The future and my run. It is an inescapable relationship. Holds true for everyone, I suppose. Our current day miseries, love lost, dwindling sense of achievement, super imposed ego, craving for attention, fucked up idea of individuality, hiding from our true emotions and thoughts, teaching ourselves to be strong when in true sense we are broken to the last bone, ligament and tendon.It is not moral corruption; no, no. That’s not what I am talking about. It is worse, at least in my head. It is paranoia about the impending future that everyone seems to be running away from. As if the logical tomorrow or the time ahead will eat out what was once beautiful and certain.
Suddenly, everyone is going berserk. People are consuming more; they want more, from other’s share, other’s share of happiness, lust for leaving one’s mark in the shifting sands of our days.
Somewhere in this mad run, GOD as a concept still lingers on. So does the concept of LOVE.
For a while, I have been a cynic and in my cynicism I found my own rationality. I found my own safe haven. I found my own madness, my own brand of chaos that was eating up the rest of the world. It was the same stuff, just in a slick and cynical package. It ate me up too. It made me do irrelevant things. It made me write this jibberish.
At the turn of this year, I have had it with the sense of consumption. I do not yearn to run, I yearn to stand still and savour the bounty and the opportunity that I am alive. That I, like every mutable or immutable substance in this cosmos, am made up of that same fibre. That I, like everything around, am a testimony to the superseding power of thought. That my life is more than an expressed mathematical probability. That I am connected with all my righteousness and erring, and am also a reflection of the collective righteousness and erring of all.
The last few days of this year have taken me back to memories of my childhood.
Where in my mind, the world was a wondrous thing. The sky had the most beautiful designs, and the starts glittered brightly and the diamond shaped “mishri” was a piece of those starts that I could eat. People where always a bundle of stories and mysteries about them. And the only reason people met or bumped into each other was to share those stories, there was no other purpose. Everyone was a story teller and everyone was a character in those stories. Animals where the most beautiful of thoughts that came to exist around us as life forms. Birds were always flying to distant lands, yet they came and sat at my balcony wall every day, waiting for my mother to feed them steamed rice. Sun needed rest so it went to sleep each night and rose early morning each day without fail. My dad told me then… follow the sun in your life, and you will always be ready to witness the dawn and say goodbye gracefully at an end. I had thought then that sun was a huge nest of fireflies that lived far away in the darkness so that children do not catch them and keep them in their pockets. That when no one was speaking from the other end of the matchbox-thread phones, god spoke to little children. That I could be anything I wanted to be on a given day. I could be a peasant tilling the soil in the gray stone plant pots in the balcony, or be a vegetable vendor the next by laying down a gunny sack and placing some of mom’s vegetables from the kitchen on them, or I could be lord ram by holding a bow and arrow, I could be anything. Everything around me told me that, every fabric of the universe around me spoke to me and told me that it is child’s play.
………..all that and more of that stuff.
Funnily I have started to hear those noises and voices again. I am so glad that I am again invited to the garden party of wonderment. Last few days, I have ventured into the garden party of innocence. The cup of tea from the little toy cup tastes just like it did when I was three. The stethoscope from my doctor’s kit toy pack made me feel just about alright to play in matter of seconds.
And the voice from the little god phone lying on the ground told me, the year ahead is going to be a playground of innocence.
Return to innocence.
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Regards,
Gillum
On "writing" as Voltaire put it bluntly – One great use of words is to hide our thoughts.
Well, very few people would write my name in full. I know now.
Take care!!!
Balaji Iyer.. write & live.. god bless you 🙂
Dear Anonymous,
I do not know the person behind your veil, but I do know that I am not worthy that someone be my life long fan.
Anyways, thanks for reading.
Cheers and god bless you stranger!
:)thought of you again..thank you for bringing back me..
🙂 am your life long fan. Each time, when I remember you I come and read one of your posts on your blog. You dont need to pause, just walk instead of running.
It ought to be the faraway tree, what else dear. I know you too like that series. We should do some stuff about -it… may be write-draw thing… i write u draw something… lemme know when u feel like
hey that pic is from the enid blyton series…the magic of the faraway tree!