Saturday, July 26, 2008

Turn On. Tune In. Drop Out.

What if the dark desires we succumb to where none of that? What if we are meant to jump over the edge in order to realize how high we have risen? What if the final step is the only thing that can help us realize that potent imagination? What if we answered more questions than we asked?

You go about your life in zombified dignity, expecting someone or something will disturb its suffocating humdrum fashion. Yet, no one or nothing ever does it. Even if something cataclysmic does happen to disturb the doldrums of your existence, you are just too timid to take notice of it. You end up just another tombstone. Just another poetic epitaph in the graveyard. What if you were meant to take risks? To challenge authority and sometimes, if only sometimes, risk it all? To break free from this lack of dignity?

But none of this today. I had meant this to be the last post on this blog. Maybe it will be. Personifying another cliché, I had meant it to be special in more ways than one. However, the fertility of my imagination was found to be lacking on several occasions. Often it was the style. Sometimes it was the words. On the rarest of rare occasions, it was my inspiration. When I could no longer keep it to myself, I just decided to put it out in the open. There it is. Go on. Pelt it with criticism and sarcasm. Isn’t that what you had been wanting all along? Well, now you have the chance.

I am sorry if the tone of this epilogue doesn’t agree with your taste. If it is not fashionable enough. If it is not hip or in touch with reality. That was never my intention to begin with. But it is my mistake that I got caught up in the predicament. I will take your leave now. The others are waiting. I am hoping you, of all the people, will understand what I have meant to convey.

Sunday, July 06, 2008

Needless to Say

Disclaimer - What do you do when there is nothing (even remotely) interesting happening in your life? You almost have absolutely nothing to share. Most of the days are spent staring right into the computer screen, trying to decipher whether another asterisk or a hash sign would make a lot of difference. Then, do you seek refuge in fiction, yet again, or do you try to salvage something worthwhile from the wrecks you had been safeguarding for exactly such a crisis? You be the judge. Albeit an intelligent one.

Dear X,

Now that I know that around 150 people know who {someone} was (and is), I can probably die in peace. The promise of a wonderful afterlife was given to me by the angels who visited me in dreams. They came again today, while I was day-musing under a creaking ceiling fan. I was told that my work on this planet is done. Thus, I will now indulge in my darkest desires and wildest fantasies, their consequences being hardly of any, well, consequence now.

I have also been wondering why day after day both you and I waste several of our precious hours, typing out these monstrosities, when we could have been utilizing them in several other (more) lucrative pursuits. The answer is left to the responsibility of the responder, SHE being the more intellectual, refined, and creative of the two. I am hoping I won’t be handed disappointment in expectation’s stead.

Coming to less welcome subjects, I think we can safely divide retro(-intro-)spective atmospheres into two broad categories. One might be called the Creaking Ceiling Fan while the other can be vaguely described as a Nocturnal Wonderland. Both are equally competitive and strive for attention on a day to day basis. I am also speculating why there has to be a certain algorithm to every nuance in an engineer’s life. Even subtle subjects like philosophy, love, and music are dissected with clinical precision and their mortal remains examined with a certain surgical finesse. It’s all very frightening; and amusing at the same time. Let’s digress to less intimidating subjects (if I can come across any).

Your habit to write your journal daily certainly surprises me. You come across as the girl in Before Sunrise, who keeps a written account of all her days, and still pretends to forget some of the most remarkable moments in her life. I started off as a die hard fan myself, often addressing my journal as something very feminine and real. With time, the writings started improving in quality but the quantity went down considerably. Now that I look at my journal, I find that I started it off way back. It has a well defined Prologue in which I announce my far fetched ambitions to fill the ruled pages with ink of all sorts - blue, black, red and even graphite. I think the implementation went awry somewhere down the line. Another algorithm is called for. But we will save its dissection for another afternoon, when the sun is more obliging, and the time less so.

The park story seemed amusing because you should choose a park (of all places) to explore. I have, if truth be told, thought of similar places I might like to visit in another lifetime. Am I beginning to sound very intense in my writing? I guess the reader doesn’t have much of a choice in these matters. SHE has to bear with all the crap certain meditating souls come up with. Oh! talking about meditation; have you ever tried imagining a perfectly clean blackboard? I believe if one can do so, with nothing and no one soiling the pristine darkness of the board, one has succeeded in achieving control over most of one’s senses. I have tried attempting the feat several times; having succeeded in keeping the slate clean (pun intended perhaps) for at most a few seconds. Not bad eh?

The relentless urge, and pushing, to excel and be on top of the game seems post-worthy. Does it strike you as amusing too? However, laziness has probably caught up. This discussion dwells on the borders of being futile. So I will defer the subject for the time being. Maybe you can come up with something worthwhile on the same. Who knows?

The length of this obscurity seems praise worthy already. I have, exactly at this moment, realized that this mail can be perfectly described by a word I learned a long time back - BLAND. It’s a monologue one would want to get over with. A yawn would probably greet the footnote and the innovative signature won't be even glanced at. This enlightenment calls for a course of action. Hence, acting in accordance with this new found knowledge, I will now go and attempt something constructive.

“The entire world is our oyster again / Waiting patiently to be by that genius awed.”
Proverbially me,