For all the things I could wish for, there are a million I want to wish away.

Undo, unlearn, relearn. Regain all I forsook, rebuild all that I have lost. Because the weight of all this loss bears so so heavy, that I can no longer think of myself as one whole entity. There are only bits and pieces, disconnected from each other. More out of need than desire. More for survival than verve. Atrophied, hypertrophied, strained, drained, relapsed, revived, revved, degenerating. In spasms, in motion, dazed, charred and singed. 

I think I need to put this life on hold for a little while. Until the time is right. 

There is the world, but there is also the view. People sped up, time slowing down. I have a problem. These words of mine always hang in the air, awkwardly. Misplaced in time, misplaced in space. In thought and in action. In the dizzying flux of irrelevance that slows every damn thing down to an insufficiently maddening degree. It's not how it was, not how it was supposed to be. Colloidal rooms, bleary lights, and the suspended pieces of ideas there is simply no point to pulling and holding together with glue and scotch tape. We could never believe it, but some things aren't really meant to be fixed. Torn books, folded into origami swans, tied with strings to the ceiling fan, weaving patterns and words and shadows of insignificant things around. Candles and lamps and the spinning world. Reality is wasted on people like you and things like me. It's too late to salvage much. Sooner or later, there will only be the view. The looking glass and the haze. 

"But he had already jerked straight round, stared, glared again, and seen but the quiet day. With the stroke of the loss I was so proud of he uttered the cry of a creature hurled over an abyss, and the grasp with which I recovered him might have been that of catching him in his fall. I caught him, yes, I held him-- it may be imagined with what a passion; but at the end of a minute I began to feel what it truly was that I held. We were alone with the quiet day, and his little heart, dispossessed, had stopped."

This Day's Blurb.

Ennui, and other de(s)serts

This is a public service announcement. Nothing found, for Things To Do in India. 

To live, is to vegetate. Q.E.D. Carry on. 

Irony will be the death of our kind. Done in by our own ergonomic keyboards, our ergonomic chairs, and these unforgivably ergonomic lives.

Folie à deux

Like lighted wick, does ardor burn
Too deep, alas, grief can run.
Yearning spouts, much like rain,
Pride to lose,wounds to gain.
Heavy are these words, much debt they bind,
To this leaden conscience of mine.
Blessed is that heart which bends,
Beginnings never know our ends.
Measure by measure, fate will avenge,
Each kindness it could not prevent.

Postmodern Pinfold

tread lightly
speak low

contrivance,
less edacity.

pretend, we can
delude, we shall

and absolve
a life

wasted.

Syzygy

"Cold hearted orb that rules the night,
 removes the colours from our sight. 
 Red is gray and yellow, white... 
 But we decide which is right, 
 and which is an illusion."

Existence precedes essence.

On cynicism, and other disquieting concerns.

They say that a cynic is never surprised. Strange it is, then, that I find myself somewhat confounded by the world, as it has chosen to present itself to me lately. Whether that indicates my having become less cynical or the world having become more confounding, I know not. What I do know, however, is that something is eating away at all social structure and the people that comprise it. It is a form of moral corruption so incredibly pervasive, that once you see it, it's impossible to ignore. 

The more I zoom out and try to view the world from a more privileged(read distant and disconnected) vantage point, the more conspicuous becomes the absence of a grand master plan. The universe, providence and random chance(or whatever else you choose to believe in) have always been indifferent. But now, so are the people. It was just naivete, ignorance, and idiocy before. Now, there is also indifference. The masses are frivolous and fickle. Fickle with their loves, fickle with their hates, fickle with their allegiance, fickle with their belief. Fickle with their ambitions, fickle with their hopes, fickle with their words, and fickle with their needs. With moral codes traded for oblivious languor, and passion for disposable cheap thrills, constancy of purpose is just about the rarest thing one could go about in search of. In a world where every one, every thing, and every idea is dispensable, what does a person place their faith in, anyway?

Now whenever I veer off on this particular tangent, I am accused of mounting the moral high horse. But it's not adherence to a certain code of ethics I advocate, it is the necessity of an individual defining one for himself and living by it. Because in the absence of the same, when perfunctory institutions like religion fail, there would be nothing left to define oneself in terms of. We'd all be jaded and shapeless blobs of indiscernible substance, with no purpose, no identity, and nothing of consequence to call our own. One could argue, that it's already happened. 

Much has been said about the gradual and inevitable decadence of the bourgeois, and the supernumerary cliches that follow. Yet, fully aware of the facts, I so desperately seek people who could pledge their lives to one idea that they stand for, who would make a conscious decision to always live by their word, and who have the courage to fight for the things they believe in. Why are people so scared of investing any substantial part of themselves in anything? I've been told that it's that same cynicism that creeps up on them, leaving them bitter and uncaring. And I am always left to wonder how and why a cynical disposition has come to entail apathy, even towards oneself. 

Almost anything in life that requires serious consideration, is devastatingly subjective in nature. However, all workable institutional constructs and the obligations they come with, are designed to work upon a perfectly empirical mode of estimation and operation. Hence, the world confers a great deal of power upon whoever is damned by the duty of converting the subjective to the objective. Uneasy heads, heavy crowns. There is no justification, there is only formal cause.

A wonderful thing it is, to live enough, and love enough,
to run down countless roads, and rush past all the milestones,
to see all these splendid sights, and read all those beautiful words,
to have enough, and lose enough, for several lifetimes. Perhaps more.
The further I go, the more I feel, the more I see, and the more I know, but
bittersweet irony, now the thoughts come fast, and the words... not nearly enough.

Of all the words I have to say...

Never slow down, my love... lest someday we catch up with ourselves.