in which I count my repetitions is indeed irritating; I must learn to count well...
I am afraid of things happening in quick succession. I worry if I do not follow a schedule and I most willingly start to panic in times of great difficulty. The other day I sat and kept sitting at the computer till 7:30 am and then realized I had a quarter to eight bus to catch. So, I rushed through my socks, shoes, trousers, and walked quickly to the bus stop and made it on time...
I am lying! Good God! Why ever did I lie about the 7:30 am incident? Truth be told, I hardly panic. The feeling is more a thrill than a pang of worry! So I relished the thrill of bordering on being late to work as I kept sitting at the computer till about 7:45 am IST. I did not want to let go of the thrill and yet I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that I must make it to work on all accounts. So, I dressed and then put my shoes on and walked with a relaxed gait to the bus stop. I did not - as I said earlier - sprint to the bus stop. I walked quite slowly.
I really don't understand what made me lie in the second last paragraph. Was it the need to appear the way I am supposed to? Was it because I am habituated to writing about I being in this cute hurry of sorts that is very endearing to all? See? I don't know nor do I understand why I deliberately lied about that account.
I am not sure whether I am lying now as well. What's the world anyway? Just a mass of lies that one faction sees as the gospel truth and the other knows to be a faked reality. Some day, someone might walk up to me, twist my head away from my neck and place it in some jar made of alabaster. Probably the jar might be full of perfume and therein will my head drown - with an intoxicated sense of smell. A smell it couldn't make out when it stayed on my neck and allowed the man or woman to twist it away from my being.
What's life anyway? People walking by, rushing to catch the 7:19 Vasai Road in the morning and then rushing back to the stations to catch the train back! In between these two acts, they have worked, laughed, cried, got jealous, schemed, gossiped, ruined a reputation or two, and have gloated about the ingenuity with which they have done so as well.
Life... It's all about doing something to obtain something that will keep you going back to doing something so that the stock of something you obtain doesn't dwindle away. It hurts my eyes as I begin to see it all fly past me with a fury ingrained in its speed. It's as if that fury were created to spur life on and over boulders of boredom, acres and acres of disinterest, miles of burnt out people who lost the battle with this furiously fast fury, oceans of sadness that just dig deep into the bed that they rest on so as to make way for more to come occupy the waters, and expanses of skies bereft of any colour whatsoever....
It just runs past all this, flies past all of it, swerves around ruthless bends of compromising morals, and jumps over hurdles meant to be dealt with a conscience.
I never seen it stopping anywhere for anyone though its very existence depends on those it has let fall or swept into its path.
I doubt it will ever stop and let the tired winds hovering around it howl to a standstill. I wonder whether it will ever open its eyes and look into the darkness that it has lost track of. I wonder whether it does understand why it has to stop in the first place.
For I remember sitting with it in school.
And I do recollect - very well - that it never made an effort to learn about the period.
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