25 Aug 2009
A long, tiring trek it has been. But it's not over yet. Twenty more steps to the peak, and the incline was at its steepest. Meursault felt weary in legs, muscles and bones, but he must reach the peak.
Nineteen done. The final step.
Done. Accomplished. Contentment. For now. With his eyes closed, he relished the moment. A quick smile later, he prepared himself to look at the world for, so to speak, one last time. The world he had lived in lay a few thousand feet below. The world thought he was a misfit. He thought he was a misfit, too. The world was a Rubik's cube, unsolved though, and he was a redundant micro-cube. Not even a cube, perhaps. A skewed n-faced, n-edged, n-dimensional piece. Maybe. An absolute misfit. He threw away the remnant of the fag and turned around. Curtains down. His back to the world. He looked at the expanse that greeted him. An expanse that filled the canvas that his eyes could see. And the tranquil waters a few thousand feet below. At the farthest point of his vision, the sky, the land and the water seemed to merge.
The waters, reflecting the blue of the sky, beckoned. The sun hid behind the lone cloud, fleeting past the top of a distant mountain. The playful cloud, the dreary Sun and the reposing mountain - the silent, uninvited witnesses to his stealthy but loud act of repudiation of the world. The breeze moved gently and the birds were returning in flocks to their homes, after another day's toil and play.
Meursault took a deep breath, looked at the waters, lifted his hands up, fingers pointing toward the sky, thrust his feet against the dry ground, and as his feet rose up, he let them go off the ground and leapt toward the sky. The sky would push him, the ground would pull, but he will float in emptiness, along the edge of the cliff, descending to the cold of the waters whose waves crash relentlessly against the immovable mountain. Moving downward in spite of himself, Meursault felt no sense of his self, as if the entity that his frame has embodied thus far has mysteriously dissolved into nothingness and vanished without a word, leaving behind no trace. As quietly as he wanted to walk out of the world.
The bamboo shadows move over the stone steps
as if to sweep them, but no dust is stirred;
The moon is reflected deep in the pool,
but the water shows no trace of its penetration*
All he noticed was the waters into which he will soon crash, the resounding noise of which will remind him of his existence. An abrupt, compulsive reminder. Yet again.
* A Zen poem
17 Aug 2009
"Br.o.k/en", Sid writes in the diary and closes it. Distraught, he stares at the guest who has been pretending to be, or indeed, unaware that he is feeling down. The guest enjoys another sip of wine and speaks for the first time. "Why you feeling low, son?"
Sid: "As if you don't know! Come on, you are God! You know how much I love her".
God has an easy smile. He tastes another sip before saying in a measured tone, "Love is not enough. You need luck. Too".
A pause. Sid stares intently at God. God acknowledges his awaiting stare. "Actually, you need loads of it. And you... YOU... you have none of it, son".
Sid is agitated and surprised. "Why!? Why me?"
"That's a wrong question, I'm afraid. I don't choose. I just throw dice. Whoever gets it, gets it. Whoever doesn't, does not. Random event".
"Ah! But you can control, undo and change anything. Randomness cannot be beyond your powers".
"Omnipotence is, I must remind, an attribute that YOU have ascribed to me".
"Have we been wrong, then?"
"Wrong/right, good/bad... Sorry, I am incapable of understanding duality. How does it matter, son? An ant believes you humans are omnipotent. But, are you?" God asks with a mocking smile.
"Don't trick me with dialectic. I want answers".
"Dialectic is your domain, son. I am a simple chap. Famous as God. Thanks to you".
Sid is in no mood to appreciate humour. "Fair enough. Later. Importantly, here I am. In love. But utterly shattered. Everything seems to be going against me. Despite my best efforts not to, I end up hurting her and inflicting more trouble. Worse, every word I speak and everything I do is implying the contrary. I feel helpless".
God is listening, with an air of indifference. He looks at the empty glass and it gets filled with wine in a moment. Sid is on the brink of a breakdown. "Life is unfair, son. Being at the right place matters. And you are not. Luck, as I said. That's how it is".
"That she is not beside me is already killing. Can I not have at least her trust and love?" Sid asks, his eyes wet in tears. "I am a wreck. I cannot recover from this".
"What do I care?" God says. Shaken, Sid feels. Pitiless. As life. A cold stare. Cold enough to freeze Sid's tears.
"Some delicious drink this is, indeed! Want some, son?"
Such is the intrusion of the tragic, when one becomes aware of the turning wheels of life
- Self, Yann Martel
17 Aug 2009
Solitary wanderer am I
On an aimless stroll
In the lonely woods
Dark as night
Shimmering in the light
Of my precious love
By an infallible stroke
Of the sword of life
Precise my failure
Staid face of fate
I wonder. I ponder
Would I be
A surfeit of feelings
Wary of words
A deluge of questions
With answers none
Sink my soul
And wring my heart
Who has heard
Of a pining heart?
Of a pining heart
Who has heard?
Alone my soul is not, though
For, she walks along
She. My soul-mate
My life, my love
Yet I seek her
Ironical it is
The mind says
The thinking mind
Beyond irony it is
The heart says
The feeling heart
Unrest becomes me
Moonless, the night
Joyless, the tread
And I remain
O, who has heard
Of a pining heart?
The pining heart
And its wailings