Anatomy of an Epicurean Solitude: VIII The Pieta

Pieta is my favourite art, an amazing Art of emotional sculpturism carved by the victim of life; it frightens me and awes me. The conditionality of human race on the acceptance of fate creates the vulnerability and greatness of its kind- Pieta is an art of aesthetic purgation. What worse could have happened in the life of a mother other than the burial of her son? The emotional trauma she faces cannot be understood or explained through any of the existing or available laws of nature or human understanding. The numbness of heart, meaninglessness of life and helplessness of death altogether execute the verdict of some unknown laws to which we are all indebted from the time immemorial. Which human reason can understand and justify that law of fate? Sculpturism of human life!

What I think about pieta and the words I use fail to convey the emotional status of that particular condition of human life especially in the life of a mother. No man can ever understand it, so do I. The fate of human race to bury their dead intoxicates my thoughts. I want to talk more about Pieta, but I don’t have proper words to convey my emotions. My vocabulary is limited to the materiality of linguistics and the applicability of cognition.

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Hindolam: S

When someone is taken away from you, you realise how much you need that person. The universe took 'him' away from her and she wasn't ready to give up yet. She needed to get back to 'him', to her world. That was the only thought that crossed her mind, it consumed her. Her fear, perplexities and doubts vanished, this was the moment she figured out what she really wanted. She realised that she knew it all along. She loved 'him' so dearly that she wouldn't leave 'him' for anything in the world. She told him, "I belong to 'him'. No matter how intensely you love me, I will love 'him', not you. Because it was a promise for a lifetime. Even death can't do us apart. Let me go. I have to go back to 'him'. I know I'm hurting you but 'he' needs me. And do you know how ardently I love and admire 'him'? As much as you love me, if not more. And 'he' loves me much more than that also. ” His moist eyes...

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I ought to have maintained my anonymity until the denouement, for it is there that our prospects would have thrived most auspiciously upon the uncharted horizon of the unknown. The mere possibility of your transformation into the conjured metabolism of pataphysical existence weighed heavily upon my heart and mind as never before. I unwittingly ensnared myself in the role of a semi-demi doppelganger of Ulysses, thus sowing the seeds of my life's sabotage. I would occasionally catch fleeting glimpses of grace in the glimmer of a wondrous, age-old ruin of impeccable provenance. Through the enchantment of that ancient relic, I sustained the illusion of your presence with a kind of marvelous grace. Yet, as I struggled to regain my aesthetic maneuverability, I found myself compelled to make a sacrificial offering of your memory upon the altar of the immutable cosmological constants. I carry you with me to my tomb, and perhaps even beyond, for you persist within me, omnip...

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The Ballads of Gravity

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