The way to madness must be much easier, than the way that leads us to keep our sanity. For the path to sanity is crowded – with acquired beliefs and a committed slavery to adhere to those. That madness, which I am sure we all seek, has purity; one that convention denies – where we seek it.
Social mithridatism denies that road to purity.
And our souls will be split in two as we walk two diverse paths in the hope that our-half soul, lost in the crowd, shall come join and become one, become pure.
It all happened in a matter of few seconds. From birth to realisation of reality. I almost did not want to believe it, but I cannot forget those eyes. Everything there could have been a mirage, but not those eyes. They were speaking a truth that I have smothered for long. Not that it will gush out now, but at least the slabs of stone that had compressed it, almost to nothingness, have now been dissolved.
I don’t have to do anything about it, I won’t even. But I cannot, now, relegate it deep down there.
I don’t remember them very well. Yet I do know that they have significance. Like a meta-value of something that is in a package. We can make out what’s in the package, guess what it is – but never know. The package conveys all the meta-meaning.
It risks passing on this meaning to the content.
My heart yearned for something more, again, today. I counselled the heart. Life’s the sun, you are the shade.
Who are you?
Why do I know you only when I lose you?
It was the right side.
He wished it wasn’t. Not that he preferred the left instead. But certainly not the right. A few days ago he had slipped into the denial of the folks he was conversing with. He was sure that’s where he had slipped.
There was a shiny steel plate that reflected his pain in all its glory. He remembered that face.
He held one end of the long thread in his left hand, between his thumb and his index finger. Tightly. As if his life hung by it.
He knew the thread was red, before he slowly closed his eyes. With the index and the thumb of his right hand, he held the thread, leaving just about an inch of the red thread between what he held in his left and right hands. The left hand still tightly holding one end, he started moving his right hand away, along the thread.
As he ran his pinch along the thread, he felt the texture of the weave of the thread. After a while, the texture and the pull made tunnelled grooves between his fingers, the friction giving way and the thread passing through without resistance.
The feeling of the thread passing through his fingers was an experience that he sought. He didn’t want to find the other end of the thread. Though he knew he would eventually reach the end of the thread, that was only an indicator of the end of the experience. Nothing more.