Little tragedies make up my life. They are like little explosions in my heart. I bleed a little, and then feel refreshed because of this. Perhaps my heart is a bit medieval in its conception of what makes up for good health because everyone knows that bleeding is not really a cure. Transfusion is. But a bleeding heart feels a little like purging. Wracking sobs and silent sniffles, and eyes tearing up in the perfect loneliness of looking around at the world and realizing that it is so big and I am so alone. It's quite magnificent. I feel surrounded by a gigantic and invisible drama, which I cannot see, but I can feel it enveloping and bearing down on me and feel its grandeur. All I can do is cry then.
Dusk comes. I am in the backseat of a car, my face pasted to the glass of the window looking at the enormous blue, and then purple, and the a inky lapiz sky, many cars, the grey tarmac flashing by like a video where the shutter has been left open for an interminable exposure. The wind buffets my face and my ears the moment I roll down the windows. Why do I feel like, if I were to just stand there, at the side of the highway, surrounded by rolling fields and the blue dome of the sky, I can actually touch reality and will finally be happy? Maybe if the car keeps on going, from the morning till night, and there after, never stopping. I will find the same thing. A feeling of completion which is just out of reach.
Dusk comes once more. I am in a room which has a large bed and off white walls, three white lights and a yellow one as bright as the sun. I can see the sea that is the bathroom from where I sit. I sit on the far end of the bed, backed by stacks and stacks of books, and look out into this kingdom, and wish I remembered what it was like to talk to people. What was it like to have friends? The ones whom you met everyday or every other day? Who filled your ears with life and conversations which did not require you to be a part of, yet enveloped you in a feeling where you didn't wonder at the size of the space inside your head so much.
The perfect loneliness of realizing that everyone already has someone to talk to, be with. Perfectly partnered. Perfectly understood. Bearing the gift of silent companionship, of just being.
I haven't experienced a physical touch of affection or fondness in forever now. And a casual touch now disconcerts me.
Calls to people you think can help you feel better reveals that their lives are not in the permanent black hole where time and everything stands still and stretches and stretches until nothing is left. There has not been a breakdown in infrastructure and the operation to fill the gap that you have left behind has been smooth and successful. It almost took no time at all.
The little tragedies that make up a life has now come out of the experiment, crystallized into a just a powerful sentence. I miss people. There is no music in my life. Art is silted.
What then is the great tragedy that these little tragedies are trying so hard to be?
Dusk comes. I am in the backseat of a car, my face pasted to the glass of the window looking at the enormous blue, and then purple, and the a inky lapiz sky, many cars, the grey tarmac flashing by like a video where the shutter has been left open for an interminable exposure. The wind buffets my face and my ears the moment I roll down the windows. Why do I feel like, if I were to just stand there, at the side of the highway, surrounded by rolling fields and the blue dome of the sky, I can actually touch reality and will finally be happy? Maybe if the car keeps on going, from the morning till night, and there after, never stopping. I will find the same thing. A feeling of completion which is just out of reach.
Dusk comes once more. I am in a room which has a large bed and off white walls, three white lights and a yellow one as bright as the sun. I can see the sea that is the bathroom from where I sit. I sit on the far end of the bed, backed by stacks and stacks of books, and look out into this kingdom, and wish I remembered what it was like to talk to people. What was it like to have friends? The ones whom you met everyday or every other day? Who filled your ears with life and conversations which did not require you to be a part of, yet enveloped you in a feeling where you didn't wonder at the size of the space inside your head so much.
The perfect loneliness of realizing that everyone already has someone to talk to, be with. Perfectly partnered. Perfectly understood. Bearing the gift of silent companionship, of just being.
I haven't experienced a physical touch of affection or fondness in forever now. And a casual touch now disconcerts me.
Calls to people you think can help you feel better reveals that their lives are not in the permanent black hole where time and everything stands still and stretches and stretches until nothing is left. There has not been a breakdown in infrastructure and the operation to fill the gap that you have left behind has been smooth and successful. It almost took no time at all.
The little tragedies that make up a life has now come out of the experiment, crystallized into a just a powerful sentence. I miss people. There is no music in my life. Art is silted.
What then is the great tragedy that these little tragedies are trying so hard to be?
1 comment:
Kodin kaaj kor, tarpor chole aye. Amra ekta dokan khuli.
Post a Comment