Circumstances force me to create-An attempt at sublimation. With nobody to talk to or listen to, I am writing. More negativity breeds itself within me. God says he has averted greater disasters for me. I am afraid; am terrified of loneliness. Isolation is worse. People this is the story of a broken heart. You will not find hope, restoration or redemption in this. I have had enough of being positive. If life’s basic feelings such as anger, frustration and resentment are not allowed to me where am I to vent them. How long can I go on with situations as they are, smiling and enduring? How long can I go on believing it is divine will…justifying the ways of God to my mind…How long?
A bee flies in the fields not because he loves it, like the poets depict, but because this terrible system forces him to. Ecology, queen bees, hunger, routine and instincts force him to. Not because he enjoys droning across the fields searching empty flower after empty flower for a drop of nectar. Because in this system a sentence cannot begin with a ‘because’ or end with a ‘because’ (The green worm is crawling under my unquoted because). This is what the system has done to you and me. You run day after day after day behind empty promises, false hopes, dreams and desires, wishing to find a drop of fulfillment. The fulfillment which you believe you had as a child. As a child however you cried for toys, food, got beaten, bullied, harassed, harangued to, punished, threatened, abused and compared to “other-good-kids-in-the-block”.
Fulfillment is a myth. A millionaire has no rest, no holidays without stock market worries. Your mind is caught in the what-to-do-next mania and the pathos is you don’t even think so. Beat a retreat! As for me, no more challenges. I am happy in my nutshell world. There are beggars here. There are bigger beggars in the bigger outside.
A bad day for example can do only so much to me and you if we don’t have a penny in our pocket. A man with a million pounds has no bad days, only terrible days. If anyone says this is the story of the sour grapes let him continue to think so. Probably it is but probably he too is suffering from the “Christen everything” mania.
Now, all of us cannot become Walt Whitmen. Honestly, I would survive only half a day in the woods. Who knows what toilet paper worries Whitman had or how many Waldens Thoreau washed his bottom in! Minimalism they say…minimalism is the need of the hour. What for I ask with a nerdy look! Ah! The fulfillment aspiration is somewhere behind this cry for simplicity, Gandhian way of life, Waldenism et al. Nihilism will help us surely, they say. This is a hopeful hopelessness. Existentialism, Sartre, Marxism…my very simple head is spinning.
This machine keeps going; the mechanics keep tinkering on it. The machine wants to quit but the fuel remains and the rider rides on. The roads raze and rip the machine’s skin, heart and soul. There are over-takers, undertakers, racers, wonderers, wanderers, admirers and protectors. All of them have their mind on the machine. Oh no! This machine cannot stop…It would be the ruin of our world, our own little nest, our cozy crevices, our comfort zones. The machine has to be oiled cleaned corrected washed repaired. …but now the machine is thinking. The machine is asking questions. What a shame!
There is no romance in this earth. This body machine fails and then everything is chaos…Utter Chaos. The life machine goes on. Keats did not live to watch students poring over pages of his Grecian Urn (some of them cursing him!) His fame was a result of his consumption. He poured his lamentations over paper with a pang in his lungs and posthumously his progeny make paper currency out of his pain. Alliteration…there, there Life does offer some ego boosts though it hardly makes up for the rest of its mischief. I say To Be Continued hoping that me, this page, the print and my mindset would remain and remain the same.