hold applause till end

Illuminating friend who has changed much about life and perception often points out the redundancy of, and even harm in, too much and too easily-given approbation.

True, approval is a beautiful and affirming thing - who's above wanting a pat on the overworked back? - but perhaps the recognition is only incidental to the work done to deserve it.

The need to achieve is perhaps not so much a necessity because a source of pride and joy of friends, siblings, parents, lovers, pets, self - but because in it lies the key to our less-small selves. We are made more by what we do because for a moment there is revealed in us the propensity to act instead of not, to take the less lazy route. And every such step is but a step that the flood of feelgood feedback might sometimes cause to overlook.

While thoughts as this might be sponsored by show of extravagant congratulations on news feeds - which in themselves are worthy of apathy - the lesson is not unimportant for ravenous little heart such as that belongs to this writer.

The idea is to turn that twinge of jealousy into something more useful. To not find corner to sulk in and wish to be the centre of such unbridled showers of blessing oneself, but to rein in such futile and destructive longing. To remember never to make desire for recognition the end in itself. For one is unfortunately wont to do so. =)

Timely reminder that must move on not in the hope of that Hollywood Ending where everyone with tears in eyes is all apology, exuding hearty, hearty love - but because this is what we must do, all that we must do, whether or not there is a participation certificate at the end.

four-letter-word

Realise with a shock have been thrown into the deep end. With the kind of lucid terror only midnight brings, see now that I do not walk, I wade.


(When it rains, as they say, it pours.) 


Breaking the easy surface of these shrugs already are clammy fingers that will keep heart enclutched, for who knows how long. Under cover of those casual, casual laughs is bubbling over what shall soon flood into shoes and leave standing, irrelevant. The coolth of the water now, hides how swiftly it rides. 


High time, high tide. And true to nature, it stands not on ceremony. In now for already too long; am soaked. 


The only thing that can be done is to still. Clench stomach, curl toes, grit teeth. Switch the autonomous nervous system into overdrive and pray, pray that when one is done drowning, there shall be air left to breathe, and sense left to let it in. 


Such elaborate, futile caution; hands tremble. Gloves cannot contain it. =)

dust bunnies

Finally got around to organising shelves today - might I take this moment to echo ancient maternal wisdom and extoll the virtues of domestic chores? If the blog's stopped being therapeutic, take to a broom - the usual run-ins with old photographs, books signed by friends ere Facebook, when departures meant something. One knew that new cities were not merely an update: STD, postal blight made keeping in touch a rare disease.

Hastily sketched, ill-spelled letters of love and tears tucked away to be found at unlikely hours like these. Terrible photographs with half eyes and overexposed teeth. Bookmarks, ribbons from the craftier ones. Each will place heart in neardeath chokehold.

Fondness is now a dubious thing. There are looming godheads of religion, philosophy, even medicine, that question all attachment. Nothing more than maya, narcissistic misrecognition, symptom of syphilis - sentiment has been turned into a tennis equation. Love all. 0-0.

But each such snag recognises the futility of choice. One can agree with ideas and yet be unable to stem the lived experience. Neither invalidates the other, merely makes existence perilous and diamond-edged. Perhaps enlightenment awaits with clear choices, but till then, live brilliant.

en-grave

If a traveller does not meet with one who is his better, or his equal, let him firmly keep to his solitary journey; there is no companionship with a fool.

- The Dhammapada, 5.61

when you're not feeling holy

A belief that we are collectively fed - as appetisers to the boiled apples and pulped spinach - is that love sent out is love received. Like the begat begat begat of the NT - except here the blanks are Love - and this principle did not hold true.

Perhaps it was the alternating between indulgence and passive aggression - Let's agree to disagree - whichever the final straw, the world and I have ceased to get along; except, at best, casually. I've tried pretending this away but it's still there, sure as a stump.

One could take this opportunity to burst into tears and curse all humanity and stamp on centipedes at bus-stands. 

Or.
One could take deep breaths out the window, take oneself out to lunch, ending it with a chocolate tart in slowest possible motion; and be grateful in general for the adequacy of being.

For although the heart has been very foolish in its choices, and much too proud to cry, and much too constant to forget, there are reasons to rejoice still. The mind is a more reliable friend, seeking only to absorb, dissect or revel in itself. Indulge this instead.

It's hard to keep clasped that atom of conviction against the world's body of dissent 

- you're not really all that special, just strange. And untimely - 

but it can be done.

If you would only let the lonely pass from being a punishment.

If you could stop to think, instead of squeezing head between indignant hands and running from one distraction to the other; if you can begin to forgive.

I love the world, and it's alright if it doesn't feel the same way. And no, I will no longer wait for it to change its mind.

You can't always git what you want - Thank god for that.

PS: This is not to suggest that status quo is above question and that sociopath is necessarily also genius - only that it's quite all right. =)

Say Aum.

Meditating always gives me a migraine. Heightened hearing and razor reflexes, but also migraine. Beautiful or not, Truth warrants migraines. As well it should.

How else is one to be pinched awake from time to time? How else do you send packing the last few years in a much-stamped suitcase to Abu Dhabi?

Pop an aspirin and keep your x-ray vision on, troopers. Illusions, though happy, are treacherous places to make camp.

Silence/One Tight Slap?

It's not esprit d'escalier if one chooses to retain the observation slash retort. Not many see this, those who do will never tell. To prevent another (heaven forbid) amity grown habit grown cult.

As for the rest, one wonders. Would it have been worth it, after all, if on some ill-begot morning, one should decide to give up (for a day) the Omerta and  slash (with observation slash retort) offender and put the world in its rightful place, tucked in that exact bend of the right ear-canal where the wax begins to crumble?

What sort of triumph comes of giving up what sets you apart? (that's a single question)

Double-Back

No matter how fervently you love him, and no matter how patiently you persevere; however divinely forgiving of errors and sweetly indulgent you may be of him - 

your dog will never learn Boolean Algebra.

Now that you have accepted this, perhaps it is time to reconsider love.

Is not his drool just a little bit annoying? Does not his stoic stupidity (sometimes) push you just a little closer to cracking your ribs?

Silence is only profound to those who choose to think.

So perhaps 19 is a little too early to expect Nirvaana.

:)

not exactly Jung

The Victim? Too haughty.
The Queen? Fell.
The Clown? Too dry.
The Satirist? Hope too desperately.
Blonde (but sweet)? Spell too well.
The lithe Fool? See through too much.
The Hermit? Love too hard.
Angel? Too much rage.
The concerned Representative? Deathly reticent.
The Wallflowers, then? Not enough.
Speak? Why?
Shut Up? Fume too much, still.
Fly? Fear of falling, remember?
Stay-at-home Mom? Too little content.
So you're Wilde? I'm Earnest.
Blyton? Too controversial.

What's left to be? Sensible.

The agonies of compulsive efficiency. 

The inevitable tragedy of being hardwired far too skilfully to concede time to rust over 

these matters that with ourselves we too much discuss, too much explain. 

The absolute fatality of being the Sensible one, 

of blowing one’s nose and distress into (nothing but) 

a clean handkerchief and 

walking on in sober black pumps: 

none but the brisk tight-lipped ones know.