Phew! Finally, there's no noise, no rush, no train to catch, no queue to stand in. Maybe the TV in the other room could bless existence with its silence too. But nevertheless.
It's a bit startling to see how convenient it is to leave the process of thinking behind, and mindlessly work away towards an unclear promise-land. It is the path of least resistance, and the mind will spare no effort to take it. You can fill it with all the gibberish on the planet; and mind you , a lot of gibberish is waiting to lodge itself into the limited confines of the mind. That said, the mind, by itself can be unlimited. Broad, wide, and all encompassing, with an innate intelligence of itself that the 'I' seems to conveniently ignore.
I happen to mindlessly stare away at things, completely losing track of what people say, do, don't say, or don't do. It all feels like an endlessly confused daze, that sometimes leaves my people, and myself wonder if there's anyone home. No need for weed anymore. Think of things, lose track of them, plan what you'd write for the night, and let go of the thoughts because they reveal too much. Then think of all that's scandalous, and sometimes exciting, sometimes tear-inducing, of things you cherish, things you want to forget, of things that won't leave you, of those that send a shudder down your spine, of the woman you like, or the women you like.
Of the pedal you want to floor that shall set your pulse racing, or the one next to it that shall bring your world to a halt, of the jerky rides that make you cringe, or the close hits and the far misses.
All the songs seem to linger for a lot longer in the mind's space; except for the Honey Singh ones, of course. And sometimes, the line "Bomb Lagdi Mainu" just keeps playing till the time you want to pull the plug on your very being.
Maybe we are all searching for a muse. Something that can let our imaginations loose, that allows us to gather all the thoughts that graze the head, and turn them into something beautiful; each one of us hankering for that which seems elusive, that which makes us oblivious to our self. Again, maybe.
This is while you set out everyday, to take on the world, in an attempt to make great of something good. If you're optimistic enough, you'll even admit the inner desire to rule the word, to put your stamp on all that you want for yourself, and strangely enough, it is all the things that Mastercard can't help you with.
Ever so rarely, you realize that your parents are growing old a lot faster than you thought they would. I seldom let mortality come into my rear-view mirror; neither mine, nor that of the folks indispensable to me. Yes, one needs to be aware about one's ephemeral existence; May Flies we all are, relentlessly flying towards all that shall as burn us down to ashes. Mom shows me her old photos, and I can barely restrain myself from saying "Damn, mom! You've grown old..."
I remember that I'm on the same train as she is, as we all are, despite this all alluding sensation of momentary immortality.
What is it about thoughts that bring them to our head? Do thoughts take birth in chemical reactions? Because on a purely scientific basis, nothing can explain the inception of a thought, if one may. Or is it that thoughts are just there, waiting for the thinker to accept it? There's a line I read which goes this way...
"I am the way which seeks the traveler."
Thoughts follow suit too? "I'm the thought that seeks the thinker." Sounds too officious, doesn't it?
Almost sounds like everything is preset to a certain manner.
No comments:
Post a Comment