A Mausoleum for Memories

Dear Reader, 

The clock has struck eleven. 

A thin yet austere blanket of clouds has materialised over the once starry sky, like algae on a stagnant pond. I can feel the stars stray farther away into the unknown as the wisps of pale violet consume them. 

But the goddess of love now shines brighter, exuding her enigmatic allure. 

I have found a neat corner on the verandah for this rather unexpected session of documenting absurd contemplations. Accompanying me is a modest white pillar which is subtly conveying its disregard for 'meaningless' imagination. I am tempted to engage this silent gentleman in a discussion about reality, escapism and the meaning of it all. 

The harsh surgical glow of a fluorescent light dramatically bathes the rocky broken soil of the front lawn which is now occupied by a lanky, drowsy stray dog which was intermittently breaking its nap to peer at me with curious, melancholic eyes. 

                                                 

Somehow the parched ground, festooned with jagged stones and crafty weeds feels comforting. It is raw, natural and unpredictable, yet very familiar. As long as I could remember, this little piece of chaotic earth had not changed with the times.  

                                                                                         

Most of the things that constitute our lives are as impermanent as life itself. The sole reason why a moment is born is to be felt in the present and to be reminisced, cherished or forgotten in the future. I am simply a hoarder of such memories and moments. It is nothing but a feeble, vain effort to slow down the wheel of time. As the world loses the lustre that I once thought it had, I rummage through these memoirs in search of familiar faces and moments. The past is my poison of choice. 

It seems that I am rambling on as usual. But all these writings are simply digressions with vague direction, so I need not apologize. I do not really know what has prompted me to pry open these pages again. As the already infamous year is drawing to a close, perhaps it is time to pause and chew on all the food for thought that the universe has served so generously. God’s own country has gracefully given me that pause. 

I will not delve into the obvious details of the past few months as I am not brave enough to take the risk of being awfully banal. 

Perched upon my frugal throne (with modest lumbar support), I witnessed days vanish into thin air and goals that deviously morphed into deadlines. The walls of my home were no match for the noise of the world which still managed to hunt me down and possess my mind like a thirsty parasite. 

Amidst the noise, I managed, somehow, to find windows of mental silence that were accentuated with pungent tea and staring out of literal windows. Lights which once roamed the roads were now working overtime in the rooms of countless bored souls. A stark, omnipresent layer of bone white fog sharply divided the landscape. The sky was usually timid. Every once in a while, it would explode into shades of dull green and yellow, making the silhouettes of the distant plateaus look menacing. Silence was the new common language. 

But nevertheless, I would say that it was not all bad. Solitude and focus can never be all bad. 

As Roethke wrote:

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

 I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.

 I learn by going where I have to go.

A sharp buzzing drew my gaze to the fluorescent bulb once again. It seems that this particular dragonfly was in search of something too. It frivolously drove itself into the glass casing, hypnotized by whatever it was in pursuit of. This passionate pursuit was abruptly cut short by a beady-eyed gecko in search of a hearty meal. Fate in this instance was definitely cold-blooded. 

The year has laid waste to the glorified sense of power and control that we as a species possess, but it has also served as a testament to the fact that the cogs that keep our world ticking are relentless and robust. But what makes us true marvels of nature is our ability to be more than machines operating like clockwork. Sentience has gifted us with unpredictability. It is our greatest strength and our weakest link. 

I sometimes find myself obsessed with patterns, symmetry and order, often forgetting that it is important to take a good look at what the cogs and clockwork are actually running. Maybe this is one of my attempts to do so. 

As I savour my brief escapade and search of perspective, I notice that as time passes, it takes a willing mental exertion to find the magic in ordinary occurrences. That is one superpower that the nascent, childish mind loses in time. 

Even the magic of the universe falls flat once its tricks are revealed. 

In the corner of my eye, I could see a vague figure moving in the dark. No sooner had I set my eyes upon it than the mysterious entity dashed into the foliage. It was a little fox, whose night had only just begun. The dog on the front lawn, however, is sound asleep. 

Nothing can be heard except the occasional rustling of the coconut trees and the distant trilling of an old bicycle bell. The moon can be barely seen, tucked away under a sheath of impenetrable clouds. 

The hour seems fit to pause my musings. The lure of blithe slumber entices me. 

Until next time, I bid adieu. 

Yours Truly, 

Sreerag