Its takes just one day in a year to officially register the fact that from that day forth you are a year older, as if that’s a standard upgrade function that gets run annually- a special day, wherein you download the latest patches and are thus ready for the next 365 days.
Growth, happens gradually through a lifetime. Its not sudden spurts that get triggered on the day of your birth but rather by the cumulative experience gathered perennially. How does a person grow? Time is but one factor- isolate a person for a year from company and society and any interaction; deprive him of reading and speech- what would his growth be- absolutely nil! Our social circles, our friends circle, all the situations and earth-shaking events we’ve mulled through, the times of quiet contemplation, the passion-driven arguments and peace initiatives after it, principles that have been modified through circumstances, the sweet ephemeral heady rush after a hard-won success and the bitterness and resolutions built upon failure- each and every one of these instances contribute in equal measure to growth, but are lost in the one-day celebration that ensues.
Our dreams, goals even our likes and dislikes undergo a variety of changes year in and year out. Even a span of 24 hours can wreak havoc on an individual’s personality and outlook. Yet at the end of it all, it gets boiled down to a single grand event wherein none of the important days are remembered- but rather a congregation of those nearest to enjoy having survived another year. After all if each painful memory were to have been relived what would have been left to celebrate? Instead humankind, as always, adopts hope and embraces luck by multiplying the joys of having stayed alive with kith and kin- and move onward and away with courage abreast and best wishes at your helm, you ride out to face the tumultuous year ahead…
Thursday, August 31, 2006
That We are; We Are
What this seemingly cryptic statement implies is the veritable truth buried in each one of us- uniqueness. From childhood on we are constantly pushed to vie perfection, as if such a state were possible or natural. Even nature herself does not pursue perfection- for who among us could scorn the curled petal of a dainty rose saying the roses should have exactly this much curvature and such and such texture- there are so many things that defy quantification and cannot be meted out; but each one is an embellishment to perfection itself. A gnarled old tree looks far from perfect yet its beauty lies in its twisted old limbs.
Following a similar analogy, each one of us is precisely what we are. If all of us could sustain perfection without effort- what would the future generations have to strive for? Instead each of us has a store of talent, a personality with attitude to match, and faith, hope and perseverance in whatever measure we decide to arm ourselves with, and off we go. We set out into the world with heads held high and proud hearts, determined to conquer it all. We face comparisons and competition, all in a rather constricted effort to prove ourselves. For we measure not us with our own scales but rather with the gilded scales of others- and this leads to our downfall.
Why? Because each one of us knows none as best as our own selves and thus are the ideal judges of character; what would a total stranger be able to gauge from 2 weeks of conversation about you that you have been unable to garner despite your many years. People who crave others opinion tend to passively accept it and ensure its fulfillment- they believe it all too much to ensure its realization. Instead had they sown this blind faith into their own tasks and strengths surely better things would have been got.
Ultimately with our thoughts and our feelings, each of us is an ode to the infinite cycle of life thriving- what we shape ourselves into is contingent on us alone, and no other. Our dreams, opinions and emotions are what empower us to define ourselves, our experiences shape and educate us. All of this culminates to eventually define who, what and why we are… and who better to direct these answers than we ourselves, in all our glory. So seek not treasures that roam but instead strive to seek that within yourself- something that’s valued ten times more; for seen both through light and dark- that which we are; We Are.
Following a similar analogy, each one of us is precisely what we are. If all of us could sustain perfection without effort- what would the future generations have to strive for? Instead each of us has a store of talent, a personality with attitude to match, and faith, hope and perseverance in whatever measure we decide to arm ourselves with, and off we go. We set out into the world with heads held high and proud hearts, determined to conquer it all. We face comparisons and competition, all in a rather constricted effort to prove ourselves. For we measure not us with our own scales but rather with the gilded scales of others- and this leads to our downfall.
Why? Because each one of us knows none as best as our own selves and thus are the ideal judges of character; what would a total stranger be able to gauge from 2 weeks of conversation about you that you have been unable to garner despite your many years. People who crave others opinion tend to passively accept it and ensure its fulfillment- they believe it all too much to ensure its realization. Instead had they sown this blind faith into their own tasks and strengths surely better things would have been got.
Ultimately with our thoughts and our feelings, each of us is an ode to the infinite cycle of life thriving- what we shape ourselves into is contingent on us alone, and no other. Our dreams, opinions and emotions are what empower us to define ourselves, our experiences shape and educate us. All of this culminates to eventually define who, what and why we are… and who better to direct these answers than we ourselves, in all our glory. So seek not treasures that roam but instead strive to seek that within yourself- something that’s valued ten times more; for seen both through light and dark- that which we are; We Are.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
A Blank…
A pure white virgin sheet of paper- what a glorious sight that be! Plain, empty and full of possibility. The mind will race away with its thoughts, traveling through space and time, but how many will be retained, the slow hand will determine. From carving and etchings to pens and recorders, numerous devices there are, but how can you capture the flitting and journeys of a thought no force can bar.
A blank sheet is present today, a sheet fair to view; but what to fill and mar its visage so new. A poem perhaps that speaks of beauty; or perhaps an epic of yore, Or would the whiteness be spoilt if it contained of witty sayings and repertoires. Surely it befits the substance of love to be preserved in its sheaf; or perhaps of an adventurer’s tale, a leaf.
Would a befitting essay on Nature’s grace, let fall this whiteness from its rightful place? Would black ink suit its texture or better red and blue in conjecture? A heavy edict of philosophy or an edict that descries democracy, would surely enhance the parchment’s native purity. A picture or a thousand words, may fall into literature’s purse, and the pristine sheet of white, would transform to everyone’s delight!
Or perhaps twas not meant to be filled at all, and let it remain as such, to enthrall. For what dilemma could be greater than, the subject matter of a simple blank. Were that Shakespeare or Milton to try, I am sure their answers would echo mine. For no author, artist or poet as yet, would rue what a blank paper could beget…
A blank sheet is present today, a sheet fair to view; but what to fill and mar its visage so new. A poem perhaps that speaks of beauty; or perhaps an epic of yore, Or would the whiteness be spoilt if it contained of witty sayings and repertoires. Surely it befits the substance of love to be preserved in its sheaf; or perhaps of an adventurer’s tale, a leaf.
Would a befitting essay on Nature’s grace, let fall this whiteness from its rightful place? Would black ink suit its texture or better red and blue in conjecture? A heavy edict of philosophy or an edict that descries democracy, would surely enhance the parchment’s native purity. A picture or a thousand words, may fall into literature’s purse, and the pristine sheet of white, would transform to everyone’s delight!
Or perhaps twas not meant to be filled at all, and let it remain as such, to enthrall. For what dilemma could be greater than, the subject matter of a simple blank. Were that Shakespeare or Milton to try, I am sure their answers would echo mine. For no author, artist or poet as yet, would rue what a blank paper could beget…
Never Fit In…
Ever had that problem when you never feel part of the herd.
I, for one, have always enjoyed the distinction of being the oddball. At home, my impulsive reading sets me apart from my physically active counterparts, through school and college I struggled to find a fit, experimenting with various groupies to determine my fit. I wasn’t hi-fi: nothing hippie or groovy about me; not the freak-out kind either- parties are alright once in a while, but I prefer my bedtime reading any day. Was never a geek either; I got good grades but nothing to categorize me to the genius cadre; sports were an extinct pastime as far as I was concerned- the safest game was one that involved only mental faculties- this ended my association with the field too. I had a passion for reading fiction. That allowed me to survive isolation for what is company to a good story. I even tried the gossip-monger club but my social status kept my stories on the mildly entertaining segment- I lacked the storyteller touch.
One thing I was proficient at was language- I could pen poems without much effort- ones that rhymed, possessed some meter and dwelt on a single subject. This, I used that to my advantage. Somehow people warmed up to the idea of having poetry written on them. And thus I amassed a circle of friends. Amongst them again, there were those I was willing to tear myself from a book for and those whom I was tolerated, barely, as part of a group. Even though now I was connected to people, I still relished the times when I was by myself- all alone in class eating my home-packed lunch. Nothing mattered as long as there was a tale. And there were those gut-wrenching times when I had to harbor the silence and solitude, yearning with all my heart for a friend. Never did I fit…
But over the past few years, it has changed. I have friends I know and who know me. Not because of what I write but because I’m me. Because I have certain traits that make me akin to them. Though we’re separated, I still know there’s one group I can always fall back on. One bunch of people who’ll worry about me, call me and think of me now and then. When that happens- an unexpected call from the blue, that’s when I know where I fit…
I, for one, have always enjoyed the distinction of being the oddball. At home, my impulsive reading sets me apart from my physically active counterparts, through school and college I struggled to find a fit, experimenting with various groupies to determine my fit. I wasn’t hi-fi: nothing hippie or groovy about me; not the freak-out kind either- parties are alright once in a while, but I prefer my bedtime reading any day. Was never a geek either; I got good grades but nothing to categorize me to the genius cadre; sports were an extinct pastime as far as I was concerned- the safest game was one that involved only mental faculties- this ended my association with the field too. I had a passion for reading fiction. That allowed me to survive isolation for what is company to a good story. I even tried the gossip-monger club but my social status kept my stories on the mildly entertaining segment- I lacked the storyteller touch.
One thing I was proficient at was language- I could pen poems without much effort- ones that rhymed, possessed some meter and dwelt on a single subject. This, I used that to my advantage. Somehow people warmed up to the idea of having poetry written on them. And thus I amassed a circle of friends. Amongst them again, there were those I was willing to tear myself from a book for and those whom I was tolerated, barely, as part of a group. Even though now I was connected to people, I still relished the times when I was by myself- all alone in class eating my home-packed lunch. Nothing mattered as long as there was a tale. And there were those gut-wrenching times when I had to harbor the silence and solitude, yearning with all my heart for a friend. Never did I fit…
But over the past few years, it has changed. I have friends I know and who know me. Not because of what I write but because I’m me. Because I have certain traits that make me akin to them. Though we’re separated, I still know there’s one group I can always fall back on. One bunch of people who’ll worry about me, call me and think of me now and then. When that happens- an unexpected call from the blue, that’s when I know where I fit…
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