Mysterious Disappearances

I have come back to the keyboard after a hiatus. No, nothing feels alien. It feels like the most mundane homecoming, the one where you feel you haven’t been out of this place at all. There are books that I want to read starting with red earth and pouring rain. Where the hell has my copy of it disappeared? 

Speaking of disappearances, where are the monsoon showers? We are all prepared. Torn umbrellas, last year’s outgrown raincoats, no gum boots, blank weekends..where are the showers for us to ‘accidently’ get caught in and soak ourselves to the bone? And again, since we are on the topic, why has the afternoon siesta vanished into thin air? I miss the heavy, drooping eyelids, the deadened limbs and numb nerve endings. I miss the drugged state of disrepair. The sobriety of awareness and anxiety just doesn’t do it for me. Speaking of sobriety, Sunday mornings (come to think of it, Sunday mornings?!?) seem so full of it. Where have the lazy, stretched, plan making but doing nothing about them Sunday mornings gone? The game changing and world view altering Satyameva Jayate eats up those now. And even the burps resonate on twitter, in Television ratings and in the rolling cash register of charitable foundations. All sounds good..but…still…those empty Sunday mornings are missed. Sorely, sometimes.

Answers have all but become extinct. We see the world populated with question marks tumbling on each other, scrambling to make way and stay intact and complete with their dots. Wherever you look, you notice frowning brows, question mark eyebrows, the thinking man stillness of the body, and the lake water stillness of the mind, all meditating towards finding answers. But they elude, persistenly. And the fear of never finding them, of their increasingly drowned voices in the ever increasing barrage of questions, doubts, anxieties, insecurities looms large. Maybe, in this search we too shall perish and what will remain will be our doubtful shadows, living out our lives till they too converge with the darkness.

on another page, you wrote and I gaped. It wasn’t about how well you had written, it was about the aptness of it. It was about how the two-dimensional cut-out of your words, when placed on your personality, perfectly super-imposed itself, the cut-out and you fusing together into one. All of us can write. It is when we have inner clarity of emotions and are in a ‘good’ place with ourselves, that we write well because we write without filters, with the force of our spirit, the words hit home harder.