As the morning sun bathes my bed with its warm embraces, I happen to look at my empty morning tea-cup sans tea. Stains of dried tea embellished the rim. I run my finger to expunge the stains. Hmmm.
They won't go away. I try it again without much success. So I take the
cup to the wash basin. Water does not help. I apply detergent but stains
just don't go away.
So I look at the cup very closely. A beautiful morning tea-cup with blue and white florid design. But there are myriad tea stains which I have not noticed before. They blanched and hardly apparent.
But they are there. Silently watching me. Me and my laconic self begin
to ponder over this silly inkling which has made my mind pregnant with
introspection.
Interesting. Cogitative self begin to graze over the montage of memories. Trying to test my anamnesis. Flipping through the lifetime of perspicacity, I try to pick up the bits and pieces of it to build a cenotaph for myself. Where I will pay encomium to the experiences I had. Whence, begin my peregrination
of the rest of my life. So as I chisel away unwanted bits to give shape
to the cenotaph, I find there are bits which are minuscule and very
bantam. The refuse to budge and thwart my progress. I strife hard with
them. But they refuse to yield. Like those stains in the tea-cup. I can
break the cup and throw away the pieces. But how will I do the same with
my mind? My soul is now like a battle ground, and my mind is at war
with my heart.
Watching them spiting each other with wares I have never known existed.
Like black magic and creatures of underworld, ugly and relentless in
their thirst for blood and a piece of each other. Such were the
memories. Myself, a faux pas peacemaker, watching in consternation and
trepidation. Truce is no longer an option. But my obstinate self refuse
to capitulate. I join the carnage.
With nothing but my chisel of prerogative, I continue my construction. I
will not abdicate my sovereignty, my right to self-determination. Rivulets of pain,sorrow and happiness is red
with blood now. And they agglutinate and become like a puissant river
feeding the sea of melancholy. Smog and miasma all around and yet I hold
on to whatever is left of me. Hope.
The cenotaph is standing now. And as the first rays of hope, like
ablution, cleanse my soul, clear my mind and release my heart. Morbid
and insipid calmness envelopes me now. No Sorrow, No Pain, No
Expectations, No Forgiveness, No Trust, No Ego, No Truth, No Lie, No
Belief, No Dreams, No Faith. Only Hope and A Quantum of Solace.
