when laurels talk their heart out...
dedicated to the countdown to 4th October.. :")
last year I was in the classroom.. and our teacher gave us a news ... a upsc aspirant committed suicide because he couldn't reach to the exam hall on time..
I wish you all.. all the best.. and please all the parents and their loved ones.. don't make them feel low about anything.. they have life more than the upsc.. let them live.. let them study the way they wanna do.. don't ask too many questions.. they are just like any other student.. they are just human beings.. right? .. yeah.. human being..being human..
All I can mention about his writeups.. I have read every post of him.. And And
He writes so finely.. every line has a story and connects with the next story.. It may take you time when reading..or you may find the normal story, you can imagine ;..but a clue to read his posts is ..that read every post with the perception that you don't have any perception.. and take that write up in that way.. do not generalize what you can normally think .. it's a way more deeper..
"His one liners are my fav." ♡
//"A better stranger, a deeper universe you can share with."//
Writing isn't a therapy for me. I never understood the idea of writing being so therapeutic, that somehow trying to write down what you feel is gonna magically makes it easier to survive. The objective part of my brain knows that language is a complicated thing. It's sorta like an output of whatever it is that your brain process and you experience as feelings. And feelings are just chemical reactions, when you zoom enough, chemical reactions are nothing but physics, right?
Is it okay to see humans as much complex physical systems running on chemical processes that perceive the world as it is?
I always had this feeling that we are limited by our language. How much you can express yourself is limited by the strength of the language itself.
Sometimes you feel too much, it is as if all the words the world has to offer is not enough to pen it down on a white sheet of paper that looks as empty as the space between stars where light forgot to touch. You're not sure what to make of it, what it is that you're feeling, or the why, so you keep it for yourself and try to make sense of it.
It is a strange kind of loneliness, isn't it?
Is it the limitation of the language or the limitation of your knowledge about the language?
But at times you don't need the language at all. One look at your best friend and you immediately know that inside joke you both are thinking about. A touch, a hug makes it easier to lift that weight pulling you down. A silent night staring at the starry sky with that someone, and you know, you just know that this is the one, even if it only lasts for a day or week or month or a few years, you know this is the one. Infinities and forevers are tiny little moments, aren't they?
I used to romanticize about reality and existence. I still do. But there is this internal battle that I'm forced to go through where my left and right side of the brain fight to figure out who can come up with the best explanation to this reality that I perceive as mine.
Do you really need to understand "the why" to feel a little less of the existential dread falls upon you every night? Or knowing that "why" takes anything away from the subjective experience that feels so personal?
I don't think I've ever loved anyone enough to write like Neruda, or was sad enough to write like Bukowski. Perhaps that's why the lines often end up being so mediocre that I end up deleting on a second read. But there are some words, carefully structured by someone else in a way to make art. With the very first read, it connects with you. Every line, every word, and every space makes sense, telling you the story that you always wanted to shout out. "this is exactly what I feel".
Perhaps it is not the writing that makes you feel better, it's the carefully crafted words that you read and knowing the fact that there is someone out there who feel the same, finding that human connection to know that you aren't the only one. Someone has lived this life, lie down in the same space, and looked at the same sky wondering about the same damn questions. Some managed to find the right words to tell the story and some never did. Maybe all of this is how I feel, maybe you feel it too. Maybe this story is mine, maybe this story is about some random stranger with no name or a face, maybe this story is yours. Does it really matter?
I don't think it fixes you, but for a moment you are not alone, you smile. One day you learn how to make peace with it, but still wonder about things beyond all the words and all the languages that the world remembers, beyond the mundane chains beyond the bounds of gravity, something somewhere the world forgot to reach.
You wish you could understand, how you feel complete yet empty at the same time. I wish too.
How to read a poem (feat. juxtaposed metaphors and absent-minded creativity)
When, out of sheer hopelessness, or, perhaps by a strange turn of events – you can't quite remember, you find yourself being cradled by a poem; gently trace the contours of the title. And while you're at it, jump to conclusions, (Yes, you read that right.) Do not tether your imagination, let it fly, unfurl, uncurl, and run amok, Let your imagination lead you astray.
And after you've made a detour, read the first sentence out aloud, enunciate each word, see how it frolics, waltzes, and slowly, fades into oblivion. When you encounter a semi-colon, unyoke the breath you've been holding, gather the tattered sinews of your sanity, and let the poet take over.
The lines often end abruptly. And a lot of what is written, may not make sense to you, but be patient, listen to the myriad voices that the poem effortlessly shapeshifts into, listen to how they're all fighting for attention.
Can you feel the words rising like vapours, humming a forgotten song? Can you feel the lumps in the poet's throat, as the sawdust that's been marring his lungs for aeons, dissloves & makes way to the voicebox? Can you hear his voice crack? Quiver, maybe?
Once you've finished reading the poem, read it all over again, and see how the poet's thoughts melt into each other, and then, crystallize all over again, as if they are nothing but molten wax. Read it yet again, and read it over and over again, read it until you can distinguish the cerulean ink from the crimson of his blood.
Read it until you can feel his blood gushing, until you can see him undressing his wounds, intentionally poking the scabs with his quill, read it until you can feel his heart lying bare, naked, almost vulnerable.