Life moves too fast. The month inches closer to an end before I realize, and half of the year is already gone. Where did it go ? The same is true with life. I have lived more than one-third of it already.
Was all of this planned? Or did things just happen to me? Some things were planned, and some just fell in place. I sometimes wonder whether even those turned out the way they did because I planned them well, or because they were meant to be.
I look around me, an unlit cigarette in my hand. A few drops of rain, a small bit of sunlight. Sometimes the weather distracts me from my morbidity. The smell of the wet earth is soothing. It is a beautiful day, the monsoons have come. Will tomorrow be just as beautiful ?
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
The Onion Patch
Of all the sad stories that I've ever heard, the saddest is the story of the lonely flower. The lonely flower was a rose that stood next to a patch of plants. An onion patch, to be precise.
The air around the lonely rose was so very strong that it literally took your breath away. Normally that kind of privilege was reserved only for roses. Especially because a rose by any other name was always supposed to smell sweet. Always, that is, unless we are talking about this particular lonely rose.
The lonely little rose cried all day and night because it was oh so lonely. Nobody would ever come and play with this lonely little rose. So all the rose could do was question the wisdom of he who had planted it in that bed next to the onion patch.
If one bad apple can rot a whole barrel, why can't a little rose, no matter how lonely, spread sweetness and light in the air around the onion patch? Is that because badness and sadness are easier to spread than goodness and happiness?
Let's test this out. Come and bring your happy souls near me. Let's see if you can cheer me up or I can spread gloom in your life.
The air around the lonely rose was so very strong that it literally took your breath away. Normally that kind of privilege was reserved only for roses. Especially because a rose by any other name was always supposed to smell sweet. Always, that is, unless we are talking about this particular lonely rose.
The lonely little rose cried all day and night because it was oh so lonely. Nobody would ever come and play with this lonely little rose. So all the rose could do was question the wisdom of he who had planted it in that bed next to the onion patch.
If one bad apple can rot a whole barrel, why can't a little rose, no matter how lonely, spread sweetness and light in the air around the onion patch? Is that because badness and sadness are easier to spread than goodness and happiness?
Let's test this out. Come and bring your happy souls near me. Let's see if you can cheer me up or I can spread gloom in your life.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Middle Age
But how can you live for just what you want? You can't. We are the choices that we have made. I made my bed, and now I lie in it.
The whole emotional tone of any romance depends on it belonging to the lost past. Anything looks rosy when viewed through the amber-tinted glasses of time.
I can weave a spell, and it will be based on that particular knowledge of love and self that comes with middle age. A younger man would have just run off. An older one might not have dared to examine his own self so mercilessly.
The story of my life is about a person who understood, with great sadness but infinite acceptance, that the most important things in life are not always about making yourself happy.
The whole emotional tone of any romance depends on it belonging to the lost past. Anything looks rosy when viewed through the amber-tinted glasses of time.
I can weave a spell, and it will be based on that particular knowledge of love and self that comes with middle age. A younger man would have just run off. An older one might not have dared to examine his own self so mercilessly.
The story of my life is about a person who understood, with great sadness but infinite acceptance, that the most important things in life are not always about making yourself happy.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
The Blunt Hacksaw Exercise
Spoken words are beautiful, but they die out in the air like the transient lucency of smoke rings. Who says smoking is harmful? Each time I smoke, I have the primordial creative spark at hand. It also helps measuring my days in cigarette butts.
No less transient but even more transcendental is the beauty of the snowflake. Hold me lightly, and I'll sit pretty. Try and grasp me too hard, and I'll melt in your palm. I'll drip out, fall on the ground and freeze again. But then I'll fly out. On a song and a prayer. Far far away, to a time that outlives eternity.
This is not a place where random expressions of grief are welcome. This is a deliberate exercise in pessimism. As deliberate, as desperate, and as painful as shredding your wrists with a blunt hacksaw. Welcome to my arena...
No less transient but even more transcendental is the beauty of the snowflake. Hold me lightly, and I'll sit pretty. Try and grasp me too hard, and I'll melt in your palm. I'll drip out, fall on the ground and freeze again. But then I'll fly out. On a song and a prayer. Far far away, to a time that outlives eternity.
This is not a place where random expressions of grief are welcome. This is a deliberate exercise in pessimism. As deliberate, as desperate, and as painful as shredding your wrists with a blunt hacksaw. Welcome to my arena...
Monday, June 05, 2006
Desperate Laughter
Two marijuana joints. Then two beers. Then two more joints. And finally three rum shooters for the road. Totally stoned, totally free. No need to make unnessary polite conversation. Is it unhealthy that this mental state feels normal to me?
What is funny is that everyone tries so desperately to maintain their tenuous grip on sanity. Fortunately, I am a poet, so I am exempt from this pathetic attempt. Everyone knows that I am mad, they all know I am very sad. So they feel bad about it, but do not try to change my state.
When I was young, I was a pessimist. Now that I know better, I know that moments of mirth are but futile interludes in the grand epiphany of despair.
What is funny is that everyone tries so desperately to maintain their tenuous grip on sanity. Fortunately, I am a poet, so I am exempt from this pathetic attempt. Everyone knows that I am mad, they all know I am very sad. So they feel bad about it, but do not try to change my state.
When I was young, I was a pessimist. Now that I know better, I know that moments of mirth are but futile interludes in the grand epiphany of despair.
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