On leaving/arriving elsewhere

Much like others I thought of writing a sentimental note on leaving the city for a couple of years. Then the cliched saying that the home is where the heart is reminded me of the diagram of the heart which we used to draw in school, that shattered the concept of heart much popularised by yash Chopra movies. The idea of the auricles and the ventricles and all that complications spoilt the whole romanticism that I was intent on outpouring, Nirupa Roy style, on this writing of mine. Anyway, I guess you've got the hang of it and wish to kill me now.

 Since I can remember bits and pieces of my life, the city has never let me be alone. I've found familiarity in the air as I trudged along the city in trams and buses, ferries and boats and trains. I've often felt the confidence that if I ever felt alone, the riverside would be there to make me feel that everything's fine after all. As I'll leave, I won't probably go with too heavy a heart. I'm looking forward with much positive gusto. But I'll probably be leaving with some tinges of a confused soul, a little less dreamy about things I were confident about in the past, and strange nostalgia about places that made some moments of my life breathtakingly beautiful.

Apologia

As great minds sat to rhyme out tales 
They wondered how they will be read:
Will they be like all the poets famed 
Or the ones that the readers dread. 


My heart too yearns for a little praise 
For which I sometimes selfishly write. 
But Alas, that requires a great flair, 
Which I lack, I must surmise. 


So while the clock ticks away to eve 
And boredom has gripped my senses, 
I am sure to keep my readers peeved, 
As in poetry doesn't lie my talents. 



An uncalled for holiday had left me intensely bored. Hence. :|

Overrating and the importance of the mundane

The uniqueness of love is overrated. Call me a sceptic which I vehemently shall say I am not, but the social pressure of the search for uniqueness of love can be a tad bit annoying. Love is the most common feeling that hormones induce, that comes with large doses of hatred, jealousy and other strong admixtures that people fear giving a name to, which would thereby legitimise their existences. It sustains out of habit, like the side of the bed one is fond of, or the perfect sandwiches that one can call their favourites. They are all brilliant feelings no doubt, with each sandwich, as time passes, one will become comfortable and familiar with it, though each day it's taste will not bowl you over to death like love at first sight. But familiarity breeds fondness.

 Of course, the mind looks for greener pastures that proverbially always remains on the other side which you can see but never prance upon with equally glorious feelings. I mean, the sight of the mud, the roots and the discarded chocolate wrappers stuck between one or two dead grasses do not make the best of pictures, if you know what I mean. So, while you know that the love in hand is way more boring than hunting for the two coyly tempting from the bush, you might also deduce that when the bush twit is perched upon your forehand, after a day or two it will sing in the same boring tune.

Seven billion people, and eternally hormonal enthusiasm do make the world terribly dense with people. So, there are probably millions of perfect persons out there that the cosmos decided to not meet with you because of the lack of common place in the time space continuum. So the picture ain't that romantic comedy like all the time though with apt perception you can turn your life into one, at least a mere comedy if not a romantic one. There's not much uniqueness in reality. It's charm lies in it being common, mundane and everyday. It's all in the perception, I suppose. And I guess, the sooner we learn to appreciate commonness that has in it the ocassional streaks of uniqueness of our perceptions, the closer towards peace we shall be.