I
An illusionary normative fix
Everyone is someone. Staggered set of vacancies
One for each one to fit; family, work, relative adequacies
But why should that be? For Me, I mean. Why should I be, what they think of me?
Genisis, a universe beckons, from lost spaces; reality is absolute faith, created
Why should I be I ? It's obvious. Who else to be, if not somebody?
It's not easy, it's not that difficult. The brain fires up an imagery,
of shadows of the world, pretending to be more
Watching their play, we learn, to be
Not 'who' to be
Or why
I
Poems have to be preferred some times over objective descriptions through words. Poems have spaces, that are to be filled with the same imaginative space of the reader from where it had been created by the poet.
It's beyond words, the description of self. We're not even sure that such a thing even exists. Is it merely the expression of the inner pre set conditions, is that a self? Or the reflection of the social 'oughts'? Self, it is there in the faceless labourer trudging the monotony of endless fields, it's there in the self actualised artist - giving himself up for the creative change and then expression.
The continuous buffering of the real world in to the recess of our minds creates a sort of raw material, a seed that is processed, changed by our choices and then eventually made into the mature trees that dot our landscape of personality for years. The felt aspect of reality is important. It' more than merely reading a book, less than perpetual wanderlust. A sort of exploratory process of inner reflection, that doesn't always need the physical translocation. It is thus, with our stories that are felt, we create a rudimentary structure, that we inhabit later, out of the necessity of lack of comprehension of eh absolute vastness of the rest of the universe. An anchor has to be laid in form of the definition of the self, a tiny letter I in the defiance of tombs that constitute the rest of the universe.
Feeble threads, that hold us irrevocably to the grounds of our birth, don't stagnate our growth. A tree without roots doesn't grow, it wanders but withers.
As we give ourselves up for the unending barrage of stimulus bombarded through our handheld devices, the tumultuous forces of the world channelised through the tiny screens that rest on nothing but the electrons whizzing ceaselessly behind them, we should not be similarly blown away.
The constant disruptions create a discoherence, a pause in the process of being 'I'. As every image translocates us through time and space into some other reality, the various stages of which we have not adapted to, another crack develops in our continuity, till we are but fine dust, to be moulded according to the will of the outside container- the divinity of self creation is lost in the cracks perhaps.
Envisioning reality through the spectrum of belief, as its felt nature overpowers the other versions, we are left only with our choices- that make up the constituents of what it is to be real. By being proud of our disbelief, of our constant ability to question and critique, we're left finally with nothing... but fragments so fine that they'd be shaped into whatever shape that is suited to the moment.
"I" the astounding universe, depicted by a single alphabet within feeble quotations, needs to be nurtured with the promise of life that is lived, not just photoshopped and pasted in the space where it ought to have been.
