Someday I feel I will write an essay. Words should have the luxury of coming in twins, build a locality of its own. Poetry for them is a lonely space. Each preciously used to carry out a task ( we call meanings) and until they are done, pretend as if they are someone else. Metaphor, some call it.
I wonder if I will ever be able to shred the too many 'I's I use in an I-tem. If ever I can live upto to write what is non personal. Something that talks about trees, seas, mountains, hills, Sun and the moon and for a moment reserves the blunt knife for some blunt-er souls ( like me ofcourse, no offense to you).
Reality has come into halves all my life. I have dreamt the other. Like the conventional glass case, I have measured the half empty moments of life and treasured the half fulls. For a strange optimist I have been, the reason for pessimism has also been the same. I know people who invent ways to sadden themselves. There is a strange negative energy to it, a sense of security in feeling vulnerable.
Today as you read my story that is as incoherent as colors described in binary codes, I wonder, what makes us more comfortable from the innermost core as a human? To see us pass or to see others fail and join the league. We can do an SMS poll someday and the result may surprise everyone. Truth has always been like that. Its as convenient as the ones we choose. And what lies is left.
I can not shun the pun. Someone asked me in the park, what is your grief son? And I couldn't answer! Perhaps I am one of those who sedate themselves with pain. If I present myself as a conspirer against my own sanity, I won't say it was rude.
Whats rude is already there in the wall. I write, you read or the opposite. And in this squarish notepad which is as futile as the remembrance of a DELETE, we live just not to die, ever. And we die, the moment next.
The essay starts, thereafter.
SoUmY@
I wonder if I will ever be able to shred the too many 'I's I use in an I-tem. If ever I can live upto to write what is non personal. Something that talks about trees, seas, mountains, hills, Sun and the moon and for a moment reserves the blunt knife for some blunt-er souls ( like me ofcourse, no offense to you).
Reality has come into halves all my life. I have dreamt the other. Like the conventional glass case, I have measured the half empty moments of life and treasured the half fulls. For a strange optimist I have been, the reason for pessimism has also been the same. I know people who invent ways to sadden themselves. There is a strange negative energy to it, a sense of security in feeling vulnerable.
Today as you read my story that is as incoherent as colors described in binary codes, I wonder, what makes us more comfortable from the innermost core as a human? To see us pass or to see others fail and join the league. We can do an SMS poll someday and the result may surprise everyone. Truth has always been like that. Its as convenient as the ones we choose. And what lies is left.
I can not shun the pun. Someone asked me in the park, what is your grief son? And I couldn't answer! Perhaps I am one of those who sedate themselves with pain. If I present myself as a conspirer against my own sanity, I won't say it was rude.
Whats rude is already there in the wall. I write, you read or the opposite. And in this squarish notepad which is as futile as the remembrance of a DELETE, we live just not to die, ever. And we die, the moment next.
The essay starts, thereafter.
SoUmY@
Comments
To me, the write begins and ends here.
Loved to see this kind of writing here.
God bless :-)
Awesome! Where do you get these notions? All of them on the dot, and so so so very right? ... Just dumbstruck, still, gaping at the write!
Your prose too, is poetry, as I had just mentioned on another post.
Am revelling in your writes today!