Turning Points (The Nice Ones)

Remember waking up one day and realizing that things are anew and will be different henceforth? Remember feeling that zeal that no words could ever put into perspective? It might be vague but okay.

You need new songs to associate new stuff with. The old favorites are riddled with oodles of nostalgia that could write its own symphony. You need newer ideas even though you probably have enough on your table already. Heck, you probably want some wonderful and new shared experiences. Feeling excitedly a little giddy is funny and inspiring for a bit.

For most of us the existential dread is put aside at least for a few days. For once you’re ready to be disappointed a little bit even if you hope that it wont be the case. Its a good start already.

The best you can do is wish yourself the very best and hope for even better. At least for once in a long time, Carpe diem was like your middle name and it felt great.

Here’s to more wonderful days as these and as many turning points.


Burn For New Perspective

Perhaps we weren’t the best ideas of the past at some point. So forget the past because nostalgia is a curse. It gives happiness a lot less incentive when happiness is rooted by it. Worse, we might just be the future’s unwanted children. So why do we count? Should we just off ourselves? Not quite. The late Emil Cioran suggested that its pointless killing yourself because you’re too late anyway.

So go on.

I suppose once in a while we ought to burn ourselves down to bone and ash. Strip out every bit of ourselves we once deemed essential. At least this might put us in a position that begs new perspective. It would probably be painful. But if saturation isn’t your forte, I recommend a dose of fresh perspective. Pain is a small price to pay in this regard.

We might be pointless beings hovering around in some sort of saturation till our end. It works out because we are expendable. But that’s not all that bad. It opens the possibility of overcoming yourself. After all, could it be you? That you’re holding yourself back and that you are negatively expendable because someone imposed themselves on you? Don’t take my word for it.

Anybody could go on about being oneself but who do we credit any nuance of individuality to, if we are unwilling to shred it down to bits and look at ourselves?

Claim yourself. You are your own right. After all, the late Harold Laski said that rights are claims. Why should you be any less?

For The Little Things That Memory Reminded Us Was Ours

I am thankful that coffee did not make time feel like it was faster that it already was. Even with all the coffee, I wanted to savor those little pauses that I could commit to and take a breath. Often a breath of nostalgia. I would love to stop. Stopping is an impossibility and I will have to do with a pause. I try my best to make it seem like infinity.

‘Hello Memory, my old friend. Was it ages since the last time? I am here to just listen.

Nostalgia was never a reason to miss anything. It makes everything. Dreams are rooted in our pasts, and so were mine. The present really puts distance into perspective. I can’t say whether perspective is a metric for potential madness and yet here we are and that’s okay.

‘So what was ours?’

Being the moment was ours. A humble effort at feeling infinity while it lasted. They were little because they were moments, yet momentous because time became somewhat meaningful and self determined. For the little things that Memory remained us, happiness was probably one. I don’t remember at whose expense because it is always the case with happiness. At least I remember I was there. That is at least ours to own.

‘What we remember is a construct of infinity.’

Take me home one last time. I was in bed with infinity. I don’t remember if the nuances were absolute or not, but I was there. Enthralled with perspective, I did not want to leave but every moment took me further away, as it does with all of us. In between all of these were endless infinities. The essence of experience is the only thing undiluted about Memory.

‘It is time to go now.’

Jouissance comes to check on me in a while.

Pals ‘n Blues

Ever had friends who makes your soul and not just your day? You know, folks who transform mere existences into meaningful experiences. Apparent misfits in harmony. Who could ask for better?

If life was a scale in music, these guys make life magical. In an aroma filled with the angel’s share and tales gone in smoke, memories were made.

These people, the real deal when it comes to being a friend makes time truly want to be cherished. Life really becomes worth living with. Life get a little jazzy because emotions here are all about the blues.

Making it Count

It isn’t always about having to look forward to something, sometimes it is about never reliving the moment. Moments as memories make reminiscing utterly painful.

The issue about something feeling wonderful and almost wonderfully forever is that we forget that time is just as fast. Unforgivably fast unfortunately.

No matter what we do, we’ll probably never really make it count. Time projects its inhibitions on us, makes a moment nothing more than a relic of thought. The past makes everyday a rite of passage.

The smoke, vapors and spices, take them in. Don’t miss the colors, contours and contrasts either. Listen to the harmony, dissonance and voices. Everything is memory eventually, eventually forgotten. Compose, don’t merely write. Dance and run, don’t walk. Let regret find you unforgiving. We might get only so much, or lesser.

You only live and never relive.

Like Polaroids, memories too decay. Make it count. For good.

You wouldn’t want the euphoria to die out, would you?

21 | Light


To cut loose ends is so easily confused for cutting ourselves from what drove our little passions. And it’s easy to forget that. It’s easier to forget ourselves. Don’t. Stories made us and continue to do so. The only sensible thing to do is to become a story, a bigger part and chapter or at least a cliff hanger. Memories are stories we come back to, it’s only fine to capture that experience and become that, to be someone’s reason to come back and stay. Some passion writes these stories and there’s a little bit at least in all of us.

It’s not that hard to be the embodiment of a wonderful experience. As ideal as it sounds, it isn’t far fetched. After all, stories we think are almost ideal exist and they still come with some humanness to them. If this can be projected, it can be. Our longing for something makes us misread something in all innocence. To misread is to become and we’re all in this together. It is a case of adoration and admiration. If only we don’t cut ourselves off what makes us. We must not, because we make someone else inevitably.

A life of light.

Of course, some of us were here at one point in time and stayed. Some of us forgot. But for the one’s who didn’t forget, it’s like being 21 but older.

Eventual | Ending

I suppose it’s okay to let our emotions saturate for a bit, or maybe a bit longer. It’s the kind of crippling that one could get used to. Does this become worse because it’s forgiveable? Some of us have left and never come back, one way traffic sure does come with it’s own set of perspectives. Perhaps this makes us a refugee in our own thoughts, and a traveller in our consciousness. There’s always a certain pressure to this because emotions aren’t neutral. There is intent and interest. Little gasps for breath with a blur for a view in a blank mind, the saturation eventually numbs.

There’s always an overwhelming darkness evening under the brightest sun. Life sure does underplay in the face of emotional animosity. It sure can be terrible if emotions let us interpret life, let alone live it. In amidst of all this saturation, definition and distinction fade. Everything is bleakly similar. I suppose everything isn’t meaningless just yet. There’s always reflection even in still, saturated and almost dead moments. Though not entirely colorful and bright, there’s still a little something. And above all there is an ending.

Endings are wonderful in itself. Endings are the only sense of time for saturated emotions. There really is no turning back, there’s only an end. In itself, there’s always a beginning in the finer print of all that ends. Saturation can go only so far and loneliness can get only so personal. There is always something eventual after something ends. There is always something.