I’ve no answers to why I sit down before my keyboard and type. There’s a compulsive urge for spilling my thoughts that I can’t help but give a form. I guess I am securing myself some sanity.

Whatsoever, I produced a good, dark cup of coffee minutes before, but that has already turned cold. The coffee was steaming hot few minutes earlier, but physics played with it. The atoms of hydrogen and oxygen that made this fluid called water in which I dissolved this semi-addictive brown powder have now slowly receded, searching for a perpetual rest. But these silly molecules don’t even know that they are far, far away from their destination of an absolute zero. They’ve some energy still left in them, but I have already labeled it ‘cold’. So the coffee’s bound to be deemed cold.

Maybe I should have used a metallic mug, but ceramics are inherently better. This large cup was probably made in some other part of the globe thousand miles from where I am, might have traveled across shipments across borders. It’s a piece of miracle that being such a brittle bulk of clay, it has managed to land into my kitchen rack, in service of my caffeine lust. It’s something that can’t escape unnoticed from me. Not just from retina and pupil and the water in between, but from my inner self that feels more than it sees, that sheds intangible tears for the paradox that I’m bound to live by, for the paradox I am.

Through my window pane in this dull winter afternoon, indistinct mutters and clangor of vocal cords and engines and loudspeakers slip into the space around my ears. Sound-waves are amazing, they bend through edges and they travel in air. But light is more amazing: it travels through nothing, the void, the space. Under the same old sun that’s hiding inside the grey clouds, I’m killing minutes sometimes doing nothing at all and other times doing everything at once. I would love to know what actually this thing called ‘time’ is, but I know I will never get to its fair end. So I abort playing Einstein.

As I stare at the glass of my screen, on a white background of this virtual paper called word document, I feel a queer surge of something metaphysical in and around me. As I type, my PC paints the zeros and ones into several other alphabets and numbers and symbols so that I can make some sense out of them. Slowly the zeros and ones start piling up, and when they pile up they start making complete sense. Then words are born-or rather reiterated- then phrases and sentences and paragraphs then stories, leading to tears and joys and lives and what not. That’s the kind of power thousand years long civilization has stacked upon the hands of humanity. Poems and songs, rhythms and tunes and scales, coffee and wines, luxury cars and vacations: namely everything has its own evolutionary path. Darwin must be a happy soul.

There’s garbage piled up in the first T-junction outside my place, and it has started to give off an odor. I wish my nose was dead to the smell. I feel an itch seeing beauty distorted by these unorganized acts of human civilization. I yawn, stretch my limbs, and climb up to the rooftop. I turn towards the north. There used to be a good amount of whiteness on those mountains. But now, dark patches of rock create motley of visual disturbance over them. A primitive earthquake that lifted up what once used to be a sea-bed is to blame, for good and for bad or maybe for nothing at all. Mountains were for snow, but there needed to be rocks beneath the whiteness of frozen liquid that makes us who we are. I have seen some activists concocting angst against what we called climate change and to some extent I have borrowed their implications and hence the angst against ourselves. Sea level is rising, I know. Snow is disappearing from the slopes that too I know. But who’s going to stop it? Is it even possible to undo centuries of doing? That I am skeptic of; still, I complain of corporate greed that exhales dark fumes of soot and gases into the air we breathe. Helpless, I whine through my fingertips in the name of humanity.

I am obliged to take sides for the majority that suffers. I embrace this plight for others. That’s my consciousness tricking me, playing with my perpetual condition of longing for a rather unattainable serenity. That’s my neurons dictating that I can’t be jolly all the time for there’s a vast distress and dissatisfaction and indignation and philosophical turbulence I’m surrounded with.

All can never be said, and nothing totally ever remains silent. Why aren’t we just brilliant robots, capable of retaining information, of responding to noises and smells and hot saucepans? And how does the brain manage it? How could the 1.4kg lump of moist, pinkish-beige tissue inside our skull give rise to something as mysterious as the experience of being that pinkish-beige lump, and the body to which it is attached? How does all this deduce to the metaphysics of consciousness? Why do I long for something that I have no idea of? Why are there so many things and so less time?

Can I, ever, find solace in someone else’s company? Or is it that all I have is me and my thoughts alone? Is there another being that can sync these thoughts with mine? What if yes? What if no? There’s haunting fear that succumbs into my spine. Will I ever be fully understood? Will I ever fully understand? Shall I pretend and just move on, or shall I keep on searching and contemplating and hating and detesting, sometimes even to a pathological, psychic level; what’s already there in a faint hope of acquiring a more parable conclusion to my existence? The more I think, the more I get lost inside this whimsy spiral called living. But there’s no stopping this, there’s no synopsis for what I have yet to experience, realize and come of knowledge. It’s a maddening irony for me to live by. But I don’t, I can’t run away from this madness.

There’s always a darker side to everything, but you are sane only when you’re not alone. The only way out of this labyrinth would be finding some other being, another produce of stardust that breathes, that thinks, ponders and at last assents- ‘I too, mate, have been there.’


2 thoughts on “Cons of Consciousness

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