We Wake

The midsummer night's dreams are becoming 
too indulging that they  stretch in time
 all day.The reality seems one of the 
options for mind, where  as to not to loose 
myself from its option I need to bootstrap our
  status quite cohesively albeit with some morbid 
disentanglement from the  long acquainted way
 ward traits. The whole thing culminates in the day's
  cliffs and troughs , getting assimilated by 
evening of the evening into  the dark night which 
leaves me to me, to gaze at the past rage,enrage
  and the garbage since dawn.The whining pathos some 
times pull me to the  edges of the known world into
 uninhabited spaces.On one such occasion  I bought 
a weekly which sells at the shop, only 3 copies a week 
 compared to the popular one which does 25. While
 going through that diverged  progeny of its parent
 weekly, I saw a book being serialized in it.It is  
a scathing take on the first epic of our civilization.
 The fact that I  would have undone all the 
civility by that time of the day, does not  
make it an anomaly to look being its reader.
Though it does not interest me  much,I 
flick to the next page. But I cant bury my 
reminiscences  unvoiced, of that book ,  
he had got me to read two decades ago.
The voices of  the past haunt , with its
 image mollifying my fragile serenity. 
The  weekly is Lankesh by Gauri Lankesh and
 the book is Seethayana by  Dr.Polanki Rama Murthy.
   In the dark chambers of the night, as the 
world seems going apart, I  clutch to that 
singularity called hope. The integrity that 
I impart to  it, draining my vitality transcends
 my relevance beyond now.Along with  time.Only
 to discover many new "now"s. Which just toss
 me to the next.The  monotony of this truely 
has reached the nadir now.  The only escape 
from this now is the now of a different kind.
 A fully  actual one, with all virtues and 
the real one. A self contained cocoon  which
 spawns all my restlessness around it like 
the thread which webs  insulating me from 
the chaos in and  around.  During the 
transitive aberrations like these , an 
"interpreter of  maladies" due to the 
"inheritance of loss" it makes.
Then my vanishing  persona wakes.
 yes true.
We wake. 
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Published in: on May 7, 2007 at 12:51 pm  Leave a Comment  

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