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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The Awkward Silence of the Enchanting Chasm

“Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo.” Have I forgotten you? I don't like the way you faded into oblivion. Your glorious absence marveled at the absurdities of my life. Even the last remnants of your weird sight and smile create a whirlpool of the past and a hurricane of madness deep in the abyss of my conscience. Everywhere, in every form and matter, I see your dust. I teach myself to forget you and move ahead. The chaos of your story in mine is the absence of your existence in time-space. I weave each and every layer of your story so that I can tell my son, one day, how I survived on my own. I wonder whether it was your light or the shadow I painted, mostly in Prussian blue. They will hear the echoes of the deep enchanting chasm on my chest. I keep it echoing on my chest, so that I might tell my son on the shores of infinity that I had a story to tell.

Knowing

I know this: I am also a repetition. A continuation of forces older than my name, patterns that moved through generations and found their way into me. I do not carry them as burdens alone; I carry them as proofs. What has been tried before me did not end—it arrived. And I stand where it converges. I have never been lost—only moving through complexity. I have questioned, delayed, circled, cried but never diminished. Even when direction dissolved, something steadier than certainty kept me upright. What others call confusion was often preparation. What felt like stillness was alignment in motion. I was not failing to become; I was becoming without spectacle. There were moments when desire thinned, when the world stopped asking for urgency. Not emptiness—clarity. Noise fell away. False appetites dissolved. What remained was gravity, and gravity always tells the truth. I learned then that not everything needs to excite in order to matter. And so the world narrowed—not into loss, but into gr...

എന്റെ ഉപാസന

എന്റെ പ്രണയവും ഉപാസനയും ആയവൾക്ക്, എന്റെ തലമുറയുടെ മാതാവിന്, എന്റെ ആകാശവും, ഭൂമിയുമായവൾക്കു, താരതമ്യങ്ങളില്ലാത്തൊരു സ്ത്രീയ്ക്ക്, എന്റെ പൂർണ്ണതയുടെ അവസാനമാകുന്നവൾക്ക്, എന്റെ കണ്ണുകളിലെക്കടലിലൂടെ ഒരു യാനം പോലെ പ്രയാണം ചെയ്യുന്നവൾക്ക്- ഞാൻ നടന്ന വഴികളെല്ലാം നിന്നിലേക്കായിരുന്നു. നിന്നിലത്രെ ഞാൻ തീരുന്നതും.

The Ballads of Gravity

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