Wednesday

Inheritance of Loss

At this moment I have absolutely no idea what this post is going to be about. I have simply no clue as to what is it that I am going to say in the space following. The only reason I have even begun writing this post is because I kind of like the title and at this juncture, its meaning appeals to me in a way few things ever do. So here is an idea. Why not write about the title. Not on the title; just about it. After all, as fight club mentions, we are all god's middle children. The only thing our age has inherited from its illustrious past is loss. Not wars. Not revolutions. Not genius. Just the mediocrity of a meaningless existence. We have inherited the loss of everything grand. On a social scale, we have the blame of inheriting the loss of a more fundamental beauty. On the individual, we are culpable of inheriting a life marred by petty aspirations and pettier indulgences. On the personal, the continuous withering away of the social scaffold which struggles to maintain the illusion of purpose of an otherwise purposeless life. Come to think of it, life is just a collection of chronic realizations of its futility uniformly interspersed with elaborate deceptions we call social discourse. And it is when this social discourse starts creaking beneath your feet that you begin to realize the humungous gravity of it all. The numbing hopelessness. The debilitating defeat. The crushing misery. The cruel sense of isolation. And it gnaws on your sensibilities and rationality while you vainly try to maintain the false facade of composure. It nibbles at your capacity of tolerance till you cannot take it anymore. This loss mocks your strength and brutally laughs at the hollowness that fills your skin. It eats at the glimmer of your eyes, the quintessential symbol of human hopes, the last bastion of resilience, the quiet face of the will to stand. And it makes a rubble of a human being whose life does not have anything to show for its vivacity than its ability to breathe.

In hindsight, it seems like such a stupid post. I will anyways publish it. If nothing else, I at least like the images it evoked. Makes me believe in the saying that things are never so bad that they cannot get any worse. And herein, optimism, if only for all the wrong reason, springs supreme.

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Like a particularly notorious child's tantrums, a mountaneous river's intemperance, a volcano's reckless carelessness and the dreamy eyes of a caged bird, imagination tries to fly unfettered. Hesitant as she takes those first steps, she sculpts those ambitious yet half baked earthen pots.