Dylan Thomas wrote this and I am merely reiterating his words. How difficult it has become to be gentle! Or must I put it this way, how difficult is it to be gentle? I write here thinking about how cruelty often marks our hold on compassion. I feel too terrible about unleashing my fury on an innocent person, somebody I care for and would not like to put down with meanness. I wish I could just turn skip that moment in time and then behave calmly as I usually do. I cannot bear this guilt.
How many times have I acted like this? The more I think of it, the more it kills me. I ought to reprimand myself. Everyone is trying their best. We cannot fight our battles with someone else just because we are not done with fighting with ourselves. It indeed is very exasperating to carry such a burden in our hearts when we could be doing so much more with a clean conscience. The more I write here, calm washes ashore all over me. This has been a lesson. Sometimes in my overstretched reverie, I see myself with a halo over my head bringing myself to an endless laughter bout. It is refreshing to laugh over self. Don't they say that anger drives out the best in people, since some turn to entertaining people through their comic antics. It does do well to let ourselves loose in this grim hard paced life that we all claim to be living. But do we? As a child when I read the Dickensian novels and the Victorian times it sketched, I wondered if those people had any hopes of a better life then as opposed to us who live in a luxury of comforts. Of course, everything is relative. One of my friends who I fondly call Little Miss Muffet, once very subtly explained the difference between objectivity, relative and the absolute. We both have a penchant for worldly talks and it'snot hard to dwell upon life's choices and the people we've become, each time we have a conversation. We tend to magnify everything that touches us, somewhere in the inner core of our hearts. One moment I could be reeling with rage and tuning in to listen Adele sing, Set Fire to the Rain and the other I could be weeping with an overwhelming sentiment over an old memory.
Since I am visibly calm now and would like nothing but some soothing words of comfort, I turn inwards to poetry. Is there anything as much powerful and piercing than a few words strung together in a meter? I am tempted to go back and re-read some portions from my favourite books. They rekindle the energy that sometimes I lose and give back to the universe in the mad hope of reclaiming more. That's the best I do on my not so sunny days.
You are cryptic here but I think I understand the sense, writing always liberates me.
ReplyDeleteI thought about having a conversation with myself, even though it's here. Writing releases a lot of emotions and pent-up energy that otherwise tends to drown me in everyday misery. Thanks for understanding the emotion.
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