While there are a million small things that find its way into the tiny membranes of my brain I choose to not conveniently ignore the insignificant ones. I choose to, instead direct all of my attention to those nuggets of superficial gratification leaving behind in its wake the milestones that could not have been anything but path-breaking. I would love to carry my past as I move into the present and drool over the future. I would love to remember each assumption and liaison, each trip and each highs. Alas, those ephemeral roses wilt under duress, go odorless with the gentle passage of time and become only, a reminder of the innocent adolescence.
There are some who chose to stay, who chose not to travel afar but stay back and watch others do so. From my vantage point, my life seems debauchery at best. From where I see it, I have digressed again, as I so often do. I drift like a log drifts in the sea. I fly like a paper flies in the wind and I sputter like a spark does as it escapes the cauldron. I am my cauldron and I know it. It makes me not happy to be dawned with this realization. I carry the guilt around as if time is of essence and I have to make amends. I am not running for cover, I am not regretful after-all those were my own sculptures I tore down, those were my own castles I burnt and those were my own epitaphs I wrote down. I worry though if ever I would return. I doubt my existence not because of what I did but because of what I might not do.
There are cleverer ways to spill the beans. I have my constraints not to dither.
I detest the word. I deny its relevance yet move towards the same with extreme fluidity. Is there an end to what is now not only in perpetual motion but hoots and conkers so as not to be conveniently overlooked. The strata that is the meta-physical fetches the crucified insignia. I have but failed to live up to it. I have denied myself the one thing I deserved. This, and things to come portends an ominous realization. I am not alone. Sadly, this “enlightenment” lifts you in ways the yogi would fall short of. We are, as we used to learn in fifth grade, a social animal after-all. Simple pleasures, like being termed an animal used to be amusing then. The institution that was the school, our alma-mater, then, was a closed church with domes so high it was impossible to look too afar. Now, as we stand outside the shrine our eyes roll not away from the skies. The infinity we knew not then, for better or for worse I cannot tell. To each his own, I say; to hell and alone it might into stray.
Sorry, I should not have told you this.