It's amazing what a moment of emptiness will do to a suffocated mind. I use the word "suffocated" not to portray the bemusement of our everyday lives but rather to emphasize the sheer blindness of a polarized life. I have been accused in the past for being lousy in my implications & in-idiosyncratic in my writing & I thoroughly accept the latter. I do find it very rigorous to pen down personal experiences & try to overshadow it by personifying the "wonders of our being".Even as I scribble down this acceptance, I feel a very strong urge to replace the "I's" with "Humans".But I am determined to let the "I" take over at least for this solitary instance & so have put my vanity to rest in order to prevent any stiffened statements.
My indifference to conclusions & convictions is justified by the fact that I am an inspiration driven machine. It is the very fulcrum that modulates, what is an unpredictable thought process. Being uninspired is a very painful & exhaustive experience for me. (though a confession that must be made here is that at one odd instance my state of in-inspiration turned out to be nothing more than just an upset stomach)
Perhaps My state of in-inspiration is only an elevated expression for motion sickness in the grand journey of awareness, Just a sudden shock of realization of that awareness being effaced away brutally by the deafening scarcity of answers & the humongous abundance of perplexities. But just as my self-attested predictions only allow me casual escapes from such meekness, even so, my relatively idiotic personal worries raise equally absorbing questions.
As these idiotic worries deepen, I have to put the more cumbersome ones behind. So for once skipping the malleable questions like "whether our existence is a part of a great design or just some randomness in the whole cosmological romanticism" I will move towards the more general questions that a 17.5-year-old is supposed to raise obviously teenage crisis.
As I bid farewell to my childhood, seeing it struggle to co-exist with a rational & more critical mindset, I feel closer to being "normal" than I ever thought I was. I have had flashes of emotions that I believed could only be garnered in homo-sapiens of the "inferior" quality.Emotions like loneliness,attachment & penance.However, the one that has lingered for an atrocious period of time is that of Loss. With the curtains of my childhood drawing to a close, I feel to be losing out on my birthright of being unreasonable. It is an exceptionally intimidating & daunting prospect for me to always talk sense as it stakes the very vicissitudes of my consciousness.No wonder I always fancied Kahil Gibran's lines from "Sand & Foam" for myself "Half of what I say is meaningless but I say it so that the other half may reach you."I gather that my reluctance to be reasonable itself simplifies my state of in-inspiration. Perhaps it is not something as complex as searching for significant reasons to exist but something as elementary as being unsure about what to do next or just an ungraceful & despairing day of life.
Even though I cannot shower flowers of in-obstinacy or purpose on my peculiar morality of being positive, simplistic, happy, unjustified & inspired(the in-inspired moments are strong but negligible)I can always fabricate realities for myself & these realities are strong enough to serve my buffet of intrinsic rebellions. Others may simply call it a lie but then who can claim to know the truth.
Amidst all this mayhem, my fundamental chaos, however, remains duly characterized. The transient ambiguity of existence always seizes to trouble me through its mist of horrible familiarity & fatiguing irrelevance. Yet, when the cosmic fairy presents before me the lollipop of poetic ambience as a re-compensation against the eccentricities of life & the insignificance of anything & everything then despite having the knowledge of the lollipop being just a substance of momentary ecstasy, I sin by grasping it with bond hands& dwell merely on an extensive exaggeration of some lunatic Poet's delight.
My indifference to conclusions & convictions is justified by the fact that I am an inspiration driven machine. It is the very fulcrum that modulates, what is an unpredictable thought process. Being uninspired is a very painful & exhaustive experience for me. (though a confession that must be made here is that at one odd instance my state of in-inspiration turned out to be nothing more than just an upset stomach)
Perhaps My state of in-inspiration is only an elevated expression for motion sickness in the grand journey of awareness, Just a sudden shock of realization of that awareness being effaced away brutally by the deafening scarcity of answers & the humongous abundance of perplexities. But just as my self-attested predictions only allow me casual escapes from such meekness, even so, my relatively idiotic personal worries raise equally absorbing questions.
As these idiotic worries deepen, I have to put the more cumbersome ones behind. So for once skipping the malleable questions like "whether our existence is a part of a great design or just some randomness in the whole cosmological romanticism" I will move towards the more general questions that a 17.5-year-old is supposed to raise obviously teenage crisis.
As I bid farewell to my childhood, seeing it struggle to co-exist with a rational & more critical mindset, I feel closer to being "normal" than I ever thought I was. I have had flashes of emotions that I believed could only be garnered in homo-sapiens of the "inferior" quality.Emotions like loneliness,attachment & penance.However, the one that has lingered for an atrocious period of time is that of Loss. With the curtains of my childhood drawing to a close, I feel to be losing out on my birthright of being unreasonable. It is an exceptionally intimidating & daunting prospect for me to always talk sense as it stakes the very vicissitudes of my consciousness.No wonder I always fancied Kahil Gibran's lines from "Sand & Foam" for myself "Half of what I say is meaningless but I say it so that the other half may reach you."I gather that my reluctance to be reasonable itself simplifies my state of in-inspiration. Perhaps it is not something as complex as searching for significant reasons to exist but something as elementary as being unsure about what to do next or just an ungraceful & despairing day of life.
Even though I cannot shower flowers of in-obstinacy or purpose on my peculiar morality of being positive, simplistic, happy, unjustified & inspired(the in-inspired moments are strong but negligible)I can always fabricate realities for myself & these realities are strong enough to serve my buffet of intrinsic rebellions. Others may simply call it a lie but then who can claim to know the truth.
Amidst all this mayhem, my fundamental chaos, however, remains duly characterized. The transient ambiguity of existence always seizes to trouble me through its mist of horrible familiarity & fatiguing irrelevance. Yet, when the cosmic fairy presents before me the lollipop of poetic ambience as a re-compensation against the eccentricities of life & the insignificance of anything & everything then despite having the knowledge of the lollipop being just a substance of momentary ecstasy, I sin by grasping it with bond hands& dwell merely on an extensive exaggeration of some lunatic Poet's delight.
