today i dont feel i should write. then am I writing this just for the sake of writing. dont know. lets leave this.
i just stare at the monitor. i will go home and will play the flute. some songs. that gives me some peace. mazaa aata hai.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Sunday Sermon
The day is over. Its 7.30 now. I always write in third person like you are or like one has to kind of stuff. But today I think of writing in first person. Let me just flow the words. Once my grandpa told me that every word has its own ‘abidha shakti’. Like when we call a pot we call it a pot because that word has a power of expressing a pot. If a pen is called a pot it will not match the character of a pot. Something like that only.
Why I ended the last paragraph, I don’t know. But today I am not going to care about the why I don’t know stuff about things which I don’t know. So the day is over. Met my uncle who is, rather was, a very good friend of mine. Its not that we fought or broke our friendship but just time has moved ahead. And I come back home. I feel vacuum. I never used to feel like this. The days were full of activities. This or that one. Now I don’t feel like that. I don’t know why. And as I already stated, I am not going to care about the why I don’t know stuff about the things which I don’t know.
I talk to her over phone. A strong urge to meet her blasts out of me like a volcano. Personally I don’t like such bullshit similes of emotional burst and a volcano but let’s keep it that way only. Then the urge spreads over me like an envelope. So I smoke one more cigarette. I can not inhale the fire in my lungs anymore. But I don’t stub it on the floor till I burn my fingers. I like her. Both of them. Her as well as the cigarette. But not both at the same time. One has to leave while other is around. And one has left forever. So other one is with me. And I still continue to love both. So I light up one more. The first puff whizzes past my throat and hits the lungs. I think of crying loud. But I can not. The brain does not allow the heart to do so. It asks heart the logic, input, output, objective, means and action plan behind this act of emotion. Heart says you are big fucker. By this time heart has left the idea. It is listening to the pink floyd. Those great pessimistic songs. And brain dances in tune. It provides the necessary fuel. And I stare at the wall and listen to the Gilmour’s voice singing “where were you, when I was hurt and I was helpless.. while the days slipped by from my window watching.. and where were you, when I was burnt and I was broken.. but the things you said and the things you do surround me”. You just get into it. Sorry. Sorry. I just get into it. I am not going to make it generic third person moral story writing.
Then I think of 10 or 15 or 20 or something like that years from now. And I imagine myself in a Konkani village in a typical house of thatched roof and cow dung floor. I think about a big library with lots of book. Every book will have my name scribed in pencil with the date and the place from where I bought that book. Many of the scribbled names and dates and places are now so faint that I can barely read them. They have been wiped out in the passage of time. I really doubt whether I have read all these books. But I have bought them for sure. I am smoking a cigarette. I am alone. Not only at that place but in life. I don’t know what happened to my parents, sister and other relatives. May be they have left me or I have left them. It’s all same. Makes no difference. But I am thinking of her. She just can’t escape from my life. I feel like the biggest loser. Worst part is I still don’t know what I have lost. And I refuse to accept that I have lost anything. The ego simply refuses to do so. And I die with the lost brain. Yes the brain loses at the end. Because my brain accepts that the heart has won. And since heart has won, brain has to accept that heart exists. Actually brain dies because it accepts that heart exists. But I think that the brain has won. Because as soon as brain loses I die. So even if heart wins I die. That means that brain has won. Heart was not my existence but brain was. So here ends the story. I like such abrupt ends.
Why I ended the last paragraph, I don’t know. But today I am not going to care about the why I don’t know stuff about things which I don’t know. So the day is over. Met my uncle who is, rather was, a very good friend of mine. Its not that we fought or broke our friendship but just time has moved ahead. And I come back home. I feel vacuum. I never used to feel like this. The days were full of activities. This or that one. Now I don’t feel like that. I don’t know why. And as I already stated, I am not going to care about the why I don’t know stuff about the things which I don’t know.
I talk to her over phone. A strong urge to meet her blasts out of me like a volcano. Personally I don’t like such bullshit similes of emotional burst and a volcano but let’s keep it that way only. Then the urge spreads over me like an envelope. So I smoke one more cigarette. I can not inhale the fire in my lungs anymore. But I don’t stub it on the floor till I burn my fingers. I like her. Both of them. Her as well as the cigarette. But not both at the same time. One has to leave while other is around. And one has left forever. So other one is with me. And I still continue to love both. So I light up one more. The first puff whizzes past my throat and hits the lungs. I think of crying loud. But I can not. The brain does not allow the heart to do so. It asks heart the logic, input, output, objective, means and action plan behind this act of emotion. Heart says you are big fucker. By this time heart has left the idea. It is listening to the pink floyd. Those great pessimistic songs. And brain dances in tune. It provides the necessary fuel. And I stare at the wall and listen to the Gilmour’s voice singing “where were you, when I was hurt and I was helpless.. while the days slipped by from my window watching.. and where were you, when I was burnt and I was broken.. but the things you said and the things you do surround me”. You just get into it. Sorry. Sorry. I just get into it. I am not going to make it generic third person moral story writing.
Then I think of 10 or 15 or 20 or something like that years from now. And I imagine myself in a Konkani village in a typical house of thatched roof and cow dung floor. I think about a big library with lots of book. Every book will have my name scribed in pencil with the date and the place from where I bought that book. Many of the scribbled names and dates and places are now so faint that I can barely read them. They have been wiped out in the passage of time. I really doubt whether I have read all these books. But I have bought them for sure. I am smoking a cigarette. I am alone. Not only at that place but in life. I don’t know what happened to my parents, sister and other relatives. May be they have left me or I have left them. It’s all same. Makes no difference. But I am thinking of her. She just can’t escape from my life. I feel like the biggest loser. Worst part is I still don’t know what I have lost. And I refuse to accept that I have lost anything. The ego simply refuses to do so. And I die with the lost brain. Yes the brain loses at the end. Because my brain accepts that the heart has won. And since heart has won, brain has to accept that heart exists. Actually brain dies because it accepts that heart exists. But I think that the brain has won. Because as soon as brain loses I die. So even if heart wins I die. That means that brain has won. Heart was not my existence but brain was. So here ends the story. I like such abrupt ends.
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