I Am Lagging Behind So

Consummation is all what you need, namely sensory level satisfactions and, if one step further, imaginative reverie, namely our discriminatory minds food. And it's consummated, or thought as, by a nomenclature attached to it, like 'the scarlet' of 'rose', and the vibes and the flow of imagination or whatever. Does it work greater? Maybe. And that's the underlining difference we human beings think as up and above, from an animal. But in the area of placidity and, maybe 'idle', mindfulness, in which we are in dire starvation, especially these days, an animal is many tiers above us. But we have our ratiocinating intellect expressed by a communicative behaviour and system, where we have gone awry so far and on as of our sickening indulgence in holding such magisterial confidence in what and how we communicate forth so, given there a situation that presents as identical to us, like a rose as a rose. So the blatant homogenisation and glossy ad posters, doing some work, but always lacking something, always there you and me gritting teeth and fuming and complaining. Because we don't care about our own way of seeing, especially being in some way familiar with our own discriminatory, narrow way of taking in and expressing so.

So I Shed Off

A spasm of fear happened to seize me when just looking across a wide floor, my fellow mates working on the other side, amid random human cries sort of self-inspiring or navigating oneself away from brooding over something. Racking my head now casually, now tad seriously by tethering my illumined wind-like being to myself, I happened draw a conclusion that this diffidence, this fear isn't so much about 'what about me, my life' as it's about an unskilled task to be performed. Once got immersed into it and knowing it, it's gone temporarily, that dooming summon bred by such lack of rational maturity, learning curiosity (partly palled by the drudgery begot fatigue that sometimes turns like into a glimpse of neurasthenia, a fleeting intimation) and being able to view it from different angles. And yes, really, such fear is really enlightening, like my learning that everything has its literacy, even for wearing an arched smirk, even for a drudge. Don't overestimate that you can walk safely.

A Rejoinder: Just A Waste of Breath

Yes, democracy, freedom of speech, and so the culture of preempting rather than listening ensued. Whatever, leave it. I have been hearing a lot so much concerned about money and women and house and vehicle and so forth. Sad but c'est la vie. But sometimes maintaining a silence answers a lot rather than positing forth verbiages against a hocus-pocus, a drunkard's maudlin gibberish, a few scattered paragraphs sort of jotted down in high intoxicated reverie, and, yes, the assurance of the bounty coming up for letting it publish in his name appended with 'former judge' of India high court.

Yes, our dear Sikyong la sounded much concerned about it in his speeches during today's programs related with CTA's Five-Fifty Youth Forum, the first ever of its kind for the shortlisted Tibetan youths from various corners of the world. He sounded sort of much affected, for a single 'rejoinder' hasn't appeared expostulating it. So I hurried myself to google it, and found it there, so bare and crude and so, so defaming the appended title, the title related with law and justice practitioner, namely the only beacon of human existence these days. I wasn't moved at all, and found it like worth not a word. The motive is clear, as it suffuses over each word.

For The Great One: The Enigma of Human Life

“The only lies for which we are truly punished are those we tell ourselves.” VS Naipaul

Murakami’s preference of projecting himself in the first person rather than in the third is so far a means not to lie to himself, like presenting himself as he delineates a scene. Thinking or being assured ‘I won’t die tomorrow’ is, for me, lying to myself. The bottom-line is how a liar can be an artist, for an artistic means of expression knows nothing about self-enlargement and vaunting and funnily shining over others. But, fortunately, everyone possesses the same artistic greatness that can be communicated through even such means like self-communing.

Such Void is Inexpressible

Despite being what it's, the dreamy world including the notion of me, my feelings and minds and consciousness, and this body, despite being the only means to reach out to the dreamy experience of infinity, namely the complete negation of such conceptual jumbles or minds or ideas of ours, wading through its quagmire, the repetition, the treadmill, holding on to a faint hope of 'better tomorrow', is really adventurous. For having such a split-second illumination on a so seldom basis, really, I think, even living is an adventure. So you can think you're a hero. Then, if tending to explore further down the meta-world as per one's endowed intuition, if you think you're doing more than just living, then don't forget that you're just dreaming.  

A New Way of Seeing Thee

A dreamy corner of a planet,
A defile, with pines howling on either side of it;
Hanging on its elegiac tune, rather reluctantly,
I happened to bump on an enlightenment--
How a great uncertainty wails.
No, it can't be so to thee.
Just a way of interpreting,
But I held it and still do so,
A great portal to a lost world
That could be just evoked, not with brushstrokes.

And thou appeared at last,
The dreamy nymph, a stoic to me,
And it could be my own way of misjudging.
But a sentient thou art that matters,
My words of well-wishing could be siphoned off
That I still fancy.
Yes, my own way again.

Then what left over other than this savvy self-projection?
That crunchy, squelchy rhythm,
A pair of heavy feet on a plane of unblemished whiteness--
Yet another beginning,
Yet another projected trail of a winding timescale.
Don't say the same boring story,
As nothing is so if could be seen from this mystic angle--
Just projection both the observer and the matter.
Then what to haste for so,
Once freed oneself by outwitting it thus?

The defile, howling pines, the enlightenment--
They're just like clowns to me now,
Not worth-brooding over.
Yet thou, the sentient one, breathe just thus,
Despite my slipped discrimination yet
Like taking thee being there that concretely.
  

Awareness

‘The tightness of sentences’, V.S. Naipaul’s words in The Enigma of Arrival, a great work of his that, for me, really proves ‘old is gold’, now dawns on me with an intimation like sense of age, energy. The tightness as so much about being periodic, not flabby, as about being mellifluous, the music. Yes, like any arts, constructing or arranging words is mostly heuristic through the labor—to master over or beyond the normal syntax, to be able to present something unique, multi-layered, captivating... Yes, it’s nothing other than being aware of oneself so far but through aging.