To begin to understand the futility of the process is in itself a big ask. To add to it the desire to strike it with a heavy hand then is to push the luck a bit more than is called for. To strike a balance then, all one needs to be doing is to be doing it. To start doing that, one can only rely on what one’s instincts prompts to. When one does that, the idea in its totality begins to seem absurd from the word go, because it ain’t no exact science when you have reached at that precise point. No, I am not going to give you your 3 minutes back. I have taken it and am relishing it.
Minutes before, there was a blank slate and a black molded plastic with printed shapes of all sizes and hues. Each holding with itself the idea. A million monkeys sitting for a hour would be enough to fetch that illusion you are looking for.
If one indulges oneself with flourishes of the kind that are sunk in more than they can be sunk into, one is basically pampering oneself with needless and pithily whimsical innuendos. I like that because they are an outlet to what is ultimately a rather lachrymose gush of wind. You, dear readers, won’t because they are the thin and unsolicited menageries that are best left unattended. Beasts of incomprehensible simplicity that tantalize more than they woo.
I wonder what keeps you going. Have it your way then.
There are about a thousand printed pages in front of me. Holding them tight and aloft are those wooden planks that have seen better days. Dusts settle on them like flies on the week-old coffee mug sitting by itself in the corner. Only, in this case, they lend a semblance of dignity than disgust. These pages are bound, as you might have guessed by now. They open to the other side and do not face me. Sorted by the size but not the color, they are uniformly placed and yet not entirely so. Some of these are standing while there are many that look like they are lying down. The ones that are resting are trying to climb upon one another, waiting for their turn even as they look at jumping the queue. There is no counter here though, if you exclude me. The rumble of the overhead fan is deafening if there are no cars passing on the road two floors down. Their honks sometimes are too loud while at others they just don’t matter much. You can visualize their headlights screaming into the exit to the main road that lie overlooking the rail tracks beside them. Its past dusk by more than an hour and the street lamps shower their glow in their entirety. You see all of it through the rails that are iron-made and seen many monsoons. The rough surface they have, boast of many wars they have fought together. The rails overlook the thin foliage that the lone tree offers by way of greenery. There are a couple of those in front of the other buildings, but just this one in front of the one you are currently being held hostage.
Now, are you able to grasp the context? Or need I be more explicit?
I have detailed here both the real and the meta. If you are unable to grasp either, then I am sorry I was of no use. If, by any chance, you get the latter, then you are in luck. For the former is not easily comprehended. I am still trying and haven’t gotten anywhere. If you have, improbable as it may, then I could do with your counsel rather than pay for an hour of someone else’s.