March 12, 2007
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insomnia in two parts - Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur
what is this life but a concatenation of sensations? of unfounded exhiliaration, spontaneous lividity, uncontested despair, intoxicating pride? what is this life but fleeting moments of flimsy insignificant whimpering protest - what is our anchor?
life in a series of photographs. your face. my heart. the confetti of late summer spreads out before us, brief as the flashblub flame of youth - and the heady illusion that it will last forever. that the overwhelmingly exhiliration of freedom, beauty, meaninglessness, this ocean of ambroisia that drowns us will last forever.
life that passes us by, as we speed along in this train running on the tracks of time, moving at the speed of weeks, then years, then decades. the blurry images that flicker into ephemeral solidarity dot our memories here and there -one breathless moment of temporal fame, one glimpse from the depths of the dark oubliette of despair that you never thought you could escape, one warm evening of laughter tinted the orange and purple of my Delhi lampshade, one soft moment of weakness when one averted glance transcended physical boundaries and sent us cartwheeling into that primeval place where people are made of downy shadows. our lives are a series of photographs rapidly passing us by, a veritable animation flipbook fed to a generation that has long forgotten the need to stop at platform once in awhile, sit patiently on a wayward bench, and wait.
life passes us by, and when it is over, what do we have to show for it?
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellarShape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men...This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
T.S. Eliot
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