How simple it is conceived, to don a mask, a face, a state of mind or a veil; how boggling is the assumption that something that bothers you, should render you absolutely hapless and shattered! How stereotypical can expectations be if all that is wanted is attention and time, instead of concern and loyalty. How misplaced is the trust which hasn’t travelled miles and knocked on the wrong doors, or had a few life-altering stays, before it finds home. How questionable is one who cannot find questions in stances normally conceived unquestionable. How indolent is the love which hasn’t been outraged, demeaned, faulted, frowned upon, or flailed to the edge of lifelessness. How outrageous is the smile that carves in the face of despair.
Once again, how desirous it is to mask all emotions with practicality, but aspire to be unmasked. But how tainted is this desire that feels betrayed when someone attempts to unmask the same!
Philosophy argues and contradicts itself in innumerable ways, taking examples of half filled or half empty glasses, fighting to put air as a competent element just to prove the supremacy of optimism over pessimism. Air?!
The fight I’d rather put up, is between emptiness and vacuum, pessimism and optimism apart. Connotations of a philosophical nature are debates that can’t be concluded, owing to the oratorical skills of opposing parties. But such distinctions as those between emptiness and vacuum, require only one component- experience!
Vacuum- an absolute isolation of thoughts, processes, people, feelings, expressions, and doubts and dilemmas. But emptiness? That is just connection of the soul with the more materialistic components of one’s self. An intervention for oneself, staged by one’s own thoughts, feelings and emotions, seeking an outage, just not in presence of foreign beings, but oneself. That, is emptiness.
The beauty of emptiness lies, not within the sorrow it tends to render to your material being, but to the pleasure it brings to your soul.
After all, an empty space still holds the potential to breath life into a body. Brace your emptiness. It, after all, is a red carpet for action.
The most important, most trying, most teaching, most testing, and sometimes, the most hilarious, most enjoyable experiences of our life, have been mistakes. Mistakes define our perseverance in reaching out to do what we thought of doing. The question that causes a dilemma for me is, are all mistakes just a certain few takes on our lives gone wrong, or are they those experiences that have just been given a negative spin to? Now, me, I am not what you can label as a stark optimist. But this one, my experiences tell me, has rather been labelled incorrectly.
For me, mistakes are rather detours, rest-stops, where I get to contemplate. Not only over the task at hand, but at the quagmire I have been put into, the situation my misstep puts others into, the position this mishap puts me into, and subsequently, these cast light on my stand in life. Oh, the cogwheels that my deliberation starts turning! But this deliberation, I am grateful for. In inference, my mistakes aren’t just episodes, they are quintessentially escapades.
What is it about titles that makes assigning a title to a detail a gruesome job? The absolute requirement of it having to convey the concept of the detailed and comprehensive passage of your ideas, all in those four words. Four words to convey the jist of something that in the first place required me to write something so lengthy. Four words to express what I wish you to comprehend out of the entire jibber jabber contained in the text that follows. Four words that are supposed to make you understand, which what I feel the proliferation of words in my passage might only begin to tickle you in deliberation of my message. Four words that are supposed to be bombastic, only to be elaborated by the usage of a good hundred words going forward. Four words, contributing to frustrated frowns and fretting.
Now don’t you argue with me over the number “four”!
Picture this. A woman, a wanderer by nature, took on a beautiful day of light drizzle, to walk down the road. She’s scaling the lengths of the damp, puddled road on foot, cars and mo-bikes whizzing past her, as she carefully keeps to her side of the road. Imagine the turmoil of expressions on the faces of that rule-abiding woman, and drivers, when the urgency of a young man, walking ahead of her, caused him to suddenly be taking a sharp right onto the middle of the road, with the added grace of undisturbed glaring into his smartphone. A jaw drop from the woman, an inharmonious screech of several sets of tires on the roads, scowls from the driving humanfolk, and the not-so-pleasant pleasantries vocally transmitted; all only to go wasted on the earplugs worn by this gentleman.
Now, I am no artist. So, this picture is not an abstract construction, but one of the events of my day today. It sprouted in me the urge to promote the need of use of indicators. Only, in this case, I refer to such usage by pedestrians. Don’t you think it’s time, my dear fellow pedestrians?