A friend sent the following:
"What they call reality, is a pretense my friend,
You lose yourself in figuring out the trend,
You decide in the wake of emotions,
Decisions, like emotions, are never permanent!"
-- Rajni Mishra (Copy-(left, right and center))
I took the last line and came up with this:
Futile emotions are never permanent - the mind always finds better tenants to replace them.
What was otherwise a bright, peaceful day is suddenly transformed into a cold, dark night as the storm clouds of doubts swirl ferociously in the sky of the mind. Memories, silently contemplating the events that triggered them are startled by the thunderclaps of skepticism. Eyes shine out over the hill. It's time. The storm has awakened the wolves of the past. The angry wolves gnash their teeth in eager anticipation of tearing the memories apart and reconstructing them as they please. It's better to leave before the wolves sniff them out.
Their only hope is to join forces with the current thoughts. They summon the present and a bar materializes in the distance. A faint glow and a dying chimney smoke guides their way. This is their only shot.
Like strangers to their own town - they enter, all soaked in the bar of floating thoughts, with a troubled look on their face and a resigned weariness in their eyes. A friendly conversation with the bartender represented by the current thought and a drink of remembrance satiates them. Loosens them up. Relaxes their nerves. And then they want to know what is going on in the town of your life. Not much has changed since they last visited you.
The memories make small talk with the rest of the crowd. Try to blend in. But there are some futile emotions who have made a permanent residence by the pool table of life. They neither want to play the game nor do they want to leave their spot. All they do is stand by the pool table, with the cue stick of decisions in their hand and a confused look on their face.
They stare at the rest of the bar. And when their eyes meet someone else's they quickly turn around, and try angling the cue stick from multiple directions at the solid and stripe choices scattered on the table. They neither think nor do they analyze the game at hand. All they want to do is take or pretend to take blind shots. It's their primal urge to show that their presence is justified.
They look at those old memories with cold, harsh eyes. It's their joint. No stray memory can walk right in and steal the attention that they have been shying away from. The memories smile and the emotions wince. For these memories, however old that they may be, have come back to remind the bartender about the events that they represented. And as the bartender listens while the memories close in, the once hazy, wrinkled, bedraggled memories become clearer in sight and sharper in contrast. They now represent experiences, not merely a chain of events that they were born from.
The futile emotions break a bottle against the table and walk towards the bartender. The experiences summon the current thoughts and all the fragmented pieces fuse together, growing in size, while the intimidated emotions, not wanting to test the patience of these forces, start withering away.
These experiences offer the emotions a parting drink, which the later stubbornly refuse and angrily shake their fists in the face of experiences while they disappear in thin air. The bartender hands over the cue stick to the experienced players and gets back to work. Behind him is sign on the wall which says:
Futile emotions are never permanent - the mind always finds better tenants to replace them.
Outside the bar, the howling ceases, followed by a sharp whiplash and a whining sound, which is soon replaced by the chirping of birds.
"What they call reality, is a pretense my friend,
You lose yourself in figuring out the trend,
You decide in the wake of emotions,
Decisions, like emotions, are never permanent!"
-- Rajni Mishra (Copy-(left, right and center))
I took the last line and came up with this:
Futile emotions are never permanent - the mind always finds better tenants to replace them.
What was otherwise a bright, peaceful day is suddenly transformed into a cold, dark night as the storm clouds of doubts swirl ferociously in the sky of the mind. Memories, silently contemplating the events that triggered them are startled by the thunderclaps of skepticism. Eyes shine out over the hill. It's time. The storm has awakened the wolves of the past. The angry wolves gnash their teeth in eager anticipation of tearing the memories apart and reconstructing them as they please. It's better to leave before the wolves sniff them out.
Their only hope is to join forces with the current thoughts. They summon the present and a bar materializes in the distance. A faint glow and a dying chimney smoke guides their way. This is their only shot.
Like strangers to their own town - they enter, all soaked in the bar of floating thoughts, with a troubled look on their face and a resigned weariness in their eyes. A friendly conversation with the bartender represented by the current thought and a drink of remembrance satiates them. Loosens them up. Relaxes their nerves. And then they want to know what is going on in the town of your life. Not much has changed since they last visited you.
The memories make small talk with the rest of the crowd. Try to blend in. But there are some futile emotions who have made a permanent residence by the pool table of life. They neither want to play the game nor do they want to leave their spot. All they do is stand by the pool table, with the cue stick of decisions in their hand and a confused look on their face.
They stare at the rest of the bar. And when their eyes meet someone else's they quickly turn around, and try angling the cue stick from multiple directions at the solid and stripe choices scattered on the table. They neither think nor do they analyze the game at hand. All they want to do is take or pretend to take blind shots. It's their primal urge to show that their presence is justified.
They look at those old memories with cold, harsh eyes. It's their joint. No stray memory can walk right in and steal the attention that they have been shying away from. The memories smile and the emotions wince. For these memories, however old that they may be, have come back to remind the bartender about the events that they represented. And as the bartender listens while the memories close in, the once hazy, wrinkled, bedraggled memories become clearer in sight and sharper in contrast. They now represent experiences, not merely a chain of events that they were born from.
The futile emotions break a bottle against the table and walk towards the bartender. The experiences summon the current thoughts and all the fragmented pieces fuse together, growing in size, while the intimidated emotions, not wanting to test the patience of these forces, start withering away.
These experiences offer the emotions a parting drink, which the later stubbornly refuse and angrily shake their fists in the face of experiences while they disappear in thin air. The bartender hands over the cue stick to the experienced players and gets back to work. Behind him is sign on the wall which says:
Futile emotions are never permanent - the mind always finds better tenants to replace them.
Outside the bar, the howling ceases, followed by a sharp whiplash and a whining sound, which is soon replaced by the chirping of birds.
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