I hate to begin anything with an ominous ring. But most of the times, melancholy sparks off an initiative that joy seldom does. It’s like that for me.
I wondered why I should put anything into writing, exhibiting it to the public expecting them to read it. I don’t have anything more to contribute in terms of information to the world. I thoroughly doubt my competence to do so. What is to be said has already been said.
However convincing a perspective is, at some point in time it has got to undergo the test of practicality. Finally, I realise that however convincing my perspectives are for me, they are not so for others. So I decided to explain. It’s not a fanatic justification of what I believe, but a quest for checking the sensibility and rightness of what I’ve learned, what I think and what I believe. Could be right. Could be the worst foolishness of all times.
My notions, I feel, deserves a trial. That is what this shall be.
I feel one of the most depressing facts in the whole world is that, howmuchever one attempts to predict, appraise and constantly refine oneself and be pleased with the dawning perfection, instincts and inhibitions occasionally sprouts from some depths and project an image of something despicable. As a cruel reminder.
As always, just like the families who return to their disaster devastated homes and restore them for the disaster to strike again and destroy them, one returns to his attempt to meliorate. Very stupidly ignoring the fact that like the carrot and stick in the story, his perfection would remain a distance farther from his reach.
But accepting that would mean nothing but embracing a kind of a wretched philosophy and doing so is often a justification for the indolent. So, we find that one needs something to move on. Even a mirage would suffice at times for the purpose. Hoping incredibly that maybe a measured leap with a good timing during a toward swing of the rope would let you earn a bite of the carrot.
Looking at a map of the world on the wall in front of me, the sky and the space beyond it outside my window, pondering over the bewildering inadequacies of my expression and the meaning of it all, I wonder what anything has got to do with perfection. But one carries on, because it is so. Like what Daniel Quinn’s Ishmael says, it’s the way we are taught to act.
There is this clock that ticks above me. A dreary routine tick that implies the loss of another second from my life. Had I been stuck with cancer or something and given an expiry date, every second would have terrified the wits out of me. But now they remain merely dull mechanical ticking.
Persistent noise of locusts outside the window.