I know the thoughts I have conceived so confidently today
will lose their authenticity in my own mind tomorrow. Truth will hit me; at
times gradually with no sudden harm visible; at times vividly hitting and
making me bleed. But let’s bet. Let’s gamble in a wild lawbreaker casino of our
minds. Let’s just sleep with a hope that tomorrow morning when we open our
eyes, we would stretch our arms with an air of indifference… and a girl would
tie her hair up with a smile… a wife would be there with a cup of tea to offer
to her husband… a newspaper with a good news perhaps…
Pop!
*wakes up from the dream*
Here I am. Here’s the mountain top; a desolated cliff at the
edge of the war stricken valley. A valley where soldiers are fighting and they
are fighting for what they think is right. A bunch of conscious people who are
opinionated, who know what they are doing. Realizations, they say, don’t hurl
your way for nothing. If you conceive them, you must believe in them. If they
come to you, you must welcome them. And if they come to you late, embrace them
more warmly. This fighting is a holy act, they believe. I was once among them…
and I fought well… until I lost my limb in a blow…
I am sitting on a rock. Here’s the mountain top; a desolated
cliff. Watching them from this height is nostalgic scenery. Around me are
densely populated trees. Too many trees make a forest; trees with stumps of
wood. In fact, too much wood make a dense forest. Around me, is too much wood.
A material our modern world deems obsolete i.e. they now prefer steel over wood
when strength is needed. Wood fashion isn’t adored much now either.
“I know the material I chose so confidently today will lose
its reliability in my own mind tomorrow”, says the much evolving world. “Truth
will hit me”, says the eagerness of a curious mind.
I am alone. Here’s the mountain top; a desolated cliff. To
walk back, I need support. But here, only wood I have at hand; too much of
nature that’s obsolete to the modern world. Out of no choice, I take out my
blade, cut the wood pieces to make crutches, take their support and stumble
down back to the valley of conscious people having realizations, who know what
they are doing… the holy war of conscience…
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Twenty one years, I feel,
Are not enough to understand
myself
Life is a year and seasons,
many.
The autumn leaves
Have been cleared off the street;
No more crispy sounds
Under my feet!
I, now, walk this path
Without the music of rustling
leaves
Now, road is a routine,
Not a treat.
Feelings, now, are froth and foam
Lights once guided me home.
It’s
like once you used to see the moon with all the depth and delight, and then one
day you came to know the tides in the sea owe their existence to the
gravitational pull of the moon. That day, you headed towards the sea to spend
days and nights surfing the waves, relaxing on the sand and forgetting the moon
itself; forgetting that the sweater of your dreams was once woven by the
threads of the sight of the moon in solitude; that you felt closest to yourself
when you gazed at the moon and contemplated over the wild and the tame sides of
your personality; that you are missing something basic, and that hurts…
Applying the same butter of logic
on the bread of relations, I too feel the sandwich isn’t as bulky as it would
take us to relish the first bite as an unforgettable delicious moment. The
thought that tomatoes and lettuce are accessory fillers, and mere ketchup would
make it to the expected volume, has often let me down. It’s like publishing in
the menu book what you don’t have in your kitchen. Fake advertisement, some
say, is a part of the business… but again… missing something…
“I know the words I wrote so
passionately today will lose their charm in my own mind tomorrow”, says the
sufferer of changes. “Truth will hit me”, predicts the pessimist.
Transiently achieved feats may
sometimes exalt you to a mindset where you think you need no further assists; that
crutches are a characteristic of the weak and the gloomy. And so changes your behaviour;
making your present, past; breathing at a new artificial pace; but still missing
something very basic. One must see between the intricate designs of nature that
at some part of your life, you too with a lost limb shall be there on the
mountain top, a desolated cliff. To walk back down the valley, you will need
support; but, the only thing around you will be wood. No matter how obsolete a
material you deem it, you would have no choice but to take out your blade, cut
the wood pieces to make crutches, take their support and walk back to the
valley where people are conscious; conscious of what they were, are and learning
how to stay the same; aware of the statuses when they should fight for their
basics, for the conscience lives under the pursuit of satisfaction.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
True friends are God-gifted
crutches. Life is a quest for the trues ones. If they come to you, welcome
them. And if they come to you late, embrace them more warmly.