Is it expression. Is it escape.
Is it both?
I have sought it.
I have resorted to it.
In times of emptiness.
In times of congestion.
I have wished for it.
I have rewarded myself with it.
I have defined it.
I have questioned it.
In times of innovation.
In times of meditation.
Simply because it was at the pinnacle of my choices and the curriculum intrigued me. Tough? Yes. Beneficial? Yes. Like it? Yes and No. It renders itself to fluctuation much more than I have admitted to my conscious. An unsure confession would be that I am still awed by its offered prospects, albeit the wide-mouthed gap I am yet to bridge, scares me. A matter of time before I muster the courage to admit in its property that I am scared, post which the word shall receive its deserved font.
This fear, very frequently, distracts me and before I realise I long for other things I ‘love’ paying my tribute of time to.
So much of the war between ‘perfection’ and ‘goodness’ just essentially grounds from the need for small details – ‘analysis’, if I may, and the ‘big picture’.
When may I become so conscient, enough to realise which to choose among the two? Not unlike many other encounters, this resembles any shade but an absolute one. As of this second when I digitally ink this down on what seems to be an impeccable surface, I just happen to understand to not take either of the two till its extreme, that I lose sight of the other.
Attempting to break down something that is continent of one’s own intuition has its own charm, so does the exercise of assembling parts into a whole. One needn’t choose between the two, just switch when the stage demands so.
In all honesty, my reflections tell me I am biased towards the gestalt of things, perhaps because I find it demanding to look into the details? What then, explains my inherent craving for perfectionism in everything I commit myself to? Only further reflections will tell. Or not. Some questions are probably best if left in their Sisyphus state.
Nearly after two epochs of having made an attempt to traverse through blocks (of nature other than those definable on physical terms), you still remain stranded. Stranded not on an island, rather a metropolis. The blocks in question, are rather awkward in their appearance. Those which resurface when you least want them to, hurdling your way forward. Your attempt at getting rid of them wasn’t half-hearted, and you know you could still find a better way, though you have failed terribly, everytime. The only resolution that seems to suffice actually proves you wrong, time and again.
When and why did we arrive to this point? Could this all be just a short phase or a dream from which I can get out of, later if not sooner? How have people learnt to even dwell in the midst of such intoxicated an environment, in turn, becoming toxic themselves?
Cat fights over things I consider bearing adjectives unfar from pettiness.
A second seems too long to wait for, before buds of treacherous emotions bloom into grotesque, poison-spitting flowers after she has left the table.
Assuming the vain pride at the rigidity with which we tend to follow that wretched fad which pleads to fade away and retire at the earliest.
The last time knowledge for curiosity’s sake was pursued, was when I breathed my last; and as humanly ashamed as I can be, I am still biologically alive.
CONSISTENCY, CLOSURE, CURIOSITY, FLEXIBILITY – what was the point I acquired their diction and they got subsumed in my vocabulary, but ‘Avera Kedavra-ed’ from my conscience?
What does one define as the end? As Bo Jack characters have so thoughtfully put out, there’s always a day after the “happily ever after” day.
Half asleep, and one doesn’t know what to engage one’s inactive soul into. Why would you come running for something, sacrificing your much-needed sleep? Does it give you the satisfaction of being productive? Are you though, really being active? Is all this a pretense? Maybe not. But who cares?
Why do you need someone to care for it to qualify as something worth caring?