I stopped searching for the parochial extensions of my existence. Like every youth, burning inside and blinded by definitions or interpretations I fought well like Don Quixote raging a war towards the shadows of existence and vanity. A paradox disembarked on the shores of my constructive paradigms and horizons of freethinking. Like a free bird, soaring in the endless azure sky, I trumpeted shadows of thoughts, which were repressed, subsided, othered, and muted by the elite, socialized, civilized, classed reverberations of social acceptance and code of existence in a society living in vanity. Freethinking was not free. It was unconsciously dragged unto an undefined school of thought that never existed in any frameworks of existing or non-existing theories and philosophies. I was a paradox within freethinking. It made me an aesthetic and cognitive anarchist I am now.
Celebration of soul transcended the limitations of somatic existence. Expectations were removed from the realm of my life as I travelled further. I met people or they just occurred to me, total strangers from nowhere became the fellow travelers. I was just occurring or things were just occurring to nonbeings of mine for beings. Everything felt feather-like and floated on air like a vessel on serene mighty waters. Turbulences and chaos mattered nothing, but begot beauty and happiness. I began to laugh at myself and wondered over the mighty universe I was consisting of. Wow! The whole body of mine sensationalized over the thought of that magnificent existence and being. Self-libido or narcissism fetched the abundant possibilities and potentialities of existence. I became everyone while being a single being. The narcissist of mine taught me to love myself first, see myself first, treat myself first, celebrate myself first and thus my Narcissus established my Self within me over the Other.
Yes, I am a narcissist, but not selfish. I celebrate myself, I love myself and I love my life, what else I can be other than a narcissist? I have prayer now as Gibran prayed, “Keep me away from the wisdom which does not cry, the philosophy which does not laugh and the greatness which does not bow before children.”
‘Who am I?’ was the next question I had to answer. An age-old and worn out thought extinguished within itself was worthless to answer, but I had to; everyone has to. I didn’t struggle much. I found my meanings, destinations, purposes, existences and myself and I became multiple; myriads and myriads of selves and extensions of a single source of energy. I am many now. In addition, I don’t have to answer the question ‘who am I?’ I am you, everything born and unborn, living and dead; I consist of that source of ultimate energy which resides in every atoms, molecules, particles structured into different forms, figures and elements like, earth, water, air, fire and space. I carry them within me. Moreover, you do the same. I do reflect the ultimate source of energy that you call god. I am. I am a universal being consisting this vast mighty universe including you. We are same; we share the same source of energy. Therefore, I am universal. I am everything.
The realm of my feasibility struggled itself for a stationed equilibrium of responsibility and existential credos. The inconsistency of romance often withdrew into her absence of silence. Pastness of the present and presentness of the past along with the absurdity of the future, but the certainty of death made things more vivid, though with a thin frame of perplexities. The universalized-self triumphed over the perceived meanings and languages of humanity. Time was captured within the gargantuan vacuum of absolute nothingness. Sound was trapped, light was trapped, and momentum of the entire vicious cycle was trapped within that monstrous non being of nothingness. Theoretician of mine demanded the theoretical frameworks and critical edges of every existing being and non being, the imagination weaved a web of beauty and absurdity of that chaos and serenity that originated from the absolute nothingness and caused it.
Apart from the structural and dual or multiple paradigms of existential life, of theories and definitions, of meanings and of beings I fall in love. I am a little Keats singing the songs of love. A conscious undertake from the self to keep the equilibrium of life and imaginations. My love for her incinerates the credibility of human comprehension over the archetypal images and experiences of love. I’ll never get exhausted writing about her and the unusual affair of love ever told. She’s beautiful without knowing it. And possesses charm that she’s not even aware of. she’s like a trap set by nature-a sweet perfumed rose whose petals cupid lurks in ambush. Anyone who has seen her smile has known perfection. She instills grace in every common thing and divinity in every careless gesture. Venus in her shell was never so lovely, and Diana in the forest never as graceful as the girl.
‘I figured I shouldn’t talk to you, but I don’t see how that’s going to make any difference. Can I pretend you’re not in love so that it’s easier for me to talk to you?’ she said. Of course, she has the right to remain silent. After all, what’s the difference that going to make? For years, she was silent and that was in her silence he loved her. She is to him what oil is to fire, the infinite raging of the flame will never be quenched even in the infinite vacuum of silence or thoughts. His love for her was molded within the matrix of time and space; the somatic propinquity of the physique and the affability of hers were the afterglow of that infinite, telepathic love. Her silence would never make any difference. ‘Let’s dance!’ I said.
‘Why do you still love me? Do you know how hopeless it is? Give up dude,’ she said. “’Hopeless!” it’s a pointless broken sword; it is hope that keeps us alive. Why do you still love your life? Why do you still keep yourself alive? Someday you are going to die; we are all going to die and just think how hopeless our life is. But do we mind that hopelessness? No, never! We still love our life, we dream, we love, we weave eternal memories and love, and we celebrate our life. Nothing is hopeless ’cause we don’t know what’s next’ he said. (While Czechoslovakia cuddled for love, it was a bright sunny long day in Antarctica and raining all night in the Desert. And he was crowned the king of Utopia! )
‘But How...? Oh my god! How would you remember me! You haven’t ever seen me. How will you remember me?’
‘Your sign is there everywhere around the globe!’
‘Around the globe? … Why are you flattering me?’
‘I’m not flattering you.’
“Your sign is there everywhere around the globe.” I looked at her again and again. Each time I looked, she became a celestial body of luminous anticipation. Everything else around me was changing , she was my constant universe, and it seemed as though it was a constant constellation of madness, love, beauty, hopes and anticipations; she was crowned the queen of that vast tranquil and luminous celestial universe which was drawn into mine. Time was trapped within the monstrous vacuum of eternity and disentangled into the fragments of memories and dreams. The infinity carved the picture of her and it started to bleed, my heart was torn apart into pieces of her memories and fragments of thoughts. And they begot their offspring, it continued! Somewhere far from the imaginations of a non-being, the zephyr carried the songs of Rumi and it lulled the celestial world of mine.
“You’ve so distracted me,
your absence fans my love.
Don’t ask how.
Then you come near.
“Do not . . .” I say, and
“Do not . . . ,” you answer.
Don’t ask why
this delights me.”
I need to break the bubbles where I’m fragmented in to thoughts and memories of her. I’m suffocating, unable to breath I’m dying in her thoughts. I’ve compromised my life, thoughts, words and what else to say, the time became constant and I myself became a non being. Am I losing myself? I’ve almost became a carrier of her memories. What are her memories? The world might have never heard of such a love story! They were memories of a soul I chased anonymously. The dominant and gargantuan presence of silence conceived the memories of a soul. Somewhere in the vast and timeless universe, my soul met her and ever since then she was mine. Memories contradicted each other for the given definitions of their existence in the normalized paradigm. How can one indulge in the memory that has no physical entity? Memory always associates us with the people, things, time, past, with which and whom we have had enough time to spend. However, how can you have a memory of a person you have no idea about? That’s not possible, but it occurred to me. I don’t know how! I have no answer. And I let it be so, what else I can do other than experiencing those memories. Thus, I vanish into the thick mist of the crowd. The incredible crowd always attracted me, there was something within it. It’s good to see people if you are one among them. The difference is not synthetic, but inborn. It is great to be one among the crowd, unknown and anonymous. How the crowd defines me? Within the flow of its currents and mind, I move like a feather. People move, like a crowd, they are distinct and unique, but they have a common end. Eccentricity defines them. Removed from them I elevate me towards the heights of eccentric ecstasy! Burning cigar on the lips vomits the memories; the apparitions of them disappear into the vacuum of air. An unknown thread of common end unites crowd, they appear from nowhere and melts down into one. I fall in love with her more than ever when I’m in the crowd. The company of the crowd drags her into mine. Undying memories webbed a tremendous universe around me. The richness and hollowness of their talk as they move throw up an air of mundane gullibility. A cigar is singing its funeral song on my lips. The desires of mine are burning the cigar. The remnants of dirty jokes and spurring resonances wait for their burial. The liquid oblivion in the chalice of fire burns my soul. Shadow of mine draws a dirty picture of a sybaritic soul on the walls of a modern hut under the light of 40 watts bulb. A Bohemian rhapsody plays behind the tumultuous sensations of my unfinished night, the serenity incinerates in to the core of my tumultuousness. The protest of my life compromises the music of melodies and rhapsodies of Bohemian sagas. And I contradict myself because I contain multitude.
The bottled poetry,
Consume me and elevate me to a non-being
Where i shall blow with wind and lush with the waters.
And there i shall become everything,
The whole universe.
Let the bleeding heart never be healed,
Let it be so!
For, “it delights me.”
PS: WINE IS A BOTTLED POETRY AND I AM A POET ARBITRARILY.