>> Saturday, June 30, 2007
Day before when it drizzled, I peered out of my balcony into the coherent and unbroken vastness from horizon to horizon and detected only a void into which I hunted for distance and relief from the mirage of mountains that quivered around me with visible heat. It seemed that the shadowed passes around me could not lead out to those remote and sunlit azure hills but only look down on them as if on fabled kingdoms, across the barrier of possibility. The wind that breathed past me and moved the banal wind chimes hanging everywhere in my living room brought phantasmal sound of bells, and expired again, tired as life. In the patter of rain I could listen sober tenor of expectations reduced, desires blunted, hopes deferred, chances lost, defeats accepted and griefs borne. The progression of sound going from lyrical to even quaint to even harsher. I’ve armed myself with patience and resignation, which is always there in me ready to immunize my failures and curb any desire. Beneath all this is a passive, unmoved repose, the will underlying all personal emotions, my inheritance.
What lingers in some of us, in me is a child but without any childish joy- a pampered, angry little girl, ready to pout if something interferes with my whims. Blandishments and promises will not lure me. I'll sit down expecting the worst. What is worst, is beyond me, but I bet life can devise something. I can not tell whether my reticence expresses coolness of feeling or suppresses happiness that probably I’ve just discovered. In posterity, 'the past', which only scratched old wounds on a tranquil morning, is now, ‘a present’ healing itself and pursuing me into innumerable depleting dreams. The worst injury, the worst betrayal is the knowledge of it. I betray myself, everyday.
So many incredible things have happened that I have become completely blasé. I’m no heroine of a romantic novel and it never was my ideal to die of romance but I try to delve into the worst of suffering, convincing myself, it is pleasure. Every morning I wait for the twilight when the sky turns deep blue with a wide purple channel through it for the night to come flowing in. I hear memory – voices quarrelling. And the talk too is nearly the same. The kind of things said before, repeated now; chewed swallowed. At times, I strain my name in the clamor, the spirit of the abyss calling me to join them in their nocturnal dance. I hate myself for being back again, from where I’d fled with a bruised forehead, all purple and gold. Those pages are yellow from age, spotted with droppings of ashes and traces of tears. I keep coming back because I’ve held those memories as a beloved locket; inside which is preserved a tiny distorted image of happiness. Perhaps, I need a deeper melancholy, a renovating anguish, an intolerable pain, a dark cave where sensation is drowned in the enormous, which wangles to rouse me, from the approaching langour of death. I might be buried but I’m fiercely alive and so I require a stroboscopic image pulsing to reassure me by subliminal tricks that though I’m nowhere, I’m home.
I keep pouring, not knowing whether I’m thirsty or to buoy my spirits.. I might be immersed in the vainest of passions but I’m only drunk with emotions.. I want to fall asleep quickly, into a place beyond sleep, deep and silent... grappling in the vague gray that transforms into a hollow blackness inside my head. Hmm .. I’ve had one drink too many, but I’m only a little exuberant, not drunk.