Will O' the Wisp

Truth is relevant and irrelevant to mind with and without pain. What if all of them are knotted in the most complicated way possible? It sounds crazy, but it feels worse.  You question the universal truths of life, of existence because you can no more bear the pain of hearing what is not true, so you believe what is not true as the truth. You know it can't be true, you know there is a universe and it has nothing to do with your petty existence but you still question. You keep questioning until you fall asleep, you question the trees, the butterflies and the bugs around you. You question all of them around you and expect an answer. No one answers. Is it because it is the truth and you were in denial? You question again, the more you question, the worse you feel.  Truth is relevant. An imposed truth also is a truth to you.Truth is relevant and irrelevant to mind and time.

This has been just a week of this quarantine period and I'm already frustrated with this. And after all these months, this morning a news scared me for the first time. The thought which occurs to me frequently from then is what if this is it for me? This would be worse than I thought, I wouldn't be able to meet anyone for one last time. A few days before I read a letter of Kafka to Milena (which I also shared on Facebook) where he wrote "Perhaps we don’t love unreasonably because we think we have time, or have to reckon with time. But what if we don't have time? Or what if time, as we know it, is irrelevant? Ah, if only the world were ending tomorrow. We could help each other very much." Where is the end? Has end ever come with a warning before?

There is a person, and there is no one. There is love and there is nothing. There is a world and there is darkness, there is a way and there is space. There is autumn, there is spring, there is summer and there is scare. There are long canopies, there are illusions, there are music, there is happiness, there are people and there is no one. The no one is sometimes a tunnel, it leads you to all the former things, the no one is peace, the no one is your heart, the no one is everything you wish it to be or it is null  (:

We live between significance and insignificance. We live between being significant and insignificant. While there are some people who are very significant to you and you suddenly realise how small a part of their universe you are, you also feel happy with the passerby who behaved very sweetly with you, with the classmate of yours who was very kind to you,  with the kitten in the street who walked with you till the roads diverged. The sadness is as much as the happiness. The being empty is as much as being full. You confuse, you comprehend, you embrace and you grow. 

Sometimes you can't speak. You find yourself amidst so much happenings, good and bad, that you lose the strength to speak. The words in your head jumble up so badly that you also don't know what exactly to speak. The smallest words like no, yes, okay, thanks feel more difficult than the last novel you read aloud. But then you can't stay silent for long. You have to answer what happened to you. You have to go through interrogations and judgements. You have to know why this has happened to you and how you are better than so many other people. This continues for long. For longer than all the time you were feeling worse about yourself. The banyan tree which promised you to hide from the rest of the world either has died or is so far from you that even to reach it, you need to speak. Hence, you speak. You speak in the language of lesser loved people. But you speak.

The other ponds in the village are far away from hers. She desires to go there but she is too small to swim across rivers. The duckling doesn't like her pond at all because she is the only duckling there. She sees fishes, tadepoles, swans, flies but she doesn't see another duck. Still she assumes it to be her home. She doesn't understand home is where heart lies, she doesn't understand "family" is what we choose. She tries to swim in there, she tries to swim out of there, she can't. The little boy who comes to the pond everyday to complete his homework has grown older. He doesn't have homeworks to complete anymore. She doesn't grow. The paperboats sail away. The duckling tries to follow them. They drown. She doesn't. Sometimes they are picked by someone on the other side of the pond, she sails in vain. The flies buzz, the people talk, the birds chirp, every sound becomes malignant to her ears. She doesn't talk. She doesn't have an...

There is a favorite kid of mine who happens to be the daughter of a professor of Jadavpur University. She is in class five. Sometimes we talk about the story books she recently read and my honours syllabus as she finds it very fascinating how we both have Shakespeare and Bond in our syllabus. And she talks a lot. Like a lot. She can talk for any length of time with anyone (I assume) Today she got a few plantable pencils, pens and notepads from school as children's day gift. She showed me all of them. And while she was keeping the pens and the pencils back in the case, she asked for the cover of the nib of the pen (the itty-bitty white transparent cover). I told her it's not important, people throw it away. She said, "I'm not among the people who live in the astonishing world of nothingness" . . . She is in class 5.