May love find and keep you

The train has finally picked up speed. The soothing, rhythmic motion has overcome the inertia. It has taken me months to get here. To even get to this place where writing about this does not feel like a call for attention. A superfluous attempt.

Leaving is not new to me. To those that stay, leaving is always a means of escape; those that leave will always tell you that they had to. Without debating the truth of either, leaving is perhaps the toughest call you will make. Inertia will perhaps truly characterize each of those baited-breath moments before you leave. You will wait for something to happen, something that will goad you into action, or inaction, or anything. Then you will leave. Sometimes, so that you can come back, content that you left. Sometimes, so that you can find new shores. Sometimes simply so that you can leave.

I leave a sizable chunk of my life and a done up apartment behind in Kolkata today. For the first time in years, I knowingly wanted to keep alive a thread of attachment in the lanes I’m forgoing for another. An apartment that is set up as home. For those who wander to find home, will always want to keep whatever semblance they can find of it.  Going through life and my older posts sometimes makes me chuckle at my own search. Perhaps the knowledge that there is one I can call my own is a comfort. Perhaps it is only another throbbing thread of attachment kept alive for the one place I’ve always come back to; or wanted to. Time and again.

As life tossed everything I knew to be true and over time grew familiar and comfortable with, in the course of a few bad months and a few more worse instances of inertia, some that were mine, some that I took upon myself, the only realization that has stayed is that of self, and that it is to be valued and preserved over all else. Time tests everything. And many that you thought were failsafe will fail. Some, quite to your surprise and distaste. You will mourn the loss; you will then, at some point again, pick up the pieces and build new forts and cities. Inertia is only a static state of being; a stagnant one at that. New chapters and new stories will demand telling. And you ruffle through the pages before you move on to the next chapter. But move on, you will. To the next halt. And then another!

:)

As I leave, here’s to the memory of that inertia. You did me no good. But without you, I would not again so badly have welcomed the restlessness. Here’s to each of my friends who became and to each that didn’t stay; you know who you are. Here’s to all those bonds I unmade over the last few months, here’s to the few new ones I made. Here’s to the life I lived and loved and here’s to the new one I’m about to embrace. Here's to all the times I stayed, and all the times I packed up and left. Here’s to all those posts in my drafts that did not make it, here’s to this one. 

May love find and keep you!  

Paradoxes. As they exist.

“Because Margo knows the secret of leaving, the secret I have only just now learned; leaving feels good and pure only when you leave something important, something that mattered to you. Pulling life out by the roots. But you can’t do that until your life has grown roots.”

Paradoxes. As they exist.
As though life was inevitably designed this way. To go through the motions of the crests and troughs endlessly, indulging in each, then absolving each.

The gaping hole in the ground, that once was held together by the roots, then ascertains a new identity. Soon, the storyteller will fill it with his own stories.

I like the idea of being driven alone over flyovers. It's a high. Lets me look down upon the otherwise so spuriously tall billboards.

Post modern attempts at un-vulnerabalization?

Sometimes, I begin to think about us - we the self-proclaimed superior creations of Nature, made in what we call {insert personal faith equivalent}'s own image. Then, upon not-so-keen, just essentially detached observation, I begin to ponder about the extent of the flawed-ness we own and exhibit. Another thought thread shoots off, sensing the window of opportunity and begins to wonder that if that is the image we were created in, ummn, well that not exactly what you would call a very worthy standard to have to live upto.

Anyhow, I catch the other (original) thought thread, by its collar and divert greater segments of attention to it. Flawed creatures. Yes, despite being the sharpest and allegedly the most evolved species we are still the only ones who fight about science and god, rape children, whisper sweet nothings into each other's ears, wage wars, walk across countries to meet love, expect love to wait for them, bake cakes, read, write or paint, hurt and kill in cold-blood, make angry promises, write love letters, make love, make and take heartbreak, la di dah.

As we grow older we begin to see, like i keep saying, the world with a lill bit of the rose-tint peeling off bit by patient bit, and we grow cynical. Yet, how existentially vulnerable we become in the process. And inspite of life, love, long-island-ice-teas or lacerations, we do not learn to un-vulnerablize ourselves. We perhaps learn to find our work-arounds, but never extricate ourselves from the vagaries of expectations. We may close ourselves off to them, distract ourselves, do everything that we can in good faith to close ourselves from the inevitable disappointments of expectations, but never, never are we able to not succumb to how vulnerable it makes us.  At these times, I'm often envious of the unthinking lot. I think they have it easier. I also sometimes that, that us, the thinking lot, project these insecurities unto ourselves to make ourselves seem grave, despressionistic and thus important. For no one pays much attention to the frivolous.

Then I think of what many authors have said about Dolphins. And I tend to agree.

Wiser, perhaps.

It is a sad trick.

Every single one of us, the intellectual, the intelligent, the keep-to-myself loner, the extravagant, the miser, the man in the gangly t-shirt across the street, the taxi-driver who refused you the ride, the secret-admirer, the superficial babe flaunting her red nailpaint, the everyone else – each one of us – is looking for that one thing that will make our lives better. That one single consciousness or that fragmented one, which will complete if not compliment ours. 

That one consciousness that we hope to draw from, that we hope to contribute to, in the eventual process of completion or fragmentation. That one consciousness that could make us feel a little less irrelevant. The one consciousness that could help us get an inch closer to the semblance of happiness, one moment at a time. In the process, evolution is inevitable – physically, metaphysically. The more we evolve the more attached we get to those that have been witness to and have in some way partaken and participated in the person we are today and the one we will become tomorrow. Perhaps, that is why it is so difficult to give up on old friends, childhood sweethearts, long-lost lovers, family, pets, however they may have failed you; for each of them have projected a part of themselves unto our present self. That is perhaps why, we will never be able to give up on love.

Evolution of love is a curious process. It simultaneously estranges you and makes you bond stronger with the people most relevant in the process. Born with a single consciousness, we are designed to succumb to loneliness, and thereafter seek that other consciousness that will draw our energies into theirs and replenish theirs from ours. That which will fill in those voids, you never knew existed. And in the process make you so much more aware of the person you are, inevitably making you become a different person than you were yesterday, inevitably thus estranging you, even if a wee bit from everyone who had this set perception of you.

 

Love is perhaps the design flaw then.

The moment you recognize an attraction, you rush with all your might to know the person, to know yourself around the person, projecting  and eventually imbibing a part of them into you and a part of you unto them. You are always looking for some form of acknowledgment that would somehow concur with your projected person, and the sooner you reach there, you are looking to reach the next. It is an abyss that sucks you into it, deeper, each time you reach a check-point. Like that game, where you are craving to reach the next level. But once you have, it’s done with. Then it’s boring to go back and play from stage 1, because you already know of the hidden trapdoors, as much as you do of the crystals that will fetch you bonus points. The excitement naturally wanes. The other trick is to design the unending loop, where, at each stage you may or may not increase the difficulty level after a point, but you make minor changes in design, shuffle the trapdoors a little, trick and game the system to give you the bonus points at some familiar intervals, at others to just be a futile attempt at bonuses. While you may grudge the not-always-rewarding reward system, at least you will keep playing. The programmer has had his victory.

Human relationships are a tad bit more complex that way. Gaming the system, seems trickery – an unnatural effort – and hence not always appreciated. We like to believe that the system would be a self-updating game – and thereby fail to appreciate the effort our partner may put into actually gaming the system. We fail to recognize that that is also an attempt. We forget that the person we met is not the person who is and the person who will be. In our defence, acceptance is not always the easiest; not always the most natural course of selection. As much as we like the new, some more than others, we all take comfort in familiarity. That is perhaps why we re-read the same books, re-watch the same films, revisit photographs, play the same song on a loop, go back to our favourite places, go back to that one place for drinks, talk to the same people about the same things, succumb to the same mistakes. Even new mistakes are scary – unchartered territory they are. And while we like to imagine ourselves wiser after every mistake, we are merely being gamed. Perhaps that is why they say only unrequited love can last. For it is not blemished by the regularity of familiarity.

Yet familiarity is what we strive to achieve; what we are most comfortable with.

Wiser men and women have realized it, talked about it at length – in books, in movies, in real life. Yet we are all entrapped in it. It is indeed a sad trick.

C'est la vie, princess.

'In essence, we become what we believe'. Many have said this in their own bejewelled words. Some ever so entangled in their own myriad blemishes, some ever so detached.

Sometimes perhaps, that is why it is easier to deceive ourselves. And truer. It is at those ambiguous moments unhinging becomes more important than ever. The lock however became rusty in all the time you never paid attention, sanctimonious in the charade of safety it cozened you into. The lack of the serenade is perhaps the bane and the boon, then. It settles as much as it unsettles. Truth be told, there ain't any, my friend. All that glistens may well be gold, but you never wanted gold to begin with. Somewhere in the bigger picture, the smaller one shied away.

Chronic dissatisfaction, hence. Sometimes, we pick snakes in the guise of twigs, some other times, we mistake the sugar for the sweetener. Then we let the insulin kick in.

Life goes on. C'est la vie, princess.

Calling out to the angels and demons: Time to come back home, darlings!

Every time I read your mildewed dream, it gives me an inane urge to seek shelter in my own voracity of nuances. Though mostly, I cannot tell the urge apart, from the suppressed ceremoniousness that needs invoking to imperceptibly quieten that melancholic whisper. Or the one to weep silent tears for the loss of that vague feeling that I could never completely fathom, but inevitably always left behind familiar wisps. They blend into one another so seamlessly, that it'd take even you eons perhaps, to merely notice its reticent demeanour.

The tenacity of fragility. And our inane efforts, ever so subtle ones. Many regrets later, the palpable scaffold gives way. There's no dam that breaks, no subliminal conspiracy that metaphorically or otherwise, sinews sensation. But alas! the lack of it.

PS: Then, I go back to present-moment-sanctimonious-sensibility and tell myself to beckon both my angels and demons back home.