Notes from a Nascent

Many a time when one begins to write- as a young writer one feels like only highlighting all that is wrong with the world. All that is unjust, impure. Dont know who but someone's rightly said that rebellion is the reason any writer ever wrote. For a long time a dear friend of mine told me my writing lacks that anger, that cynicism that comes from having not just lived but faced life. Hell I was immature enough to mark in bold the letters that which I wanted to stress upon- as though I were writing a comic book. I even put smileys where I felt like a smile. Like right now.  I still would not say life has taught me a whole lot. But it has taught me enough to write. And never to stop writing. Here's a tribute to the dear friend who brought me here. To this place. Where my writing feels like my own. 

There comes a time in each of our lives when we must be faced with certain divine truths- That true happiness lies in abandonment, that honesty really is the best policy, that only relationships based on real respect and love would last and not opportunistic ones. These and many others like these make us feel incompetent. Having lived most of our lives on extremely double, short sighted and mean standards we then end up realizing that virtues are called so for a reason. There are thousands of us who try to "modernize" our value systems. But At the helm of things lie certain fundamental truths. And those are the truths that make us who we are. Whether we choose to embrace or ignore them shapes our destiny.
 We live and die with ourselves. We do not have entwined destinies but individual fates. We do not cross paths but walk along or fall behind. We do not carry burdens but pitch for our own material needs. We do not tell truths but justify our lies about our own existence or our roles. We are not arrogant but in denial. We are not humble but bittersweet. We do not cry when we shed tears. We do not smile when we laugh. But we do belong to ourselves. We do...
The only time we are ever really without doubts is when we criticize others. The only time we are ever really happy is when we think we have made it big in out small little worlds. The only lessons we ever try to learn are those that materially benefit us. The only things we buy are those that supposedly "set us apart". When we see each other's pain- we are either too big for it or too small. Never just sad for one another. When we think of death we are only thinking about the death of our own life. Never about the death of love or compassion. Or about the death of beauty.
 We were never the masters of anything save our own desires. And never could we truly master them...

I’ve learned that I am most inspired in moments of uncontrollable sleep, intolerable boredom and anger. Anger with such might as my body cannot hide or contain. Born talentless as I was, I always felt I shan’t ever be able to relish any great works of art. I would defy them. Defile them. I hated those geniuses who created them. For want of just one drop of inspiration, I have gone down on my knees. I lay on that alter, praying for one great moment of creativity. I prayed to be granted one bout of genius, or life be taken away from me. Alas, neither happened. So here I am writing about all I have- my mediocrity. You can never learn how to live with it. Because life shan’t forgive you. Excellence haunts you. Those creatively gifted ones- they talk about me. I have heard their whispers behind my neck. But I have grown up. It was much worse. And that I give the world credit for. In the bushes of my mortality, the experience of personal growth is like undergrowth. Its not very pretty or well shaped- but atleast you can lie down on it. I don’t want to stop. I want to keep writing. For I fear, that if I stop, nothing good would ever come to me. I am liking what I have written so far. And if I stop, this would just be another bit of paper that gets stapled onto the other unconnected bits. It would bring me no fame. It would never get published. I pause now. I want to read what has been written so far. I like it. I feel like reading it over and over again. I read it like a maniac repeats his words and shakes his head. I cant believe myself. I cant wait to gloat.

inventory

I took stock yesterday
Of the things I possess


The earth and all other planets for one
The rest of the space I'm willing to share
The Love of all those I love
The rest of it can go to hell

The watch and bag I spent a load on
The things that make my living room pretty
The spices that make me a good "wife"
My bag of medicines that got us out
Of seeing a doctor in every city of the country

The songs that I played on a friend's party
The songs I sing when I'm nervous
A facebook profile with a few pictures
A broken compass box from school
A few books that I bought without external influence

A set of podgy cheeks
The glass of milk I MUST DRINK
every bloody day
The phones I bought and hated the next week
The newly acquired visciousness
That has kept dogs at bay

The special evening snack I take
The eggs I buy and never eat
The plastic smile that makes the mouth ache
The love of oasis and that of coldplay

The calender that I cannot stand to see
The days that make me age
The life that makes me "live with it"
The love that makes me grow up

There- thats all i own till date
Write that in a will and pass it on
Anybody out there?
Anybody AT ALL who would place a bid?

The volatility of the heart keeps me afloat the sea of love

But my head does go down…

Sometimes in fact, I almost drown.

The waves, the sand all stretch up to the sky,

Listlessly shaking wind and water

I laugh, I cry, I love

Each sound mixes with every other

But beneath and above it all

The sea, The water…

drowning sounds

“The volatility of the heart keeps me afloat the sea of love

But my head does go down…

Sometimes infact, I almost drown.

The waves, the sand all stretch up to the sky,

Listlessly shaking wind and water

I laugh, I cry, I love

Each sound mixes with every other

But beneath and above it all

The sea, The water…”

ILLUSIONS OF SELF

Why did i not say delusion?? Dont know. An illusion paints a picture. It is a sort of an entity physically away from one's body. Almost as if your soul - translucent and similar in form, has stepped away and is looking at your body.

I have learnt recently to not self opinionize. You think you know something and then you realize that knowing it actually makes you a dupe. Claiming that knowledge is like claiming your sweat.

The acceptance of truth is much above anything that you realize, learn or fashion. I am a living being. And that in itself is more difficult to accept and grow with than any other "ascetic wisdom" that i might acquire. No act of abandonment, nor thought of triviality will ever be able to stand against the simple truth. I live.

Triviality is like a gravitation force. It will hold you down but you are most likely to find something more worth while and drift away. A slight push and you attain escape. So all my opinios about myself and here on after- abandoned. Its pointless. One can never trivialize through self judgement...

I live for the game, the cruel, vicious, half discovered circle. I live as a drifter and as a driver, as an absolute and as a relative. I reserve nothing and wait for nothing. I patronize time- nonetheless worship it. I never loose sleep and am always awake. I seek all even when i dont wish to find it. I abandon all despite a small will to retain it. I desire no one and yet i conquer all.

I live in days, count in years, breath in seconds, write in miles.

I die in pounds.

None the Wiser

As i buzz past the lobby i see an old friend being discarded. A very pretty Van Gogh replica. A sketch that he drew of himself in his young years, used to hang in the front lobby of our office. And i would interact with it often. I felt stupid about feeling sad for the painting. Even stupider when i realized i would actually miss it. My father always told us- "never get attached to objects". But as i grew up i realized- more often than people, one gets attached to objects. Hell i could get more easily attached to a calculator that i have used too often than my own neighbour!

Why so? the very obvious answer is continuous proximity. But a more deep seated reason is the unresponsiveness of an object. Your neighbour would say ten things, 5 out of which would hurt you. But the "metallica" calendar on your wall is like an ever passive companion. The eternal observer and endurer of all that you say or do.

Coming back to the sadness. With the departure of an old friend, another dilemna presented itself. What is so alluring about "old". An Old friend, antique furniture, Old books with yellow pages, Old unpolished jewellery. granted each of these articles have sentimental value for some and financial for others. But wisdom is the actual atrraction. See, these things have lived for long. The very thought of what all they have seen and felt, how many times they have crashed and been remodelled, magnetizes you. One is always fascinated by what endures.

People are big time worshippers of wisdom. But the real tough nut to crack is to identify that wisdom in other people. Is it there? Or is the person a pretentious "encyclopedic" knowledge mass? That is where this Van Gogh comes in. It cannot pretend to have wisdom. If it has been up there for 10 years, i know that it has witnessed quite enough and asorbed more than i ever could in its place. It never boasts of wisdom. How can it? Its a replica in itself. All that beauty is acquired, so is all the wisdom. So it just soaks in everything. And that, right there, is why i love my metallica calendar and my old copy of "whuthering heights" so much. They are genuinely wise.

Just like this Van Gogh. Love You, old friend.