What
is there to ponder on the uncertainties of 'certain' life that we all will die
someday?
What
makes us unsatisfied?
Greed.
What
makes us guilty?
Conscience.
What
makes us love?
(
if you know why we love don’t tell me because that’s not why we love)
What
makes us fool?
Wisdom.
What
makes us different?
Self.
What
makes us slaves?
Life.
What
makes us same?
Difference.
What
makes us smile?
…
What
makes us lonely?
Togetherness.
What
makes us cry?
…
What
makes us live?
Hope.
What
makes us hate?
Expectations.
What
makes us dream?
Realities.
What
makes us sex?
…
What
makes us forget?
Memory.
What
makes us think?
Answer.
What
makes me to write it?
I
don’t know.
And
what makes you to read it?
Don’t
know.
no
one knows, but the 'no one knows' knows
why we do it.
I’ve
heard about Italno Calvino and i love his work. I ve n’t ever read any of his
work until now and I’m in anticipation of reading his works someday, but still
i love his work. i'vnt ever heard anything about his mastery in his thematic
application of life and dream. i know Lacan and
Freud, Nietzsche and Foucault, only in the classes of theories. i love
their theories and always cherish the complexities of the discourse they deal
with. i'm enchanted by their theories because i'm often confused and placed
nowhere in the midst of multitudes of uncertainties and my ignorance.
What
makes us ignorant?
Wisdom.
What
makes me to remember Pablo Neruda and his poems? i 'vnt read any of his poems
until now.
Why
do we live?
Why
do we love?
Why
do we care?
Why
do we cry?
Why
do we sex?
Why
do we sorry?
Why
do we always 'why do we'?
You
were not made for memory, you are not
Youth’s
accident i think but heavenly more;
Moulding
to meaning slips my pen's poor blot
and
opening wide that long forbidden door
Where stands the mother of god, your
exemplar.
How beautiful, how beautiful you are!
What
makes me to recite it again in to my blank pages of beautiful absurdities? May
be the absurdities itself. I keep my journey along with the rhyme and lyrics of
the verse- miles to go before I sleep. I see none; I hear none but my sound.
I’m all alone in this vast world of multitudes, I sing I cry I celebrate I
sleep I enjoy and I die. The whole world shrinks in to mine as I pass by her;
what if there is no ‘I’. There wouldn’t be me and the self, but the image of
death.
I
found something on the grave of some body. May be it wanted to say something,
but it couldn’t complete. Is it something carved by the soul mates of the dead
that they wanted to say something they had to, but failed to say it? Whatever,
I see it and it says –
Lady,
when your lovely head
Droops
to sink among the dead,
And
the quiet places keep
You
that so divinely sleep;
Then
the dead shall blessed be
With
a new solemnity,
For
such beauty, so descending,
Pledges
them that death is ending.
Sleep
your fill-but when you wake
Dawn
shall over Lethe break.
What
do we have finally after all these raging of wars and money? What do we leave
behind when we leave? Some words on our tomb? Or the fragmented memories where
we find ourselves strange? What do we have finally, what do we take us when we
leave? I have time to spend my precious time with the anticipated visiting of
my readers that always ends in everlasting anticipation of visiting. nothing
but visiting. Someday someone will read my beautiful absurdities and I’ll leave
something behind as my own that when they read my beautiful absurdities they
will begin to love their absurdities too.
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