How long does it take to dance to the life’s tune?
We live in a void: the schism between being and appearing is what keeps us alive. Aren’t we constantly torn apart by the two forces? One pulls inward, and treats everything with an inherent convergence. The other ploys for emanation, for donning a virtue. One wants to be a butterfly (but) inside a veil; the other longs to conquer heights attained by clouds, be a bird of prey. One demands defiance of the obvious, the other stands sentry to the bubble of humane niche. No truce can be made when one’s rended between an utopian bliss and the dust of everyday life’s reality. This is not a light-darkness game. This confrontation between an eternal search for spiritual serenity versus proclivity towards an epicurean indulgence is not ephemeral. It’s a perpetual tale of a translucent shadow, an ode to the grey that always lurks behind -unnoticed- the black and the white of our existence.
There’s always a conflict within self: there are hungers that never satiate, and there are places in our own mind that never can be reached. We are desperate to be understood; while at the same very instant we are reluctant to opening our souls to other. A doubt, a fear haunts our subconscious and restricts our openness. The innermost voice of our souls are then mastered by these restrictions. This shuns down our soulful being, the truest hues of humanity are then cloaked- by vanity- and painted with the debauch of ego and fear. And what matters the most barely shows up, what shows up barely matters. These nuances then fuel the question in first place. Shall we live to be? Or to appear?
What is to all the abysmal blues? How many hours of queer speculations shall be invested with eyes closed and mind wide open, captive to a longing that seems eternal, with raging thoughts in and out like a gush of wind in a stormy day. Why the contemplation? Are there easy answers? Or are these just some emotions that mature, mutate and decay with endowed feelings? What is to be said? And, what not to? What is to be done? What to be? How to be?
What quenches the thirst evoked by the dearth of intimacy? What if one’s feelings never were meant to be comprehended by the other? Amidst a crowd, one could be alone; and in solitude, one might find company. It’s a function of one’s perception of wholeness. But what in reality means to be whole? Mere absence of brokenness might be insufficient to guarantee wholeness, for it is unequivocally arguable that wholeness is attainable through a natural acceptance of our obviously fragmented condition.
The truest, innermost is by far the universal and most of the times bipolar in nature. It’s often permanently denied by a bubble of ignominy that masks us, but in the long run it is self-evident. It’s not abnormal to get lost within the overwhelming stretch of these two incomprehensible forces when we’re on an ambiguous journey of finding truth. As is equally deniable, truth is a relative aphorism to our unending experiences. In its purest form, truth and beauty both are divergent from one’s innermost core of belief. But our perception is subject to inevitable manipulation. Once touched by the peripheral voices in and around us, unbeknownst, the perception of beauty is heavily modified- sometimes to an interminable extent. Even though our innermost self has tendency of defiance, it is equally susceptible to confirmation. This broods a hegemony that dictates a version out of many-of goodness, beauty and ultimately, reality. The meanings of beauty and goodness have been shifting, slowly but constantly. Does this have to do with our transformation from early monkeys to modern humans? Or is it the other way round? Can we blame evolution? Or is there something more to this metamorphosis?
History is undeniable, yet it is not complete in itself. Who and what make to the pages of history is never a complete representation of absolute reality of this world. Kings and warriors, elites and martyrs are subject to historical eulogies, but they reflect only a meager portion of humanity. A lot of holes have been left unfilled in the timeline of human existence.
Answers to these are subject to idiosyncrasy: seven billion breathing souls demand seven billion explanations. But none satiates. Our being in itself is tattooed with dissatisfaction. That’s what keeps us going, and that’s the only dogma we revolve around.