The Space

Thank you, Serena Van der Woodson, for keeping things real for me, today.

An hour of 'Gossip Girl' is what I needed to shake off the numbness in my head after I watched 'The Stoning of Soraya M'. The movie and the TV show in the backdrop of what I was reading earlier today (Nabokov's lecture on Kafka's 'Metamorphosis'), made me want to pause and reflect on the interpretation of human beings in art and entertainment (if I may) by human beings.

The plainness, the complexity, the kindness and cruelty is both, appalling and heartwarming at the same time. Despite being cognizant of the dramatization in art, we allow ourselves to diffuse into some sort of space filled with questions, concerns, thoughts and opinions. Conceptually, you can think of the space as an amalgam of your everyday experiences coupled with your fantasies and theories. We sometimes care enough to acknowledge portions of this space. These portions are cleverly disguised commonsensical aspects of life we relate to through certain characters, emotions, opinions, etc. Association with any of these aforementioned depictions is bound to make us feel intelligent or vulnerable to certain emotions, by the virtue of being able to comprehend these representations or read the artist's mind.

That said, on all other occasions, we don't really care enough to react. Label it, indifference.

The navigation of this space, in the context of an individual's mind, is what I find intriguing. How does one's interpretation of art or entertainment differ from her neighbor's, assuming they both know nothing or everything. On one hand, this can be attributed to the willingness of the individual to explore her space. It comes down to her decision to want to feel certain things or submit herself completely to the viewing experience. This entails absolving herself of tribulations momentarily, and dissolving her space with that of the artist's. Now, the degree to which this happens, no doubt, varies from person to person.

Investigating the other hand, we find - her reality envelopes her space, thus, catalyzing her want to rationalize 'face value', for what it is worth. It's always business as usual. Label it, priority.

In conclusion, every individual embarks upon a poignant journey , while viewing any form of art. This journey is a result of entities chosen consciously or unconsciously from one's space, and transmuted to a unique fleeting experience of an artist's representation.

This experience can only be limited by either the individual's resistance to emotional dramatization or to a certain extent, a personal license to disregard something, only because you don’t like the medium. And that is fair. Label it, preference.

Ermm....

Incoherent scraps of thought, without a beginning or an end, ran through my mind – one image after another.

Numb.

Too tired to even open my eyes, I strained my ears to listen. I tried to feel the ground below. Was so brain dead that I couldn’t figure out what it was.

Drained.

After wrestling with myself for more than two hours, I open my eyes. I let the images sink in, slowly. The curtains, the television, the guitar, my bed, dazed Bozo and finally the fan.

Relief.

What am I doing on the floor? The only voice that doesn’t startle me is my own. Being constantly engaged in monologues, one tends to recognize and be comfortable with one’s voice only. Only.

Withdraw.

There is a fine line between denial and faith. I’ve heard someone say that before and I second that. Everybody flirts with faith. It’s convenient. Thank you God, for making sure I was in my room and not someplace else.

Amen.

I know I’m not a hero. I reckon there are too many of them these days. Bozo- my tiny, skinny dog is one. His timorous disposition may want you to think otherwise though. I believe he was a Jedi once. I have my reasons.

Shut up!

I can hear water trickling in the loo. I’ve always liked the sound water makes, irrespective of its form. Its soothing, like the state I am in now. Smirking at the rusted fan, I remind myself of the ‘connection’ we have. Yeah, whatever.

Indifferent.

How does one get through life without churning at oblique criticism?
Heck! How do I know?
Surrounded by all these insolent people and putting up with an avalanche of bull shit every single day?

D’oh.

Boat

You go out and buy some ordinary paper. Very ordinary. Carefully fold it into this perfect little boat. Paint it with bright happy hues, make it look really beautiful. In the mean time you develop this bizarre affection towards it. Yes, pretty bizarre. You look at it as you go to sleep, propped on the window sill. You also see the ‘indifferent’ moon and the black sky in the back drop. For where you can see, you r boat seems to be sailing into the darkness and it makes the moon look better. Ok, not entirely. Proud of yourself and your creation, you go to sleep. Peacefully.

Each day you wake up in the morning and think of different ways to make your precious little boat look prettier. You repeat this whole exercise for five years. You are so proud of it. Your little creation…nothing extraordinary about it, but priceless. Only the ‘indifferent’ moon watches you all this while as you nurture this insanity.

One evening you realize its time for it to sail. You take it to the river and place it beside the reflection of the ‘indifferent’ moon. Hoping it would keep guard. You don’t want to let it go, but you do. It’s wet now. Reluctantly you pull your hand away and instantly regret it.

You start running along the bank – helpless, watching your little boat leave you. You hope some insignificant rock or a worthless twig stops your precious little boat and you’ll take it back home, dry it up, paint it again if required and never let it go. You keep running with the moon. The distance between the moon and your boat seems to increase. The moon let you down. After a while you lose sight of the boat. You stop. Feeling weak at the knees you sit down. The moon isn’t running either. You wonder if your boat would miss you. You ask the moon. Silence.

You come back the next day and start looking for your boat, but to no avail. You wait for the moon to come out. Blessed moon! He sure does know how your boat is doing. You ask him. Silence. You wish were the boat. The End.

One takes refuge in one’s imagination- the safest place to be. A make believe world. Abandoned. Your theories and reasoning always fatigued by innumerable logical iterations. It’s always better to be the boat.

C&P

Some books make you physically sick. Crime and Punishment is one such book. I'm incredibly bored.
phmg I'm ladkwtd Please gmt Prudence atktuwthigo......

Classified

Remember the miracle?

Yes i do

Feeling better?

Leave me alone

Musical Chair

With the bombardment of these thoughts,
Start.

Cruise through; feel you’re too slow?
Run.

Torn between ambivalent thoughts and judgments,
Scream.

Those precious illusions thawing in reality,
Freeze.

The strange town of tears drowning itself,
Stand still.

Visions of your insanity chasing you around your diseased dreams,
Dissolve.

The incomplete comprehension of the awfully polite and enchanting life,
Get crucified.

Finally, with a funeral of your mind,
Stop.

Meaningless Miracles

Presence of a thought in a feeble mind,
Like shadows left to the mercy of a dying candle flame
A delirious sense of being, unfolding visions inexplicable,
So many factors, who should get the blame?

Draining hope of everything it has,
Screaming through the silence of your voice,
A short sojourn to eternity and back,
Horizons of sanity; where art thou?

Sacred Union

She lay there. Beside me. The monotonous hum of the fan, solemnizing our union. Strands of her hair caressing my face every now and then. A rara avis she was, in a league of her own. And to compliment her persona, she never really cared.

Despite of how cliché it may sound, I honestly think I am the luckiest man in the world. I’m so proud of her, my lover, my wife and (excuse me if I’m sounding dramatic) my life!!

I watched her, deep in her sweet slumber and wondered if I ever featured in any part of her secret dream world. It was such a pleasure to see her serene face lit by a faint candle flame. Her unusual mesmerizing beauty was a reflection of the Sacred Feminine, I believed.

A loud honk from a bus outside filled the air wit ugly reverberations. But with so much beauty around, that hardly survived. Beauty …….an ailment to balance out all the ugliness in the world.

The bullet hole adorns her forehead. Beads of dried blood looks like an eccentric sequins’ work. Must have hurt for a while .But now she is alright, I guess. She is asleep. Peaceful. Calm .Cold.

It’s almost three hours since I last heard her shriek. I hope I dint hurt her too much. Her fingers feel like popsicles wrapped in my palm. What if they thaw and melt way?

Nothing matters anymore now. There is so much beauty that it’ll prevent all ugly things from happening. Nothing matters anymore except the hum solemnizing our union, with her peacefully asleep. Calm. Quite. Cold. I’m, the luckiest man in the whole world.