Summer Sorrow

I truly wonder why "Summer of '69" is the anthem that it is. With all due respect, the composition is fabulous. The guitarring, I suppose, is superb!
But the words? They're so depressing.. A harbinger of the melancholic existence that awaits us and is inevitable.
It isn't just an ode to our younger years. For some, it serves as a reminder of a lifestyle that they would've wanted to live, even if only for a very short while, but couldn't. "Academics!!"
For the more fortunate who did live that summer of '69, a beautiful chapter of their lives that has ended.

Which of us led that normal life that absolutely normal life, none of which we'd want to change? Are we truly strong enough to let go of every unpleasant memory and consider our childhood well-lived, opportunities well taken and decisions well made?
More so, what lies ahead? Could it be as promising and inviting as the Summer of '69?

Did we truly spend a summer in a garage, fooling about with a six-string caring not for what lay ahead? Do we hold on, still, to those companions that we shared those moments with? Did we really ever think nothing would change?
What of those who walked away.... alone?

Finding solace somewhere....

Hiya.
Truth is, sometimes one is travelling in a car or having lunch or something of the sort and all these thoughts come into one's head, with some direction or intention and one starts pondering over them and wording them laced with wit and humour. One really enjoys how it well it seems to be turning out in one's head and laughs at the merrier aspects and sobs (silently) through the melancholic ones.
So the family may think you're nuts to be laughing and sobbing at absolutely nothing, but oh well!

When you finally sit yourself down before a sheet of paper or before a laptop computer or before one's personal-blogging-secretary/sexretary, those thoughts vanish so perfectly that one feels inclined to believe they were never there at all, quite like the story-line of a Karan Johar flick or Ekta Kapoor's story-writing skills. Truth is, if we hadn't reflected over something to such an extent, we wouldn't have bored ourselves of them.

And thus I endeavour to write this entry without any preconceived ideas or intentions. So it may be pathetic. Then again, it may not. Then again-again, it may fall somewhere in between. Who knows!

But approaching more sober and serious matters, there are times when life plays a cruel joke upon you that you are left wordless and numb. That home isn't quite home any more, and something feels very empty, both inside and out. You wish to get away to a foreign land where all is fresh and new and you can shut out thoughts of the bitter reality that exists, seeking solace in oblivion, hoping that maybe when you return, time will have healed and the ordeal will seem so far in the past that it is reduced to a distant memory. Distant memory, the kind that you want to shut out, to subjugate and you succeed to the extent that it feels old and forgotten. You feel that you have succeeded till those around you bring it up time and again. And you want to get away, even if it means getting away from those who love you and those you love. But it's just too painful and distressing to be around.
Time is a healer.
But time passes slowly, when you really need it to fly.

Dream

Percy Bysshe "A dream has a power to poison sleep."

I differ. "A dream poisons sleep."

The day concludes. We return home after physical, mental and emotional exhaustion. We yearn for rejuvenation of our faculties to face another day. We yearn for replenishment of our senses, for a few hours of mental solace. We yearn for sleep.

We shut our eyes. Events of the day that has elapsed plague our minds. We push them away. They persist. We seek aid to squeeze them out of our minds. A child seeks a lullaby, an adult seeks a song.

Slowly, we begin to drift. Our physical senses lose control, but don't leave us. The mind detaches itself from them, but only almost.

We drift into an Other world. A world not very different from the one in which we lay 'asleep', yet different. Everything here is out-of-place, or rather in a different place. We may not be ourselves. At least, not in every way.

In our dreams, too, we face challenges. We are faced with many tasks to be accomplished. Yet, we cannot pursue them. Yet, the mind has no control over our physical senses. It must observe. In moments of intensity, it tries hard to hint the other self that contols our being, but cannot power over it.

Often, we are seeking for something that we may or may not be able to find. If found, it doesn't vaguely resemble what we had sought all along.

There is no reason, no logic, no pattern.... but a vague connection with our past or person. Nothing can be questioned. Everything must be endured.

We follow our other self as he journeys through a world we've never seen in person before yet is we treat it as familiar.

Nothing makes sense. Nothing fits. Yet we attempt to decipher it all. Our effort is futile for its fruit is soon forgotten by even our own self. Yet the effort is made.

Hours go by in what seems like seconds. Time stands still in the Other world.

The Other world begins to fade. From the darkness, emerges our own in which mind controls the body.

Another day.

The mind is fatigued. Yet, we must rise. Our senses protest but there is no one to listen. Another day has begun and we must rise.

When that day has ended, there is no solace. We must return to the Other world, which is scarcely constant.

This cycle is vicious. The mind is helpless. It protests, but no one listens.

Change

Isn't it funny how things can change?
Just when you thought all was perfect, everything seems new? All askew?
Returning to all that you left behind not so long ago, to find that it isn't there any more?
When you thought life is better, it gets worse.
You thought you took a step forward and found yourselves a mile behind.

The good old melodies go stale.
Brand new friendships fail.
Home is not where you thought it was.
Making decisions only because.

Is it a price for what is past? Or what I await?
Or is it simply fate?

It's Change.

"If you knew that you would find a truth
That would bring a pain that can't be soothed
Would you change?

If you knew that you would be alone
Knowing right, being wrong,
Would you change?

How bad, how good, does it need to get?
How many losses? how much regret?
What chain reaction would cause an effect?
Makes you turn around
Makes you try to explain
Makes you forgive and forget,
Makes you change"
- Tracy Chapman, Change

Winter Blues

Humour? The winters hold no room for humour.

Winter is the season of romances and heartbreak. It is a season of pain and suffering. Of suppressed grief and unbearable losses.

It is a reminiscence of fond memories and ghosts of the past, a time to share warmth with our loved ones while we emote within the self.

Come winters, we usher in a new year. Why does the mercury dip so on the last day of December? From where comes the thick mist that envelopes the city? Or the harsh rains, heartless and cold?

The mists and the rains… are they a conscience? An innuendo of our promises not fulfilled and of our misdeeds forgotten by us as we, in oblivion, welcome the new year with resolutions that may soon be rendered meaningless?

Do we rejoice with a hope of driving away the gloom? And why do I find solace in the mists and melancholy?

Winters, cold and merciless, can strip away all mask of pretence, revealing the ugliness of human nature, to the eye that bothers to see.