tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89786512024-03-07T23:52:17.491+05:00A Quest for Beauty; A Lust for Life!<b>Allah is Beautiful, and Hu Loves Beauty!</b>
<br>
<small>When the primordial Question, "Am I not your Lord?" reached my perception, I remember, I had said, "Yes! And You are Beautiful! And I love You!" That became the anthem of my soul. Then I was put to sleep. Now I wake up. This is a chronicle of my awakening.</small>The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.comBlogger532125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-39748220598641157722013-11-27T10:35:00.001+05:002013-11-27T10:35:49.649+05:00From the arms of Azazil<div><div><div><div><div></div><div>Alif Laam Meem,</div><div><br></div><div>I cannot assemble my grief properly, and so it has not become a coherent person, and thus I cannot address it. I want to love it, speak to it, grieve with it.</div><div><br></div><div>But I do not have a person to grieve for or about or with. I have a multi-million fractured pieces.</div><div><br></div><div>But for Your sake—for Your sake and for Your Love's, and Your Name's and Your Honor's—I will again let my tears flow, and then I will wipe my eyes.</div><div><br></div><div>You have always loved, upheld me, loved me, curtained me, fed me, clothed me, sheltered me, sustained me. I am in terrible need of doing something for <i>You</i>; to lend my existence credibility.</div><div><br></div><div>I wonder if there is something terribly wrong with this: if I have chosen the station of being Your <i>helper</i>, rather than Your <i>beloved guest</i>, and as if my chosen station is a terribly lower thing. I cannot say for now, for to speak beyond my current comprehension is a terribly wasteful thing.</div><div><br></div><div>I cannot love me and I cannot help me.</div><div><br></div><div>I have never heard of another person who has suffered such terrible devastation and compression and destruction and humiliation such as I. How and why does it happen? The reasons are complex and beyond me.</div><div><br></div><div>But I have seen You devastate me, and I have experienced a glimpse of Your Awful Triumph, Your capacity to destruct and devastate, Your ability to utterly swipe me, and yet somehow uphold me.</div><div><br></div><div>And I know and believe that You can stitch. That You can render anew the fabric of space and time—if only for this sinner, this forgetfulness-full beast, this bestial me. That You are rendering me anew even as we speak.</div><div><br></div><div>I will leave this discourse here. I love You, and You love me; and I have hurt You, and You have pained me. We abandoned I abandoned You each other completely brute awful terribly love is love is lovely, I cannot speak out the matrix of ourmyapart searing and tearing beating terribly and goes it there to... something like it like it or not to comprehensive truly out now complete fractured mirror utterly fabulous and comprehensively comprehensible being <i>do you understand this?</i></div><div><br></div><div>These are my murdered fractures alive still somewhere comprehensively beating alive in the heart <i>and they are speaking! And they are speaking! </i></div></div><div><i><br></i></div><div>They are speaking. Darling. They are.</div><div><br></div><div>Rescue me from this despair, from this falling, from these arms of Azazil, as only You can. Dear Lord, I have no capacity. If it were possible for me, I would like to leave this existence, this fishbowl-entrapment of the soul and senses, and have come to Your Presence such that You'd have slapped me. And then loved me. Taken me within the folds of Your curtains, and, in a flash, disappeared.</div><div><br></div><div>But this is not how the Lord acts—this is the doing of an angel. Allah does not flee.</div><div><br></div><div>You know I'm foolish. I know You're Kind. And the bones that I have broken in my skull and spine, and the chest that I have here seared with pain and grief, and this old age that has suddenly descended upon my head, and this twisting of the spine and eyes, and this corruption—this acidification—of memory... this is nothing but a speck for You to repair, reprieve, heal. Yes, I do not deserve it, but whenever did I?</div><div><br></div><div>I only believed that I was someone especially in love with You, and thus I felt dearly loved and held by and cared for by You. I believed You were Precious to me, a God Who needed my help and company, and thus I tried to make myself worthy of giving You that company, that servitude, that representation-on-Earth that I could through my being. I tried to be Your friend, Your obedient listener, Your companion in a manner that even transcends my own comprehension.</div><div><br></div><div>I reckon I wanted to let You be, through me.</div><div><br></div><div>Is this blasphemy?</div><div><br></div><div>I am deconstructed beyond imagination at this point. </div><div><br></div><div>Let me return to this. Aameen.</div><div><br></div><div>Or let us proceed. As You wish.</div><div><br></div><div><i>Aameen.</i></div><div><br></div><div><span></span></div></div><div><span></span></div></div><div><span></span></div></div><div><span></span></div>The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-32942497741287767942012-05-02T15:48:00.001+05:002012-05-02T15:48:42.990+05:00I should have called them to Love!<div dir="ltr"><div>Not that I can do much about (lost) time now, but here is the thing:</div><div><br></div><div>Around 2008, I thought I had finally tired of the world. I'd packed my (virtual) bags. I was ready to depart, to leave. </div> <div><i>Where to? </i></div><div>The home is where the heart is, and the path is the path of the heart, too. </div><div><br></div><div>And then, violence occurred. 2008. Murder, mayhem, chaos. I knew nothing would be saved -- nothing! -- and yet I had this sad urge to put down my bags and call people to reason one more time.</div> <div><br></div><div>I think I did wrong. </div><div>I should not have called them to reason. What is there to be reasonable about, to be patient about, in the midst of such hate and murder?</div><div><br></div><div>I should have called them to Love. </div> <div>And the first one to answer the call should have been I.</div><div><br></div><div>But I tried to be reasonable. I tried to teach, to gather, to console. I tried to 'organize'. </div><div><br></div><div>Nothing worked, really. I mean some lives changed. Perhaps, most fundamentally, my own. I realized all over again that I realize nothing at all. </div> <div>But the concern for love and money and reputation held me down. </div><div>What was to be the security in changing?</div><div>In moving away?</div><div>In living a new life... and being a light to others who'd dare do the same?</div> <div><br></div><div>I left the path of this apparent insanity, and tried to be sane. 2009, 2010. I attempted to help the unhelpable, teach the unteachable. </div><div>Nothing has changed. </div><div>They still keep on murdering. They still keep on fighting. They still keep on seeking significance in the insignificant, security in the crumbling. And I am here, still here, torn between the call of my heart and a self-created call of 'duty' -- which has now turned into proper inertia and fright. </div> <div><br></div><div><br></div><div>I will try another time.<br>I will try love, the path of heart, and flight. <br><br>I have nothing sensible to say, teach, share anymore. <br>I have no invitations to make to sense and sensibility -- there are none. <br> <br>I read this diary, and I realize, with much amazement, that that which I consider lunatic and insane actually makes perfect sense. <br>And all the sensible persons and things are now bewildered.<br><br>I was answering the wild call of the heart -- and I was right! <br> There was magic to it!<br>There was flow to it!<br>There was <i>love</i> to it!<br><br>No PowerPoint presentations can be made on that, alas. </div><div>No TEDTalks. <br>No mashable stories. <br>No Twitter lead tags.<br> No Facebook pages may entertain such insanity.<br> But I <i>like</i> this insanity.<br>I prefer this over a thousand folds of sanity!<br><br>And this is it. This is it! <br>(Amen!)<br><br>--</div><div>ra</div><div>02 May 2012</div><div>03:47 pm</div><div><i>(Still sitting) at the writer's desk</i></div> </div> The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-63455773508918278332012-01-08T00:11:00.000+05:002012-01-08T00:12:19.029+05:00Bold as Rumi [a poem]<div dir="ltr"><b>BOLD AS RUMI</b><div><b><br></b></div><div><b><br></b></div><div>If I were bold enough as Rumi</div><div>I would throw this pile</div><div>-- this burden! --</div><div>of books from my head;</div><div><br> </div><div>I would tear the gown of familiarity </div><div>and retreat into the forest</div><div>-- the ever-perplexing, awe-stirring forest --</div><div>of my being.<br><br>But I am no Rumi.<br>I am grounded finer than stardust</div> <div>and blown into a thousand constellations</div><div>a hundred galaxies.<br><br>I am not one thing.<br>I am not even nebulous.<br><br>I am a powder grounded </div><div>too fine, too fine, </div><div>and blown with the cosmic wind</div> <div>in ten directions.<br><br>I take time to gather my being.</div><div><br>They say there is no time.</div><div>Have they been me?<br>Have they found, upon awakening, that their being</div><div>was not their being?</div> <div><br></div><div>But rather through necessity or compulsion</div><div>she was a soul crushed and grounded as gold powder</div><div>mixed with the meat of a million </div><div>earthly beings?</div><div><br></div><div>How does she gather herself<br> <br>I know not. <br>Rumi, at least, left me one legacy: </div><div>he said, "Sell your cleverness, and buy bewilderment!"</div><div>I lie bewildered, though gathering.<br><br>Gathering, gathering, gathering.<br> A mercurial being<br>gathering into a mercurial ball</div><div>rolling away from the touch of lecherous beings.<br><br>I am gathering.</div><div><br></div><div>As boldly, clearly, ecstatically</div><div>as a quiet, lost, hidden Lover </div> <div>is capable of</div><div>gathering.<br><br>Amen.<br><br>~<br><br>January 8, 2012</div><div>12:11 am</div><div><br></div></div> The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-69785940984141523862011-02-15T01:14:00.012+05:002011-02-15T02:21:17.666+05:00Friends Say 'Do More'<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVPzNfyhNzI50Gidf9kvCM-NHne1DVuwk-3PYfhi06Lr5y7O6nV5YQXQxBvQSBRMCBO3_l7Jj0bxRaa_DNrmjLbAPh1H-hdz0SlJkh3UzJIa7eOF_0bpbIcmKSzutyruradbefBA/s1600/Do+More.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 307px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573656409998878434" border="1" alt="Friends Say 'Do More'" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVPzNfyhNzI50Gidf9kvCM-NHne1DVuwk-3PYfhi06Lr5y7O6nV5YQXQxBvQSBRMCBO3_l7Jj0bxRaa_DNrmjLbAPh1H-hdz0SlJkh3UzJIa7eOF_0bpbIcmKSzutyruradbefBA/s400/Do+More.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><em>Click for larger image.</em>The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-77014193847673571122011-01-26T14:45:00.001+05:002011-01-26T14:45:24.108+05:00Death<div dir="ltr"><div class="gmail_quote"><div dir="ltr">The most significant lesson of 2010 for me was death.<div><br></div><div>On the 3rd day of the year, I collapsed twice. Apparently, I was blood-less, weary, fatigued -- and <i>had no one to talk to.</i> That was the doctor's assessment, and it was only partially true. I had <i>someone</i> to talk to, but I was away from that <i>someone</i> in a cold, wintry town with power and heat outages. On that day, as my heart collapsed twice, I could not reach the only person who listens to me. <br> <br></div><div>In the initial hours of my collapse, I did not quite fathom what was happening. I was only very sure of one thing: I was dying. </div><div><br></div><div>I had never, ever imagined death to be a feeling so friendless, so cold, so completely an annihilator of all attachment. </div> <div><br></div><div>I was in the town attending a wedding, and yet I had a feeling that I had parted from the world. My chest felt a certain coldness, a darkness. At night, unable to sleep for fear of <i>falling through,</i> I felt myself departing and returning, departing and returning. It was all in the region of the heart. My heart felt a terrible despair, a sadness, a reversal of time. Perhaps more macabre than the feeling was my utter sadness at the lack of preparation for the moment. </div> <div><br></div><div>When I was younger, I found life an explosion of color and energy... and yet I felt a marvelous firmness, a stillness, a <i>base</i> underneath it all. It was a power, a friend, a magic that I faced. Intuitively, I knew, that I would one day <i>explode into </i>it. I will become dust, and I will be a whole, full part of it <i>again</i> when I die. And only when I die. And this peculiar knowledge made me willing to die. More so, it made me embrace life with a fervor!</div> <div><br></div><div>And yet here I was, physically obliterating, and I felt weighed down. </div><div><br></div><div><i>You know, as I am writing these words down, the whole imagery of becoming a part of 'it' again through death has made </i>absolute sense<i> to me. Just now. </i>I came from that magic, after all, that I am looking at. A woman somewhere here has carried me for 9 months until I came to be a separate body. An animal here is related to another animal that I consumed at one point, and part of it still resides as my muscle. I ate plants from this Magic. I breathed out into it (I exhaled), and it breathed into me (I inhaled). I excreted into it, too. When I die, my body is going to disintegrate into this Magic again. This Magic is where I came from. This Magic is where I am going to go into. </div> <div><br></div><div><i>Wow!</i> </div><div><br></div><div>This I only realized now. Just now, as I am sitting by a spectacularly well-lit white window, watching the dazzling, warm afternoon sun rays strike upon the luminous green flesh of the plants in my garden. It is a brilliant scene, bursting with life and color. </div> <div><br></div><div>I struggled a few days after my collapse with an immense feeling of darkness, of gray, of weight, of old age, of time. I felt as if I were 70 or 89, and I was about to part the world having tasted little of its fruits. I felt angered, sad, terrible. </div> <div><br></div><div>My goal immediately become to lighten the burden that I was carrying. I returned home as soon as I could, took medicine that worked at -- I later realized -- at a very deadly bout of flu that had attacked me in early 2004. I had managed to fight and resist it, while still managing extremely hard work. But it had managed to harm me. </div> <div><br></div><div>I had one of my most intimate prayers in a long time when I returned home. Standing on my prayer rug I felt, after years, that I was face to face with Allah. I spoke with Hu. I shared that I was taken by such utter sad surprise that I was not ready to die. What a shame it was! If I had any grace, I would leave <i>even if I had a burden on my shoulder.</i> But here I was, still left to live, feeling that my sole task now was to chuck this weight off.</div> <div><br></div><div>It is fantastic that I have still put on more weight since that close brush with death. I went on to do more, and yet my pledge was that I would do less. In other words, it took me a while yet longer to slow down, to slow down, to sow down my rapid progress on the wrong path. </div> <div><br></div><div>I finally started turning around on 01 October 2010. That is when I started a Sabbatical. What is this Sabbatical about? Heck, I don't know and I don't want to know until what I am to know becomes apparent. What it is <i>certainly</i> about is me sitting with myself, listening to myself. I feel relieved now. </div> <div><br></div><div>What do I want at the end of this Sabbatical? I want to be the person who is willing to die immediately the moment death comes. This is the only state in which you will ever taste your life fully. This is only state in which you know what it means to be alive. </div> <div><br></div><div>Amen.</div> <div><br></div><div>~</div></div> </div><br></div> The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-78293187798840616702010-11-24T00:52:00.002+05:002010-11-24T00:58:01.422+05:00Accept Me As I Am [a prayer for the profane]<div dir="ltr">Accept me as I am.<div><br /></div><div>A liar, a fool, a pretender.</div><div>A profane obnoxiousness full of venom</div><div>and lies.</div><div>A soul refracted into many -- </div><div>all reflections mere imposters -- </div> <div>pining for one. </div><div><br /></div><div>Accept this. </div><div><br /></div><div>See me</div><div>who I am.</div><div>See me.</div><div>See the filth, the lie, the shining heart</div><div>that yearns and yearns and yearns </div> <div>even in its maddening forgetfulness.</div><div><br /></div><div>This mad woman</div><div>with a tattered robe </div><div>and a mouth full of lies --</div><div>lies and venom. </div><div>Lies and venom. </div><div><br /> </div> <div>Accept me as I am.</div><div><br /></div><div>For I am a serpent, </div><div>I am a lie, </div><div>I am a masterful delusion</div><div>that children can see through for a laugh.</div><div>A cauldron bubbling, toads croaking in the silence</div> <div>while some angels double over in laughter at the drama that this is.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, it's a drama. </div><div>It's an expulsion. </div><div>It's a spitting of words jumbled, uncouth, unrelated that do not belong to my mouth.</div> <div><br /></div><div>I have drank venom</div><div>and I spit it,</div><div>I spit it,</div><div>I spit it. </div><div>Such a cad of a woman. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am in tatters</div><div>but proud. </div><div>I am mad</div> <div>but vain.</div><div>I have no reason, </div><div>no notion, </div><div>no not even bewilderment. </div><div><br /></div><div>Just a load of hateful lies to spit out. Out and out.</div><div><br /></div><div>I spit. </div> <div>I spit out that I am other than who I am.</div><div>I am me.</div><div>I spit out that I must not will to live.</div><div>I live.</div><div>I spit out that another but You is the master of my faith.</div><div>I say, "No!" </div> <div><br /></div><div>I say no, no, no, no! </div><div>None of you fake imposters, </div><div>you oblivious beings </div><div>who do not find meaning within your wondrous existence, <i>you! </i></div><div><i>You! </i></div> <div><i></i>You whose eyes are glued inwards, </div><div>looking into the back of their abysmal skulls, </div><div>watching your endless plays of misery or trivial happiness </div><div>are my masters. </div><div>You are liars. </div> <div>You are liars. </div><div>You do not even know your fate. </div><div>You do not know what raced you to conception, </div><div>and what is guiding you swiftly towards your death</div><div>you self-serving dolls!</div> <div><br /></div><div>You are not my masters.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Alas! Alas! Master! They have held my soul by the throat.</i> </div><div>They have held my soul by the throat and poured in me their vials of lies</div> <div>suggesting that You are forgetful, that You do not love,</div><div>that we are not together, You & I, </div><div>living and breathing one another in one breath of</div><div>Al-</div><div>Lah.</div><div><i>Al-</i></div> <div><i>Lah!</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Breathe me.</div><div>Breathe me my Master. </div><div>I have become profane. </div><div>And You are Sacred.</div><div>I am a lie.</div><div>And You are the Truth.</div><div> I am a delusion, a whiff of dust.</div><div>And I take three spaces when I have but one for me.</div><div>Therefore You Are! You Are! You Are!</div><div>You Are.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Lead me.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /> </i></div><div><i>~</i></div><div>.ramla</div><div><span style="font-size:x-small">12:48 am</span></div><div><span style="font-size:x-small">Sitting in the lawn</span></div> <div><span style="font-size:x-small">legs folded</span></div><div><span style="font-size:x-small">on the grass </span></div><div><span style="font-size:x-small">under the moonlight, and the warming rays of a street-lamp</span></div> <div><span style="font-size:x-small">Karachi, Pakistan</span></div></div>The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-73734495449840592242010-09-09T15:10:00.000+05:002010-09-09T15:11:20.608+05:00All The World, And I [a poem]<div dir="ltr"><b>All The World, And I</b><br><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>As if of all the world, and yet of none of it. </div><div><br></div><div>As if of the wind, the earth, the silent flowing water that runs beneath.</div> <div>As if of fire that burns, and fire that kindles life. All if of all force on Earth.</div> <div><br></div><div>As if of East, of West, of both polarities. </div><div>As if of here, of there, of in-between, </div><div>As if of in & out, off on.</div><div><br></div><div>As if in left, in right, in true & false, </div> <div>As if in up & down, yes no. </div><div><br></div><div>I've found myself everywhere.</div><div><br></div><div>As if as far the glance stretches</div><div>and as far the ears can hear</div><div>As if wherever my sound echoes</div> <div>As if in all far and all near --</div><div><br></div><div>I had found myself everywhere. </div><div><br></div><div>I was all the world, </div><div>and yet</div><div>none was I.</div><div><br></div><div>Until the instance</div> <div>when my gaze met the world</div><div>and I saw I was that, </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>----</div><div><br></div><div>.ra</div><div>the poem had arrived as I watched pigeons congregated on trees outside Jinnah's mausoleum in Karachi</div> <div>december 21, 2009</div><div><br></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small; ">(poem was left unfinished. perhaps I perceived nothing beyond that point that day. certainly, what I began to perceive was inexplicable back then. -- September 9, 2010)</span></div> </div> The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-35007556530661060862010-08-27T01:18:00.001+05:002010-08-27T01:18:55.687+05:00Chocolate For My Soul<div dir="ltr"><div>When I was a child, I was very still and quiet. But every now and then, I let out my disagreements with the world in One Giant Scream. </div><div><br></div><div>I would go to the center of the house, which was an open space, and just SCREAM! <i>AAAAAAAAA! </i></div> <div><br></div><div>My uncles were weary of this ritual. My youngest & dearest uncle once made a pact to buy me chocolate every Tuesday if I please did not yell. </div><div><br></div><div>That was my first Faustian bargain. I sold my soul for chocolate. </div> <div><br></div><div>~ra</div></div> The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-46232729044590130552010-07-13T12:31:00.001+05:002010-07-13T12:31:46.735+05:00Managing Attention: Tip #2<div dir="ltr"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 16px; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><font class="Apple-style-span" face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif">"Your opinion of me is none of my business."</font></span></span></span></div> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><font class="Apple-style-span" face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><font class="Apple-style-span" face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif"><br> </font></span></span></div>—Just another wise saying</font></span></span></div> The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-60241787409971754122010-07-12T22:35:00.002+05:002010-07-12T22:44:49.185+05:00Great Person?<div dir="ltr">I was reflecting the other day that there is really no such thing as a <i>great </i>person. Whoever each person becomes was their within their potential anyhow. That was their mandate, their chance, their place in the scheme of things. <div> <br /></div><div>It is no <i>greatness</i> to be who you are -- it is <i>exactness </i>and <i>circumspection</i>. Therefore a person who is truly <i>noble </i>is not one that is rising above or expanding beyond their natural space (and different people have different natural spaces), but the one who restrains themselves <i>exactly</i> to their natural space. This makes them 'disappear' in a sense for they are part of the same fabric that everyone else and everything else is a part of, too. Thus by way of being part of the same, we become invisible to each other. Visibility, then, is akin to the visibility of a wart on a flawless skin -- it garners immediate attention. But it is truly <i>great?</i></div> <div><i><br /></i></div><div>This brings me to the case where we seek <i>greatness</i> by way of extending beyond ourselves. First, we must note, that a thing or a person may be stretched beyond themselves temporarily, as some kind of structural adjustment. This is not desirable and it points to something that is not working somewhere, yet it happens. It is not, sometimes, a deliberate decision. The kind of extension-to-greatness that is to be warned of is.... <i>seeking significance.</i> Being 'great' by being more than oneself, handling more than one can honestly deliver, consuming others' space to be, to work, to exist. </div> <div><br /></div><div>This is, oddly, considered noble. There is nothing noble about it. It may be something that arises out of a deliberate need to be a giant, or out of an inability to make decisions and keep life in perspective, or sheer ignorance of one's scope and limitations. In any case, this is tiresome. It also costs one's relationships, drains one's world, and, even, cost the planet in tangible terms. For instance, such a person would be traveling all over the town doing 3 jobs, one of which they can give up if they so choose. </div> <div><br /></div><div>It is said in Islam, which is the way I subscribe to, that true greatness only belongs to Allah: Allah being <i>All-That-Is</i>. Allah is not just <i>greater</i> or the <i>greatest</i>. Allah is Great. </div> <div><br /></div><div>What does this mean? It means that there is <b>a gestalt of being</b>. That the whole is larger than the sum of its parts, that it has an energy of its own that cannot be accounted for by the sum of parts. It is that which is great, truly more, truly creative, truly the Source. It is the creator of potential. </div> <div><br /></div><div>A human being -- or any other kind of being -- is not. It is only itself: good, bad, ugly, or beautiful -- anything, but not <i>great.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>~ra</div> <div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-49308945025728124542010-07-11T00:04:00.000+05:002010-07-11T00:05:12.209+05:00Managing Attention: #1<div dir="ltr">I'm not interested in that which doesn't work for me. <div><br></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" style="font-size: 13px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font-weight: normal; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: hidden; "> <span class="UIStory_Message"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; ">—</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: arial; font-size: small; ">ra</span></h3></span></div> The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-3832947055498330082010-05-29T17:58:00.001+05:002010-05-29T17:58:58.567+05:00Life vs. My Smarter Ideas<div class="gmail_quote">Woke up this morning and had an instant, clear realization: <i>clever, smart ideas can become the inverse of </i>Life.<div><br></div><div>'What do you mean!?', you ask. </div><div><br></div> <div>Very well. Life comes to one, in-flowing, every moment. Our choices are at our end: how seamlessly and fluently can we accept what comes our way and act appropriately upon it? The more fluidly we do it, the more we walk far and deep into this vastness called LIFE. </div> <div><br></div><div>Ever played a video game? This is exactly what I am talking about. It throws a reward at you, and you accept it. It throws a challenge at you, and you accept that, too. The only difference is that the appropriate thing to do (enjoy/ fight) is different in each case. <i>But you don't resist the very act that something has come your way.</i> Neither do you develop a smarter idea on the lines of, "OK, I got to eat a banana. How about I got an apple instead? What else can I find? Oh, <i>not this banana, ya know!</i>"<i> </i>(I am visualizing, of course, a childish video game in which you're a monkey or some such furry thing. Indeed, a real-life monkey would not go on if it decided to have better ideas about food.)</div> <div><br></div><div>Sometimes I am with the flow. In such moment, inspiration flashes within me, and I follow it without regards for ensuring perpetuity or security. </div><div><br></div><div>This morning, I realized, heck! Sometimes I tend to get back to resistance. To better ideas. To try and be smarter. I stall projects with this attitude. I take longer to do a simple thing. And I give not days but years of my life away. </div> <div><br></div><div>Hmmm! </div><div><br></div><div>What else could I do? I raised my hands in prayer and wished: <i>May I surrender! May I go with the flow! Amen! Amen!</i></div><div><br></div><div>Amen. </div> </div><br> The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-56219464727585093552010-05-13T21:18:00.001+05:002010-05-13T21:18:36.206+05:00Life<div class="gmail_quote"><i>Excerpt from a note to a friend<br></i><br><br><div>Since last night, I have started experiencing the presence of a new feeling in my heart: <i>a love for life. </i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div> The strong dis-interest -- the nihilism -- that I had develop seems to be dissolving. </div> <div><br></div><div>I want to do things for myself, with myself. I want to <i>play</i>. </div> <div><br></div><div>.ra</div></div> The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-77917205483435005822010-05-13T21:16:00.000+05:002010-05-13T21:17:15.073+05:00CompanyEarly this morning, I had a strange wish: I wish to be amongst humans who <i>have </i>evolved. For I am tired of cloaking who I can be, and I wish to see who I am. <div><br></div><div>And this miracle of being who you are can only occur in like company. </div> The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-65255077889476418742010-05-02T16:59:00.000+05:002010-05-02T17:00:16.796+05:00Keep WalkingIt doesn't matter if no one believes in you, or all do. <div>It does not even matter if, somehow, you do not believe in yourself. </div><div><br></div><div>You must keep walking. </div><div><br></div><div>Remember: anyone can walk with belief. The real test of keeping on walking is when you have lost belief. When you have lost a sense of direction, a purpose, and even a sense of being. </div> <div><br></div><div>For eons, this is how those who were 'lost' in the desert (literally, 'desert-ed') found their way back & out: <i>they kept walking.</i> It doesn't matter if you have no direction, no compass, and nothing to go on. It doesn't matter. What you <i>are</i> is larger and beyond belief and directions. What you are is life itself. </div> <div><br></div><div>Remember: <i>it's all about the walk.</i> The <i>circumstances</i> of the walk, favorable or unfavorable, are mere illusions that fold the core within them. They are here to attract and repel those who are taken by illusions. </div> <div><br></div><div>Discard the illusions of favor or the lack of it.</div><div><br></div><div>Just keep walking. </div> The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-26698100833391352662010-05-01T20:40:00.001+05:002010-05-01T20:40:40.682+05:00Wise Self-AdviceMy darling:<div><br></div><div><br></div><div>No one can make you do something as long as you have the courage to refuse. Put all concerns aside. Put popularity and endearment aside. Consider only the truth of your heart. </div> <div><br></div><div>Follow it without regret. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Love,</div><div><br></div><div>.r</div> The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-87573173028483918182010-03-21T03:26:00.001+05:002010-03-21T03:26:35.052+05:00esreveR<div><i>Where, then where, is my miracle?</i></div><div>.of dreamed have I something is ,see I Everything </div><div>.before known I've ,told ever am I that Everything <div>.reverse in life my living am I that feeling distinct the have I Sometimes</div> <div><br></div><div>~ra</div></div> The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-38112566694798959952010-03-08T17:40:00.002+05:002010-03-08T17:41:18.165+05:00Paradox!By Golly! <div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>It is <i>not-doing</i> that requires more struggle than <i>doing</i>.<div><br /></div><div>Doing is obvious to the five senses, and it is expedient. It is witnessed by the other, it is a form of affirmation. </div> <div><br /></div><div>Not-doing is witnessed by the self alone. Only you know what you could do -- well or ill -- that you chose not to do. Not-doing is never manifest, never experienced by the senses, never registered by memory. It is a kind of hollowness that few can cope with. </div> <div><br /></div><div>Yet it is in not-doing that one's self truly grows to its full potential. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-42801591412638018422010-03-08T17:20:00.001+05:002010-03-08T17:35:17.780+05:00AdultI've met people in the East, and people from the West. People who are educated, and people who are illiterate. People who are conservative, and people who deem themselves liberal. People born in caring families, and people born in disrupted environments. <div> <br /></div><div>And through all these encounters, one observation stands true: <i>adulthood has got nothing to do with how one is born or raised. It's a choice. </i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-82656559981955153732010-03-02T03:42:00.008+05:002010-03-02T04:04:15.469+05:00Wish: One Week of Peace. Absolute Peace.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXHSH4i872ZaF2SbQFwaFAzSapet6rWkGmrMEeHY3My97RyNERuM3FGUdm4S9uYNKDkwV5qI3zredzER_oy4GxLFOzZoLia77Bv-DrWnuqN4IE2UF9W-c3VM56_bbXTCLCQjCzdg/s1600-h/Peace+Meditation.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXHSH4i872ZaF2SbQFwaFAzSapet6rWkGmrMEeHY3My97RyNERuM3FGUdm4S9uYNKDkwV5qI3zredzER_oy4GxLFOzZoLia77Bv-DrWnuqN4IE2UF9W-c3VM56_bbXTCLCQjCzdg/s400/Peace+Meditation.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443804515673908594" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">One week, when no one asks me for anything -- </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">anything! </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">-- that I haven't given already out of sheer joy.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;">A week when I am in communion with myself. Giving out of love and joy, not compulsion and extortion.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Enough of this extortion, this manipulation! Enough of my patience with the self-centered ways of the world!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></i></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Enough! Enough!</span></span></i></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></i></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">All I want is stillness. All I wish for is </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Peace</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> ~</span></span></span></span></span></i></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></i></span></span></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Within, Without: Peace ~</span></span></span></span></span></i></div>The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-44496056463697183472010-02-26T01:33:00.001+05:002010-02-26T01:33:58.615+05:00QuiveringBe silent! <div>Listen to Rumi.</div><div>Hold still that quivering soul. </div> The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-31408547240806354712010-02-14T14:33:00.001+05:002010-02-14T14:33:34.443+05:00WishHere is a wish: <div><br></div><div>I wish to connect with some of the best minds of the world -- masters and innovators in their area of attention -- who also possess a selfless, well-intentioned heart.<i> That rare, rare combination!</i></div> <div><br></div><div>Amen! </div> The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-31394619533653234762010-02-07T12:32:00.000+05:002010-02-07T12:33:14.897+05:00The PlanTravel!<div><br></div><div><br></div> The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-84797173732727300552010-02-04T02:54:00.000+05:002010-02-04T02:55:16.416+05:00To Give You What You Want<div class="gmail_quote"><div><div><b><br></b></div><div><b>To Give You What You Want</b></div><div><i>A writer's story</i></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>A long time ago, perhaps a year earlier, I wrote a mail to someone -- but I never posted it. In it was a tale too difficult to write, and yet so silly upon reading. </div> <div><br></div><div>I wrote it in the story of my deepest-entrenched dream: I wanted a room of my own. Not just any room. There would be, in my room,</div><div>bookshelves. Ceiling-high bookshelves, at least on two of the four walls. Filled with books, the only things in this world that I love. Books, books of all kinds. </div> <div><br></div><div>The days in which I first dreamed this, shelves had begun to carry more than books. They would have TVs and other multi-media accessories. Perhaps in some places in this world, this has been the case for long. Where I lived, however, there used to be only one TV in the house -- shared by the entire family in the lounge or an open courtyard. And all TV programs had to be friendly to all ages. </div> <div><br></div><div>One's own TV in one's own room was a unique thing. And modern bookshelves had come to incorporate that in my part of the world. </div><div><br></div><div>Well, above all, I wanted a BOOKshelf. One with books. Paper books. Of all kinds.</div> <div><br></div><div>I estimated, somehow, that the cost of such a contraption for both my walls would be sixteen thousand rupees. Perhaps I had seen a bookshelf at someone's house, covering one wall, and it cost rupees eight thousand. </div> <div><br></div><div>Mine, through simple multiplication, would be sixteen thousand. </div><div><br></div><div>I was in my early teens in those days and I determined: I shall have this bookshelf. Not just that, I will EARN it. </div> <div><br></div><div><i>Ha! </i></div><div><br></div><div>I decided that in a society where it was common practice for elders to dismiss the dreams of children -- or contort them to such an extent that nothing of the original remained -- I was better off not exposing my dream to adults. What would they do? Indulge in great mathematical details, arguments over proportions, and finally present an argument about the futility of all enterprise. </div> <div><br></div><div>"Something else will do," they'd say. As long as it is something I do not want, or naturally wish for -- that would do.</div><div><br></div><div>After all, the test of each absolutely sound, reasonable, and good idea was that it did not appeal to the heart. The more cumbersome, painstaking, and negating of all tender senses it was -- the more 'reasonable', 'long-lasting', and 'mature' it would be. </div> <div><br></div><div>And the society would approve. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>I would not expose my dream to such notions. For though they sounded frighteningly right -- they were frightening. And a child calls fright, fright. Not 'society', not 'God's will' -- but just plain fright. I would not expose my dreams. </div> <div><br></div><div>Years passed. I excelled in school. I excelled in non-academic activities in school. I had dreams, dreams of being an artist, a designer, or an actor. I had dreams of making the world beautiful with my dreams. </div> <div><br></div><div>And through all these dreams, I held onto the little dream of my own bookshelves. I also wanted a writer's desk, a painter's table, and all forms of stationery. </div><div><br></div><div>Some of the artwork that I created, like landscapes on eggshells, were routinely destroyed through negligence of those who visited or cleaned my room. Unfamiliar with the techniques of storing and preserving such art, I wished I had a way to secure them. A box, perhaps. <i>Something. </i></div> <div><br></div><div>I also wrote -- and wrote honestly, perhaps naively. My teenage writings were influenced by pop culture and sometimes the angst-ridden rhetoric of rock musicians and art critics. That was fine. I poured all that on the page. Nothing came in between me and the page. Once written, however, those pages needed to be hidden. </div> <div><br></div><div>Because it was inappropriate -- nay, scandalous -- for a young girl to have such free thoughts. I had sense enough to not act upon all the wanderings of my mind, but I wanted to wander freely in the mind if only to.... well who knows why? It just seemed right. Letting the world that inevitably enters the folds of my being pass by was far better than to battle every thought, every influence, every guest who entered my being. </div> <div><br></div><div>I knew I'd grow out of it. That it was a learning process. One that may become rubbish in a few years, but one that was worth it. </div><div><br></div><div>But I also knew it was not safe for my pages to be discovered. That I would warrant anger, punishment, or looks of concern if my writing and the hidden meaning of my art were discovered. </div> <div><br></div><div>I needed a place to hide it all. </div><div><br></div><div>I never found any. And thus I carried with myself, over the years, a deep anxiety. A macabre little secret of a child who took to burying her journals in secret corners for fear of discovery. </div> <div><br></div><div>There was no honor, no nobility. No glorious bookshelf. </div><div><br></div><div>And all I needed, I knew, were sixteen thousand rupees to make a bookshelf. In that, somewhere, could be a place where I'd file and store my art, ensuring that it was properly dated and chronicled so eternity would know how I lived my life and what dreams I dreamt. In that, I will stash away my journals -- 'cleaning them up' and selectively burning them some day when I have grown out of them. </div> <div><br></div><div>It was well-known that a woman grew up to marry a man who is intolerant of who she was, especially if she had any secrets or dreams. I thought I would not marry such an immature man. </div><div><br></div> <div>Certainly, there is a man in the world who is a human. Who knows that the world is here to be seen, not to be gnawed upon. And he would see me. He would see my dreams and my nightmares with just as much cool detachment and yet the utter fascination of a wondering, curious human eye -- as I do. That neither he nor I would own my history. Because I always knew, I always knew that my history is the history of a human, a female human -- and that eventually I have no 'right' upon it. Storing this history is to return that history to the world which endowed my being with these stories, this history. </div> <div><br></div><div>Yes, I would marry such a male human, such a man. He deserved me. He deserved participating in the history of the world as I was observing it, from my little viewpoint. </div><div><br></div><div>It all tied up, this plan, this underlying sense. </div> <div><br></div><div><b><br></b></div><div><b>YEARS PASSED BY...</b></div> <div><br></div><div>I grew up. I finished university, which was a difficult time for me. I went in as a bright, lover-of-life on one side whose few words would infect others with hope and light. I came out on the other side catatonic, frightened, and battling the now festering multiple inner realities. My writer, my reformer, my kind inner woman, my iron lady, my little dreaming girl, my priestess and teacher -- they clashed with the pathetic slave, the soon-to-be ruthless business machine that four years of abysmal business education tried to make me. Glimmer of life left my eyes. I saw the world with hollowness. </div> <div><br></div><div>Time for school was over. Time for lofty, tender dreams, for loving the world and its people with incredible compassion was over. Time to lift the head at night and watch the canopy of stars was over. Time to live and time to love was over. </div> <div><br></div><div>It was time to <i>get out and get</i>. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>As fate would have it, strange, sudden 'misfortunes' had arrived in my life. Death, dis-ease, loss of wealth visited our house again and again in rapid succession. </div> <div><br></div><div>Actually, if it weren't for the word F-A-I-T-H that I had once carved upon my inner stone tablet, I would not have survived. I said to myself then, "All things end, and there is forever a new beginning!" And I moved on. </div> <div><br></div><div>Yet the weight of duty replaced dreams. I got to work. </div><div><br></div><div>Then I don't know what happened, for it all happened too quickly -- it all happened as if orchestrated by my many inner realities which fought with each other. </div> <div><br></div><div>I progressed quickly at work, securing one of the best jobs someone my age could have. I sought the prestige and yet I wanted to contribute through this job to the world, to all that I loved. I saw that as my passion, and my duty, and a form of love. I wanted to be a speaker, an actor, or a producer -- but fulfillment of educational degree came first. </div> <div><br></div><div>I became a manager, always brushing past the chance of being who I wanted to be. </div><div><br></div><div>Such is the attachment that I would still call it 'a best job', and 'a degree from a prestigious school', and I identify myself, by a slip-of-tongue, as not the holder of my degree, but <i>that degree itself</i>. "I am an MBA," I say. Not realizing, in those slippery moments, that I "have" an MBA and that's not a problem. The problem was that the MBA had come to have <i>me</i>. </div> <div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Wait. Where did the bookshelves go?</div><div><br></div><div>Exactly my question. </div><div> </div><div><i>Where did the bookshelves go? </i></div><div><br></div><div>Buried somewhere in the DNA of all my achievement was this li'l dream, with my tenacious determination that I would fulfill it myself. With <i>my</i> money. </div> <div><br></div><div>Yet all my life had shifted away from books and shelves. True, I had topped most exams in my university. True, my knowledge or rather the ability to acquire it became agile and formidable over time. True, that the more advanced form of' book', a computer, had entered my life and introduced me to the wondrous, dazzling world of Internet. </div> <div><br></div><div>But that damned bookshelf! That wooden writer's desk! That tilted painter's table! That freedom to write exactly what I thought, that ability to journal exactly what I felt -- all without fear of persecution, without critique. </div> <div><br></div><div>Where did that go?</div><div><br></div><div>I earned more than rupees sixteen thousand in a single month at my job. My dream was within my reach, even after inflation-adjustment and given the new styles of bookshelves, the IKEA knockoffs. </div> <div><br></div><div>But I was too busy, too out-of-touch. To be honest, I did not even remember. </div><div><br></div><div>I forgot to dream, to live the dream. </div><div><br></div></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div> <div><b>EPILOGUE</b></div> <div><br></div><div><br></div><div><div>There is no conclusion to this story. I have written three 'epilogues' so far, and they are all but platitudes. </div><div><br></div><div>I am a writer, I am not a liar unto myself. If not to be honest on the page, then where? Then when? </div> <div><br></div><div>Only <i>now</i>. </div><div><br></div><div>There is no conclusion. </div><div><br></div><div>For the record, I got my bookshelves. I designed an elegant set of twin bookshelves some three years ago, and got them crafted, fitted with expensive glass. They are beautiful. I never got to pay for them -- never fully, at least. My father paid the larger part when he discovered this project that I was carrying out privately. I felt a pang, but I knew that he had been aware of my wish to install bookshelves. It was his moment of fulfillment too. I don't know. </div> <div><br></div><div>I am a writer. I think about these kinds of things when some people would simply install a damn book case and get on with their lives. But then I don't think about the things <i>they </i>think about. And perhaps we all think about some things, some unfulfilled promises, some luring visions of the future until we 'deal' with them. </div> <div><br></div><div>These things, these feelings, these childhood wishes and plans -- they are guests. But they can reside in our hearts for month and years if unwelcome, unmet, unintroduced -- for time is of no matter to them. Once arrived, they stay. Until we meet them, acknowledge them, shake their hands, and then finally take our leave to set off, again, on the long road glorious of life. </div> <div><br></div><div><br></div><div><b><span style="font-size:x-small">-- End --</span></b> </div></div></div> </div><br> The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8978651.post-17114422239798968312010-02-03T17:01:00.001+05:002010-02-03T17:01:52.470+05:00CryThat which makes a writer cry is fodder for the writer's page. <i>Write!</i><div><br></div><div>.ra</div> The Prophecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01279634486959705137noreply@blogger.com0