Post by Thoithoi O'Cottage on Oct 24, 2014 0:52:21 GMT 5.5
I remained lying in my bed most of the day today, thinking. These days I am a much more thinking person than I used to be. At least some critical changes that started a few months ago and I’m still undergoing have put me in a serious, indecisive position—something coming to a head, which I should either come to terms with or get out of soon. When something that provides for you turns out to be costing you what you value most in life for the provisions, you will find yourself engaged in a serious battle between your split selves, at least two—one seemingly sensible split self set and incapacitated against your weakest split self which stands very strongly against your other half and hits that cripplingly hard.
A more silent person. More withdrawn into myself. So deep into the tunnel that I’ve not even written a line of poetry. No prose either. Nothing. What difference does the absence or presesnce of water make to a river or an ocean or the rain? When you are here, you do no communication with the world except when demanded, except when your security is at risk due to non-communication. This is an unquiet silence.
It was quiet early this evening, or so it seemed to me. First, darkness descended, and then came to life the lights like darkness slowly opening its glittering eyes! Quiet and calming—some must be offering prayers! Beautiful! Did I hear some bhajan? Did that sound sail on the wisp of incense smokes lazily whirling in the gali into the room through my open doors and windows?
I saw my nieces set in rows in and around the apartment the colored-paper candle light covers they designed in the last few preceding days. They were quietly happy. I just saw them but did not join them. The emotional experience I am undergoing is keeping me trapped inside my own body. In my months of unexplained silence, they have already regarded me with some fear, which I have not bothered to dispel. It’s not good, but it is because of a sort of madness born of the condition I am in that is slightly characterized by a sort of loss of faith in life.
Magically enough, a streak of unexplained hope appeared somehow in my psyche. I got up and saw my weak, diabetic father and my nieces merrily lighting candles, joined by two merry daughters of my neighbor, dressed up for the festival of lights—Diwali. A quick cold bath, and then I got dressed plainly but decently enough and then appreciated, though weakly, my nieces for what they have done. I got my high-megapixel phone and took a couple of photographs of the lights and then gave it to my nieces who had been taking snapshots of themselves with the lights on my father’s phone with a camera built-in just for the name. These days, that phone of mine is always lying here and there in my room (I’ve not used that since I bought my tablet several months ago) and they could have used that as they had always done before I got into this tunnel of silent thinking verging on depression—no, it’s quite depression. Really depression! Getting the phone, they were happy—not only my nieces but also the girls from the next door.
And then the crackers. The sound of happiness, it sounds like that for it’s endless and remains resounding far into the night. The sounds—the noise—reach my solitude-loving ears. It must be like the inedible skin or stone of some favorite fruit! The explosions do not dynamite something that seriously needs shattering inside me! Shattering! This eager subconscious wait or expectation, though impossible, must have made the crackers take on some positive quality.
Yes, now the crackers have thinned down. The silence of the night is creeping back in. I feel like stopping writing what I’m writing. I begin to look into myself, but differently this time—self-analyzing! Not that more hopeful, but I’ve not found something solid to remain where I am, not to get down and become low again! Where did this mystery come from? I’m thinking.
A more silent person. More withdrawn into myself. So deep into the tunnel that I’ve not even written a line of poetry. No prose either. Nothing. What difference does the absence or presesnce of water make to a river or an ocean or the rain? When you are here, you do no communication with the world except when demanded, except when your security is at risk due to non-communication. This is an unquiet silence.
It was quiet early this evening, or so it seemed to me. First, darkness descended, and then came to life the lights like darkness slowly opening its glittering eyes! Quiet and calming—some must be offering prayers! Beautiful! Did I hear some bhajan? Did that sound sail on the wisp of incense smokes lazily whirling in the gali into the room through my open doors and windows?
I saw my nieces set in rows in and around the apartment the colored-paper candle light covers they designed in the last few preceding days. They were quietly happy. I just saw them but did not join them. The emotional experience I am undergoing is keeping me trapped inside my own body. In my months of unexplained silence, they have already regarded me with some fear, which I have not bothered to dispel. It’s not good, but it is because of a sort of madness born of the condition I am in that is slightly characterized by a sort of loss of faith in life.
Magically enough, a streak of unexplained hope appeared somehow in my psyche. I got up and saw my weak, diabetic father and my nieces merrily lighting candles, joined by two merry daughters of my neighbor, dressed up for the festival of lights—Diwali. A quick cold bath, and then I got dressed plainly but decently enough and then appreciated, though weakly, my nieces for what they have done. I got my high-megapixel phone and took a couple of photographs of the lights and then gave it to my nieces who had been taking snapshots of themselves with the lights on my father’s phone with a camera built-in just for the name. These days, that phone of mine is always lying here and there in my room (I’ve not used that since I bought my tablet several months ago) and they could have used that as they had always done before I got into this tunnel of silent thinking verging on depression—no, it’s quite depression. Really depression! Getting the phone, they were happy—not only my nieces but also the girls from the next door.
And then the crackers. The sound of happiness, it sounds like that for it’s endless and remains resounding far into the night. The sounds—the noise—reach my solitude-loving ears. It must be like the inedible skin or stone of some favorite fruit! The explosions do not dynamite something that seriously needs shattering inside me! Shattering! This eager subconscious wait or expectation, though impossible, must have made the crackers take on some positive quality.
Yes, now the crackers have thinned down. The silence of the night is creeping back in. I feel like stopping writing what I’m writing. I begin to look into myself, but differently this time—self-analyzing! Not that more hopeful, but I’ve not found something solid to remain where I am, not to get down and become low again! Where did this mystery come from? I’m thinking.