I start with a blinking cursor, a blank paper, one sharp, questioning pencil on my right hand and its tip dipped, put in my mouth and a beautiful mind.
I want to write about simple, ordinary, heavy, light, important, meaningful things, heaven materials which kisses, cuddles, warms, colors and loves my heart, spoils, pamper my soul.
Scribbled, spewed, I don’t care. I just want to write as if the last one I’d written would be indeed for the last one time.
‘Time’ is a true narrative of real wealth. Why? Because, besides sci-fi, fiction domains and research hypothesis and theories, neither anyone in the past had ever earned it nor anyone ever will. At least, not until the interstellar or a singularity is fully revealed to our domestic science. Good chances are that, this will never happen, although hopes are promising. Yes, let’s hope, but until that happens, we are conditioned to exist in an intersection, a trap between the future and the past. An infinite crosswalk they named ‘present’.
The ‘present’ is a fleeting point-in-time where we exist, thrive, this is where we play our brief, long parts, this is where we make choices, think, connect, love, grieve, act, share, work, rest and do everything we have ever known, for we all know, you and I both don’t have any tangible access to either our past or the future.
‘Now’ is all we have.
But these days, Ignorant, idiot, dumbbell, us all, take time for granted.
Because, if you are to closely look around, more objectively — most of the time your observation will tell that we are more likely to keep ourselves engaged or busy doing nothing. Doing not-a-thing of any use. That we have clearly forgotten the essence of shortness of our lives, that we have sold our life to these smart-phones and apps and notifications and social image and validation. And above all that, what surprises me the most is that no body talks about these chaining, changing, obliterating, degrading human life culture. Most certainly, we have accepted, acknowledged such wrongs as the demand of time, as the new trend, as fake-real and as fine-faked definition of living in the 21st century world.
Today more than ever, we are so winded up in shits that we have no time to neither love heart-fully nor grieve. No time for ourselves but sure enough we’d invest any amount of our days and nights in scrolling, searching, procrastinating … instead of learning, growing and soulfully rejoicing with whatever’s served on the plate.
Apologies but as human, we human are more full of craps, crap ideals, crap talks, gossips, crap hollow self.
We have truly lost it in how memories are made and time lived.
We are present in the present void the feel of being present, in presence of the present.
Ignorant, idiot, dumbbell, us all, spill, spit, waste time as if we own it.
Lastly, on an ending note: Once, for the sake of yourself, please take sometime off of your phone, take a break, turn off the wheel, disconnect, breathe and connect to what is real. Re-assess your life, the lifestyle. Re-build.
Sol LeWitt to Eva Hesse – Read by Benedict Cumberbatch
Halfway through the year of 2017.
What an amazing 182 days of every day.
On this occasion, allow me to reveal one secret story behind my continuous vent and friendship with this blog.
It all started with a loss, the loss of home, the loss of heart.
After an unexpected, terrible breakup, I needed the most sensible way to stop crying those meaningless, abdominal tears. I needed to re-learn the faculty of love, laughter, and living once again.
I needed a pious, plain, precarious, precious perspective of what had happened, why it happened when it happened. But mostly, I needed to decide where would I let it drift me — to the shore for the next big adventure or rather settle in for that one easy resort, that mighty, the tiny, the tight trash corner.
As words talked to me, as they slowly fill in my notebook, pages after pages — I reckon my luggage, the pain, the larva of rubbish ideas, once pulling, plummeting, penetrating me had turned lighter, a least pain-in-the-butt hole, a water liquid slipping off from me. Words rescued my feeble lost self with grace, gratification, and an astounding generosity.
Writing saved me!
Honestly, I don’t care if my grammar, the words, sentences, plots are imperfect. I never cared about likes and comments. I never really cared if someone read what I wrote; cursed, agreed, disagreed, validated, whatever. All I wanted was to save myself from my own thoughts. Except for that I didn’t care anything a darn dime.
I am,… I was so drowned in my own beseech-ed, belittled, beloved, riveted, ragged, and the real voice.
And, still, I am so sorry because I want to be here for myself, only myself and very selfishly, mostly because for the moment no one dares, cares and only rare will..
Looking back, today I am proud of myself and know and feel and comprehend and reassure and digest that I have gained so so much from that gigantic, pity loss.
As Sol LeWitt (September 9, 1928–April 8, 2007) offers in a spectacular 1965 letter to the trailblazing sculptor Eva Hesse.
“You belong in the most secret part of you. Don’t worry about cool, make your own uncool.”
—
I am fine with my ferreting, freckling impulse.
p.s. an unsolicited advice — let’s all be fine with our each other’s unique self.
Let us all save ourself first before anything, anyone else.
Easily, your pains make you vulnerable and beautiful.
Tragedies, pre-conditions demand paramount strength and humility from you.
I know doubts and fears choke hopes, the tendered, delicate dreams from your life!
I know, doubts, fears, they drag you way down, kick you away, way, way back.
They penetrate chock-full of vacuum, loneliness crap inside your mouth. Cancer later spreads to the endings of every blood vessels; the veins, once lit, once happy.
You try to sleep but can’t sleep. You stand still, numb like the tree. Because you’re hurt because you’ve lost. Because you are lost.
But, then, you also know — only rain, these angry storms can bring rainbows, with a little bit of patience, and positivity. So, don’t give up just yet.
You know, only, heartless catastrophes can invite the most peaceful calm; they make us realize of a more meaningful time. So, hold on dear.
Yes, only, the worst hard knocks beget the need of true calling; your true love for yourself, your true courage.
Yes, only the feeling of distance, the separation between us, can glue you and me well-tight, with the feeling of one bone, one flesh void sight.
It is all about time, it’s all about time.
Wasting one is exhausting, depleting. Putting any in use takes the heart, the might.
Love coveted, colored in ashes, a small salamander born out of the fire, on her laptop screen’s wallpaper.
Her profound humbleness, the way she talked deep from her pain-struck soul.
The roaring, thundering, scream of passion, compassion in that soft silky voice; her delicate story she lived and shared, her dream for herself and for her family.
Her speaking, sparkling, kind, kindled glassed eyes, her without the makeup fabrication, the real her, the courageous, gorgeous her.
A red pimple underneath her nose, the messy hair, the wit, the mind, the confidence, her sweet smile.
what does it truly takes to tuck up, write down, dig in, pure and honest and heaven melting and soul tinkering and eyes watering and deeply touching and feelingly enriching words…?
I still ask the same.
I still turn back to my past work(s), which immediately reunites me with the crude semblance,.. with a not-anew feel of looking at the old paintings I once drew with so-much-a passion and love during my junior school days.
