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.
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.
2 comments:
aha! stirs up a sea of emotions! nice piece of work.
Thanks dude
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