I have spent the past two hours digging up my old posts and reading other old, forgotten and now defunct blogs of friends, acquaintances - the works. I have obviously been cracking up at the sheer immaturity and the startling level of transparency displayed in most of these writings.
In a time, when words are weighed out in terms of rhetoric and carefully constructed sentences that reek of a certain cultured eloquence-- these writings stand testimony to the fact that there was a time when we were brave enough or probably young enough to lay bare our souls without worrying about being judged. We were not so much taken in by a turn of a phrase as much as by the turn of events which deserved a worthy mention on blogsphere.
Most importantly, it made me reflect on the girl I once was and the being I have morphed into today. Interestingly, each one of those events which lie concealed in this blog under a haze of flimsy embellishments have been so instrumental in helping me morph into this being that I do not so easily recognize now.
As I lay cringing in my bed for the better part of the two hours, eyes glazed from the fixity of gaze that held the laptop screen in rapt attention, old memories were rekindled- churning out easily recognizable patterns that my life can be broken into; the same fears, the same insecurities staring back at me like old friends reunited after years, embracing- silhouetted against the backdrop of a setting sun and rapidly falling dusk while I zoom in and out of the frame- never too far, never too close but always lingering- ALWAYS lingering- just within reach.
For all the smugness that I can grant myself for having accumulated some amount of sparing wisdom, there is a deep hollow inside - for things that can never really be ever filled up to the brim. There is always a price. For every reckless joy and every wanton sorrow, there is some compensation- some creases that need to be ironed out, some bloody price that has to be paid. For who can be so blessed to drink deep from the chalice of both sorrow and happiness without having sacrificed something in the process?
There is no love without pain and only the love that has exulted in the deepest throes of pain can be worthy enough to be recorded for posterity's sake. No other love is great enough or noble enough to warrant such singular distinction.
And blessed are those who have seen it all.
Blessed are those who have quavered from the sheer intensity of it all and have experienced the state of being broken into a million pieces.
And amidst all this mindless cacophany, you find a part of yourself being born anew- soaring in the endless sky- rising like a phoenix from the ashes and in that single moment when you are poised to fly, you are infinite- a million worlds nested within but so delicately congealed into that singular mass. This is when you find all the reasons that is reason enough to worth risking such a love that is so delicately fragile but grotesque in its intensity.
A part of me does not believe in anything that I have typed out here. The part of me which is too cynical and too weathered to negotiate the possibility of such occurences. All of this looks good in movies, old Bollywood movies-soulful and melancholy like a Geeta Dutt number. But there is a certain specificity to this kind of melancholia. It hovers around you, enveloping you but never quite touching you.
And then there is another part of me which believes that one day I will get back all my reasons to risk everything for a cause that might tremble against the limits of sanity, but in all that trembling insanity- I will be complete and infinite. And it shall always be worth the effort. Always.
I can't help but crack up inside as to how easy it gets, when you try churning out long drawn , meandering sentences with a generous smattering of misplaced punctuation, in the quiet silence of darkness- all in an effort to sound grown up and mature- when in reality you can never live up to all this jazz. :D
In a time, when words are weighed out in terms of rhetoric and carefully constructed sentences that reek of a certain cultured eloquence-- these writings stand testimony to the fact that there was a time when we were brave enough or probably young enough to lay bare our souls without worrying about being judged. We were not so much taken in by a turn of a phrase as much as by the turn of events which deserved a worthy mention on blogsphere.
Most importantly, it made me reflect on the girl I once was and the being I have morphed into today. Interestingly, each one of those events which lie concealed in this blog under a haze of flimsy embellishments have been so instrumental in helping me morph into this being that I do not so easily recognize now.
As I lay cringing in my bed for the better part of the two hours, eyes glazed from the fixity of gaze that held the laptop screen in rapt attention, old memories were rekindled- churning out easily recognizable patterns that my life can be broken into; the same fears, the same insecurities staring back at me like old friends reunited after years, embracing- silhouetted against the backdrop of a setting sun and rapidly falling dusk while I zoom in and out of the frame- never too far, never too close but always lingering- ALWAYS lingering- just within reach.
For all the smugness that I can grant myself for having accumulated some amount of sparing wisdom, there is a deep hollow inside - for things that can never really be ever filled up to the brim. There is always a price. For every reckless joy and every wanton sorrow, there is some compensation- some creases that need to be ironed out, some bloody price that has to be paid. For who can be so blessed to drink deep from the chalice of both sorrow and happiness without having sacrificed something in the process?
There is no love without pain and only the love that has exulted in the deepest throes of pain can be worthy enough to be recorded for posterity's sake. No other love is great enough or noble enough to warrant such singular distinction.
And blessed are those who have seen it all.
Blessed are those who have quavered from the sheer intensity of it all and have experienced the state of being broken into a million pieces.
And amidst all this mindless cacophany, you find a part of yourself being born anew- soaring in the endless sky- rising like a phoenix from the ashes and in that single moment when you are poised to fly, you are infinite- a million worlds nested within but so delicately congealed into that singular mass. This is when you find all the reasons that is reason enough to worth risking such a love that is so delicately fragile but grotesque in its intensity.
A part of me does not believe in anything that I have typed out here. The part of me which is too cynical and too weathered to negotiate the possibility of such occurences. All of this looks good in movies, old Bollywood movies-soulful and melancholy like a Geeta Dutt number. But there is a certain specificity to this kind of melancholia. It hovers around you, enveloping you but never quite touching you.
And then there is another part of me which believes that one day I will get back all my reasons to risk everything for a cause that might tremble against the limits of sanity, but in all that trembling insanity- I will be complete and infinite. And it shall always be worth the effort. Always.
I can't help but crack up inside as to how easy it gets, when you try churning out long drawn , meandering sentences with a generous smattering of misplaced punctuation, in the quiet silence of darkness- all in an effort to sound grown up and mature- when in reality you can never live up to all this jazz. :D
