The last time I had decided to scribble nothings was on February. My mind had been constricted on the odes of poetry, on the rhythm of rhyme and the discernment of reason, none of which I could succeed in achieving.
Life decided to rattle by into a pit of chaos, and the ladder sadly became an illusion (sorry, Petyr Baelish). It has been almost four months since, and though I cannot validate my absence as some glorious tale of self-searching, I can admit that I have found myself a newer pit of chaos.
My poetry has long since abandoned me, rhyme refuses to flow though my pen anymore and instead, I have found safe haven in stories, books and the free fall of words. I have traveled, read, watched and touched the intangible world and almost, almost, found a haven of constancy in the endlessness of time.
Stories have arisen thus, some with hope, some with tragedy, but time has passed ever since. Even now, I know not what I scribble, perhaps these words mean nothing, perhaps they do. Maybe I just seek to write something after a long while without any cause, any preconceived notions, any aim of establishing a deeper meaning. Perhaps I want to immerse in nothingness through these words. Hence they hold no meaning, no rationale, these words are nothing but chaos.
And in nothing, lies every human’s greatest enemy: Time.
In my travels, I have seen cities, cities that war with time to establish a sense of permanence, as fragile as it may be. Perhaps these cities are deluded too, who can ever hope to defeat the woes of time? But perhaps, in the conundrum of time lies the one poison that we all seek: hope.
So I visit cities with hope.
Hope that ensconces parks and cemeteries, alike. I see colors, I see a painter who paints for his three daughters, a series called Mr Rabbit Head, a rabbit-headed man who follows three balloons (his three daughters) as the darkness chases him.
And in his blue, white and red drawings when black tries to spill a little more, I find the sword to battle in my war with time. I strive alongside Mr Rabbit Head, I find my courage to grip hope a little tighter, as Mr Rabbit Head holds the three strings of those red balloons that sway in the breezes of gaiety.
You see, the human condition is a tragedy. We are all running after an intangible desire to establish coherence in the form of a legacy. And our shadow, our time, runs out beneath our feet. Perhaps our enemy almost wishes to share himself with us, but the universe stops him to. He, too, perhaps is a broken slave at the hands of infinity. And us pitiful mortals become his enemies too.
Perhaps Time is just a lonely soul sitting in some Irish hill and counting sunsets to infinity.
And so I scribble stories about him. Stories where ends and beginnings merge into one to become a pit of nothing, to become time itself and not time at all.
And after months, I find the courage to say this out loud, my own battle with a lonely Time ongoing, that I, a pitiful mortal, strives to find coherence, a hint of worth for her own legacy to make.
Until then, I scribble, I cherish, I live, and I hope.
The Indian Bibliophile