Thursday, April 2, 2015

From up on Poppy Hill

It's been happening a lot lately. Something or the other, always beautiful though, keeps on going in the mind. Incessantly I'm talking to myself. There are thoughts everywhere, not unconscious musings but as if I'm conversing with myself in a very articulate manner. I'm dissipating sentences, imagining as if someone is taking note of them. Such a foolish head. I'd wake up tomorrow and everything would be lost. All the tales I'm telling myself, the people I'm thinking about, the anecdotes revisited maybe in a more syncretic manner, jostling the deepest and shallow(est) of conversations over again and rediscovering all that was right across me but now appears in different hues.

I was returning home and I was thinking of my nightmares. And I started conversing with myself. Again, as if I'm standing on a podium with utmost ease, delivering a talk to myself. A mirror image, maybe but I imagined it was capable of retaining everything and would quickly pass on the words to me next time I'd need them. Its absurd that I'm letting my mind fool myself but I'm assertive today that I want this preserved - any sort of medium. That's where I lost my nightmares and now they stare in my face in form of dismembered images. I can't reproduce them, it's too late and they are consuming me in distortion, in incompleteness, in overpowering me with their disconnectedness. I wish I would have written about them or painted them or maybe just caricatured them. Why? They are nightmares, you ask? Precisely, that's why. To acknowledge a feeling, be it of elation or torment, too powerful that keeping it inside is a sin. There would be a rupture here but I shall continue in a while.

Before finally settling to pen down at this very moment, which maybe won't have any meaning elsewhere and to someone else, I was still in a dilemma whether to write, if I could write but I realized I can't help but write. The contentedness of heart that dawns upon is both the cause and effect of this compulsion. 

Sometimes I feel I'm dwelling into nothingness, enclosing myself in wrappings as they are labelled 'scum' around in the world. I lock myself in a black box because I feel myself there. The other times, I feel there's something really special about me. To be able to see light which blinds them. To be able to absorb things, perennially shifting things in their entirety. As if I understand their structure, their constant movements over time immemorial, their soul. I become disheartened and feel full of myself at the same time. It's this contradiction that beguiles me. 
But what is it if not ludicrous that I believe that they cannot see the light. That I believe this contradiction has only struck me.

As the listener that I am, to speak or not to speak is the question. After all what's the point of anything? Of my words, of my meanings, of my world - of communicating? Why should I even write and more, share it for you to read? What would it do? Would you realize that it's not nihilism talking but the gleam of hope that somewhere some other individual would also understand this contentedness that the heart undergoes when it says what it wants to say. In any form. Colors. Poetry. Stories. Still images. Motion pictures. Animation. Music. Telephone conversations. Beer talks. Room walls. Midnight musings. Maybe even in an uncorrupted silence. 

What ceases me? The intrinsic fear that the world cannot accommodate two individuals together. Coming from different directions, surpassing fears and boundaries, overcoming self-annihilating and trembling disagreements, yet love is anything but true. Why do I still believe in that one moment of poetry which talks of love? Maybe, for this one moment, it is real. Though this reality is a troubled phenomenon but poetry, any art for that matter transcends all doubts, all space and time, all reasoning for its rationale goes even beyond reason, to touch and discover what I thought was not possible.To move and expand the gates of imagination, to create something extraordinary out of ordinary, to say what cannot be said in normal terms. It demands you to get drowned and then let it work. It leaves its imprints in the same hope that somebody reading it would traverse the same path as I did. It excludes me leading your path or you mine but that eventually we find solace in us, crisscrossing each other, where time is never a burden or an inhibition. 

Why do you have to judge it? Why this scent of danger, the sign of men running away from confronting themselves? Why build hostility to something that is the only escape? 

What do I aspire to? As from my humble beginnings, I don't need my name in neon lights, not even in books and posters. 

I'm afraid, if I stop writing now, I would lose it again.

1 comment:

Blasphemous Aesthete said...

What is found once can always be found again.

But then, why would you stop writing, in some form or the other?

Blasphemous Aesthete