Let me borrow some words from Mario Puzo- "The guns are gone, the sky is clear...turn the lights on."
Well, you people could not have missed the change in the page set-up and layout-all the darkness darkened by light is what i would put it as....
So, to all of you people who love (or loath...Craig, are you reading?he he he) but somehow always visit the page and send in your comments/hate mails (Craig, listening?), i feel it necessary to inform that the set-up has been changed because loads in my life has changed for better(and i am already loving the old-school-like-happiness) and i therefore cogitate that no more of the generic stuff which was written in my wearily prolonged phase of disdain (actually when i think, it accounts to almost 3 years!) is, henceforth, going to find its way here. (Sorry Raghu, I know you loved just the mournful part of the writings!). Considering the fact that whatever i wrote here(a large part of which i removed 4 months back) were mere reflections of my mood state/s, I am not very hopeful that there would be more of what i love to call sulk-energy-driven pieces...
What i can promise to you all, is that the regular commentaries would definitely continue.
(Boy! it is such a big relief to know that only 40-50 people follow what you write otherwise the fate sufferd by Sir Doyle wouldn't have been too far away! he he he)
Jokes apart, I really thank you all (specially to Ali, Raghuraj, Tanya, Animesh, Siddharth ji, Ghanshyam Sir, Anthony Sir, 'Craig-he-hates-my-poems-Thomas etc') for blessing this page with your regular visits and those sweet (and wrathful) opinions...It feels so good to be aware of the fact that certain people do read all that you post and find it worthy enough of dropping some remarks (not to mention the detailed reviews and suggestions that Siddharth ji, Ghanshyam Sir and Craig write for every post!)...So please keep doing that (my yahoomail is always waiting for your remarks) and wait till the new pieces of happiness pop out...I feel, it would be something good (though the past record says that whatever i felt was good recieved the sharpest comments!)
And yeah all you pieces of shit from my school days - whatever fuck i write, you people better keep reading and mailing the remarks otherwise you gonna be dead in no time...THE APURV YOU PEOPLE REMEMBER FROM THE 10th AND BEFORE, IS HERE AGAIN...ha ha ha...
"no kidding boy!"(rings a bell???)
So, cheers to a new time! (clap, clap, clap)
Monday, November 05, 2007
Thursday, November 01, 2007
sulkingly yours, i am, sulking with pleasure!
To speak of anything, we need to know how to speak. But let me, despite the fact that this would only make my opening fallacious, speak- i know i don't know how to speak.
When the light begins to fade, it happens in a sequence - I think something just puts all the lamps blowing out in a perfect symphony. One goes out after other, one after another they go off- it seems the demon of darkness runs eating them out - starting from the distant ones whose presence was only a mere fact and their light never bathed you, the darkness runs towards you at a speed to put the speed of human desire to feel dwarfed, it reaches to the one nearest you and with a cruel smile the last lamp falls too. But the juggernaut hasn't reached its saturation yet. Fiends have sharp hands and they know the holes and pores of your skin too well. A hand reaches for you, creeps inside you as cleverly as a serpent-and to propose the idea that it actually feels like a serpent is not too far-fetched on my part as well-and with some plans, weaved and conceived in the distant echleons of dearth and scarcity, blows out the solitary lamp which you had kept buning within you. Its flame was flickering, dancing with insane energy, as if it knew that it was soon going to be put to rest but it was there-lit and glowing, with a purpose. When that lamp within me exists, i think i can approach my solitude, my melancholy, my being and have a conversation. But even then, I don't ask to myself that why Chapman shot Lenon or why Hemingway commited suicide or why do they have poverty around or why is hunger painful. No I don't ask all this to myself. I have quit asking all this now, the answers always blew in mighty typhoons and my miniscule existence was too dilapidated in its attempts to arrive at an answer, the solution definitely rested in some distant star-dust which is yet to culminate into a glorious gallactic creation. All i ask to myself, is the cardinal question that why I continue to dive deep into the waters I have long quit.
Talking of the days, which are not that rare in their frequency, when I think some mighty eddy-which probably rises from the dirty seas I bathed in when I had lost my compass- takes shape out of thin air and smothers fluidity and rationality of my thought and more importantly kills the last trundling and fluttering lamp-which with herculean effort I have kept lit till now-deep in my heart; I experince solitude. I admit the fact that solitude is probably the most loyal companion I have ever had and I think it is the sole institution which loves me as much as I love it. But the solitude I love is very different from this solitude which descends.
Solitude is the closest surviving metamorphosis of bliss but let me ask that as long as it means that you have yourself for company, is it solitude? People define solitude as being with oneself and nothing else but have you ever been able to isolate yourself? you always exist within the framework and paradigm of other people which makes attainment of solitude by caustic methods like putting yourself into physical desolation and void, impossible. So, i put forth that real solitude comes with this vortex-all its spin and twist makes me disoriented to the extremes that I fall into some rarefied strata of solitude and even lose my own company. Nothing exists, not even me. Only the heavens know that this feel so alleviating! Though I don't know whether I love it or I don't but what i know for sure is that it is something I should love. But the ever imposing trouble is (or is it?), that as the insects run towards the light in beatitudinal frenzy-I too sulk without the knowledge of what that makes me sulk. But this ignorance of purpose is the purpose that I never wish to fight my way out or look for a reason. So as long as this bliss has its enamoured hands upon my being, I choose to sulk and who says it is uncanny and outlandish to sulk? I am at peace when I sulk because then, I am no more looking for peace. Reason and judgement might find me begging the question but I believe that pursuit of peace is more far detached from peace than sulking ever was. So, solitude is obsolete-here I am-sulking with pleasure!
When the light begins to fade, it happens in a sequence - I think something just puts all the lamps blowing out in a perfect symphony. One goes out after other, one after another they go off- it seems the demon of darkness runs eating them out - starting from the distant ones whose presence was only a mere fact and their light never bathed you, the darkness runs towards you at a speed to put the speed of human desire to feel dwarfed, it reaches to the one nearest you and with a cruel smile the last lamp falls too. But the juggernaut hasn't reached its saturation yet. Fiends have sharp hands and they know the holes and pores of your skin too well. A hand reaches for you, creeps inside you as cleverly as a serpent-and to propose the idea that it actually feels like a serpent is not too far-fetched on my part as well-and with some plans, weaved and conceived in the distant echleons of dearth and scarcity, blows out the solitary lamp which you had kept buning within you. Its flame was flickering, dancing with insane energy, as if it knew that it was soon going to be put to rest but it was there-lit and glowing, with a purpose. When that lamp within me exists, i think i can approach my solitude, my melancholy, my being and have a conversation. But even then, I don't ask to myself that why Chapman shot Lenon or why Hemingway commited suicide or why do they have poverty around or why is hunger painful. No I don't ask all this to myself. I have quit asking all this now, the answers always blew in mighty typhoons and my miniscule existence was too dilapidated in its attempts to arrive at an answer, the solution definitely rested in some distant star-dust which is yet to culminate into a glorious gallactic creation. All i ask to myself, is the cardinal question that why I continue to dive deep into the waters I have long quit.
Talking of the days, which are not that rare in their frequency, when I think some mighty eddy-which probably rises from the dirty seas I bathed in when I had lost my compass- takes shape out of thin air and smothers fluidity and rationality of my thought and more importantly kills the last trundling and fluttering lamp-which with herculean effort I have kept lit till now-deep in my heart; I experince solitude. I admit the fact that solitude is probably the most loyal companion I have ever had and I think it is the sole institution which loves me as much as I love it. But the solitude I love is very different from this solitude which descends.
Solitude is the closest surviving metamorphosis of bliss but let me ask that as long as it means that you have yourself for company, is it solitude? People define solitude as being with oneself and nothing else but have you ever been able to isolate yourself? you always exist within the framework and paradigm of other people which makes attainment of solitude by caustic methods like putting yourself into physical desolation and void, impossible. So, i put forth that real solitude comes with this vortex-all its spin and twist makes me disoriented to the extremes that I fall into some rarefied strata of solitude and even lose my own company. Nothing exists, not even me. Only the heavens know that this feel so alleviating! Though I don't know whether I love it or I don't but what i know for sure is that it is something I should love. But the ever imposing trouble is (or is it?), that as the insects run towards the light in beatitudinal frenzy-I too sulk without the knowledge of what that makes me sulk. But this ignorance of purpose is the purpose that I never wish to fight my way out or look for a reason. So as long as this bliss has its enamoured hands upon my being, I choose to sulk and who says it is uncanny and outlandish to sulk? I am at peace when I sulk because then, I am no more looking for peace. Reason and judgement might find me begging the question but I believe that pursuit of peace is more far detached from peace than sulking ever was. So, solitude is obsolete-here I am-sulking with pleasure!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)