13th October, 2015.
Yes, before anyone starts losing their minds over this rant
after almost a month, I apologize beforehand. Unreserved and unconditional. The
illusion of a student of masters course being all about laid back and flipping
the bird (refer urbandictionary.com) is shattered like a prop glass on the hero’s
skull from the movies (yes, throw tomatoes now, this can’t get any bad). Hardly I was able find any time to sit down
calmly, enjoy a cup of tea with cinnamon stick and write, most of them were
reluctantly devoted to all the assignments (I need to stop mentioning them
here) that needed completion before the inevitably extended deadlines. Well, we
have an easygoing gang of professors.
But, as the ‘War Doctor’ said, NO MORE! No no, I am not
abandoning my studies for good, don’t be stupid! I am not that audacious,
although I wish I was! For now, no more endless devotion to the godless, cruel
theories and ideologies. No more head ramming to the subaltern thingamabob. Let’s
move out of it. Let us walk into the setting sun on the blended vista, or just
dance with the fireflies, slay dragons and kiss the princess saved! Or just let
it be and don’t die. Let's listen to Jeff Buckley and lip-sync hallelujah, while we see the departed making a toast to the ones who just arrived.
Let’s write a poem. I have a cup of tea right now on my bed,
and I know it is as irrelevant as the fact that a duck’s quack doesn’t echo
anywhere. Just wanted to set the mood, which seems to be ruined. But I can
write it anyway! The poem –
Cigarette and Virginia
a page, white, again!
so clichéd, so mundane,
so everyday!
The page still blank, just as the brain.
Cup of tea, empty,
used as a makeshift ashtray,
the blue-gray smoke still rises from the
extinguished cheap cigarette
like a figment, like a dream; wait!
Dreams! Memories!
Things that never happened, things,
which went down in the unsaid void of infinity.
And the things that now exists duly somewhere,
on a dusty shelf, with other versions of truth.
All that was gained, the entire laugh,
All that was lost, the tears (clichéd),
Every second, minute, hour, day, week, month, year
the entirety of spent
eons came back with the
silver smoke of the burnt out cigarette.
The page wasn’t blank now,
it was scribbled blue.
Just one line, a quote read somewhere, on another page,
‘life is not a series of gig lamps, symmetrically arranged –
Woolf, Virginia.’
The page was all full!” – Rishiraj.
Hey hey! What do you know! I haven’t lost my poetry yet! Not yet! too
many exclamation marks? Sorry!
Well, now I must retire to my other indulgences, maybe
another blog post after this, maybe nothing now, maybe later. So many maybe,
but then, this might turn out good on anticipation. As one of my friend says, ‘Vorfreude’!
Just don’t forget to live… ‘memento vivere’.
Love!
Regards.
