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.

Comments

An Elegy on a Night Party II

They sing the funeral song on the death of their Day, “Day is dead, let's celebrate the birth of the Night from vivacity to ecstasy and finally a fall from the seventh heaven unto the abyss of dreams and lust.” Having nothing to do in the nights of my ‘usual routine’, I had my same chair on the same corner, a platform above the dance floor of the Seventh Heaven party club at the Down Town. Everything in me tends to go on to become something else. The pervasive aesthetics of life and the disposals of proposals from the mighty eyes of Almighty, I placed myself on the corner for no reason. My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. She holds spring against her breast and stares at me with sad eyes as if I’m a son of all other seasons other than spring. I don’t know who the she in my life is, but I keep watching and following her, th...

At the hour of Last breath

(A poem by Rafeeque Ahammad. Translated by Anand ) Stay with me at the hour of my last breath, Amassing the burning veracities of life, My Fingers are dead, Let them get ease by caressing you. Last molecules of my breath may cart thy fragrance. My love, let thy face plunge In the eyes of mine, never to be opened. Ears, no longer be opened for sounds, Be sealed with thy mellifluousness. Mind, burning with thoughts and memoir, Be filled with thy evergreen memories. Kisses-made scars on my lips, Heal in the sweet chants of thy name. Reminiscences of journey, Unto thee my love, my feet tranquil. That’s enough for me, Buried under the earth, I resurrect- Newborn leaves of grass.

Unknowing

I choose the heart of darkness — not in despair, but in reverence — to immerse myself in its monstrous chaos, the womb from which all beginnings bleed into existence. I do not flee the shadows; I invite them. I slow the light, restrain it, keep it from intruding too close—because some truths are born only where light hesitates. I sense what is coming. The slow unravelling of the world. A moment when day and night lose their boundaries and collapse into a single breath. When direction dissolves and humanity forgets where it stands. Time loosens its grip. Space forgets its shape. In that hour, man will begin to speak languages he has never learned, utter sounds older than memory itself. He will see beyond the limits of his eyes, hear frequencies never meant for human ears. Perception will stretch, fracture, expand—until meaning itself trembles. And in that unsettling clarity, where fear and wonder merge, the truth will no longer hide. It will rise—not in light, but in t...

The Ballads of Gravity

Search This Blog