The urge to write…a sudden, overpowering desire, like the feeling of being forced to go through the merciless examinations against our deepest wishes, has suddenly taken hold of me. Thus, after having promised myself I will stop putting my thoughts into words here I am back again. Surprisingly, however, the desire to write though a peerless thing, has one fatal flaw, it simply refuses to come with the idea of what to write on. One of the biggest misconceptions or misinterpretations or “mis-potrayals” of human history is the statement that you never forget to swim or ride a bicycle. True, though the statement maybe it fails to crystallize the most important point that even though you do not forget it, it gets awfully rusted and every movement is strained. So, in spite of writing being my sole vent of my very insecure soul, I find every word strained, halted like the first steps of a baby into the new world. The difference is that the baby is very hopeful (or so we think it is…) about the world, I am still laughing at my audacity of thinking that words would come back to me again…
As I write, I reflect on the futility of our existence. We are all very busy running after an elusive purpose in our lives and in that desperate chase, unknowingly it becomes the purpose of our lives and we keep running. Unfortunately, in spite of being an asthma patient, physically unfit to run for long as my heart gets over excited at the prospect of running and starts running a 100m dash of its own, leaving me short of breath and gasping, life has refused to excuse me from jogging on this cartwheel that we call life .
There are times in a man’s life when he comes at a junction where he has to choose, or as somebody once told me, we never choose, because we never have a choice only an illusion of it, whichever you like but we start understanding that or maybe start getting used to the fact that “Zendagi Migzara”----life goes on. And, we dance along drunk in the wine of the night, exuberant in the omnipresence of our neon God and humbled by the power of our high priest Money. We adjust…make room for…give space to…sacrifice for the team…and give many more names for doing the same thing…LOSE.
The wine of the night has become our very existence, the very meaning , our only excuse for the insanity of this sane world…it has surrounded us…to the extent that whenever you see, people are falling in love with darkness…blackness defines them…we are happy with our grief…we are at home with the night yet the irony is once again we have somehow “managed”. Hats off, to this infinite human capability of adjusting… Even I love getting drunk in the El vino de la noche but what are we going to do about the hangover?