Making Sense
I like writing in the morning hours, I like reading books too. I also like making sense of people around me, their anger, their smiles, their sufferings, their emotions, their stories unravelling through the fine edges of what we call life. I belong to the kind of people who feel a sense of discomfort in talking about life. Why is it so? Because life is everywhere, in the air we breathe, in somebody’s closet, in the comfort of beloved arms, in the discomfort of our body, in the wrinkled waves of death, yeah dying is life too. Isn’t it make us all pause, the certainty of our trivial fate. Halting us, making us all feel the desire to bring certainty, to secure what is temporal, to live what is not there. Maybe, this is what we all are striving for, looking for closure, enforcing the end before it begins.
Sometimes there is a thought and then it is gone. We keep on running behind it, and it is gone. But why do we forget, that, what’s gone is a thought too? But aren’t we all have our favourites, the thought which lingers more, become our beloved, betrothing us into the union, the sacred union we name it. Oh, there are rituals. Imagine a world without rituals, thoughts without pause, life without dying, fate without its fragility.
Why do we talk, why do we write, why words are important, why we are so sensitive and emotional? Recently somebody said to me,” strong emotions are not always good”. Maybe she was right, maybe not. May be these emotions define me as the thoughts, maybe these emotions are me, maybe because I do not believe in the dichotomies, maybe I have angered Descartes, Alan Watts, the spiritual leaders, maybe there is nothing like consciousness, and what we call consciousness is us, in our subjectivities.
Maybe whatever I am writing now has no resonance with anything, but even if it is nothing, it is something. Sometimes, it is easy for us to make sense of nothingness than something, which is out there, very visible, and profound. And I have no trust in what is visible and profound because what is out there, is not out ‘there’. If it has been out ‘there’, we would not be looking for ways to understand what is out there. We all do, isn’t it, finding meaning and making sense of what is out there, few do with theories, and few with the passive acceptance. And the lots like me do with seeing, reading, living and writing what is that ‘out there’, which has been left untouched and crippled. Our world, our lives are very crippled, and we are sitting on the edge of those brittle wrinkled ripples, the more we dive, the better is the liberation, the more we give words the more is the meaning. And these meanings are swinging idly in the conundrum of what we call faith. And people say to me or so do I sometimes say, ‘Faith is all we have’.
And still, I may not believe in them.
