Time's flying. Fuck man. Its 4 years, 2 days to the day Kishore and I walked into Persistent Systems' offices, with high spirits and dreams of a colourful future. So much's happened, and nothing's really changed. I still love the same girl, I still work in IT, I still dream about making a film, Amma and I still have those long discussions, I still have great friends. Thatha's not around anymore but I guess we've gotten used to it. I dream about him a lot though, especially since the last few months.
I've been thinking about what exactly art is. Deliberately shaped in a series of drafts and it's a product. Just the first draft and its indulgence. I guess we need art to feel less lonely, to give us an escape route from the illegible mundanity of everydayness. I don't know. But I guess an average man is not an aesthete anymore. We've become consumers, from critics. Passive witnesses to active participants. We laugh half-heartedly, understand little, rarely go beneath the surface, sleepwalk through most days, never question, fear love, frown upon fantasy and strangle imagination. I don't know if civilization does this to you but I'd like to believe it was better in the past. Poetry was a way of life. Now we're content to be automatons. Free thinkers were prized, now they're accused of being deluded.
I used to share almost everything here once. Now I don't care. Nothing seems new or exciting or worth sharing. I tell myself, who the fuck wants to read this shit. Nobody cares. Everybody wants to make sense of his own life. No, not everybody, I guess.
I liked Tamaasha a lot. Rahman's music makes everything seem all the more special. I'm loving Paul Cronin's Herzog on Herzog. What a guy Herzog is. Philosopher, athlete, warrior, hustler, poet. That book is probably the 21st century equivalent of Aristotle's Metaphysics, where he asked What is the best way to live? Fuck I know about Aristotle. I'm just mouthing words I heard from tertiary sources.
I can see myself turning into a grownup and I hate it. Maybe its inevitable. And to be fair, its pretty organic. But I can't believe that the cynical, cruel, sinful man that's staring back at me from the future is me. I'm unable to give up on the pleasures of the past as easily as others seem too. The past is way more secure, more cozy, more predictable, sweeter, beautiful. The future might be better but I don't really want to leave the shore. I don't want to build a better life elsewhere, I'm happy with what I have.
Which, infact, might be the biggest gulf between us. She wants to see, to travel, to explore, to embrace the possibilities of the wide open world. I'd rather not have something than lose it. When you won't accept something new into your life, you will never be sad when it eventually, and inevitably, leaves you, right? I know its not a fantastic life but I'm a man of modest ambitions and limited needs. I'd live contentedly in a Malgudi or a Macondo than take a space shuttle and fly to Mars. Leaving something is so painful that I'd rather not even have it.
I don't know if any of it really makes sense. Back to good old blogging days when I ranted and let the stream-of-consciousness be. But this isn't art. Its everything art oughtn't be- boring and conceited and stupid and definitely does not celebrate the human spirit. Except its real and honest.
Why should anybody give a fuck though. Sucks.
I've been thinking about what exactly art is. Deliberately shaped in a series of drafts and it's a product. Just the first draft and its indulgence. I guess we need art to feel less lonely, to give us an escape route from the illegible mundanity of everydayness. I don't know. But I guess an average man is not an aesthete anymore. We've become consumers, from critics. Passive witnesses to active participants. We laugh half-heartedly, understand little, rarely go beneath the surface, sleepwalk through most days, never question, fear love, frown upon fantasy and strangle imagination. I don't know if civilization does this to you but I'd like to believe it was better in the past. Poetry was a way of life. Now we're content to be automatons. Free thinkers were prized, now they're accused of being deluded.
I used to share almost everything here once. Now I don't care. Nothing seems new or exciting or worth sharing. I tell myself, who the fuck wants to read this shit. Nobody cares. Everybody wants to make sense of his own life. No, not everybody, I guess.
I liked Tamaasha a lot. Rahman's music makes everything seem all the more special. I'm loving Paul Cronin's Herzog on Herzog. What a guy Herzog is. Philosopher, athlete, warrior, hustler, poet. That book is probably the 21st century equivalent of Aristotle's Metaphysics, where he asked What is the best way to live? Fuck I know about Aristotle. I'm just mouthing words I heard from tertiary sources.
I can see myself turning into a grownup and I hate it. Maybe its inevitable. And to be fair, its pretty organic. But I can't believe that the cynical, cruel, sinful man that's staring back at me from the future is me. I'm unable to give up on the pleasures of the past as easily as others seem too. The past is way more secure, more cozy, more predictable, sweeter, beautiful. The future might be better but I don't really want to leave the shore. I don't want to build a better life elsewhere, I'm happy with what I have.
Which, infact, might be the biggest gulf between us. She wants to see, to travel, to explore, to embrace the possibilities of the wide open world. I'd rather not have something than lose it. When you won't accept something new into your life, you will never be sad when it eventually, and inevitably, leaves you, right? I know its not a fantastic life but I'm a man of modest ambitions and limited needs. I'd live contentedly in a Malgudi or a Macondo than take a space shuttle and fly to Mars. Leaving something is so painful that I'd rather not even have it.
I don't know if any of it really makes sense. Back to good old blogging days when I ranted and let the stream-of-consciousness be. But this isn't art. Its everything art oughtn't be- boring and conceited and stupid and definitely does not celebrate the human spirit. Except its real and honest.
Why should anybody give a fuck though. Sucks.
1 comment:
I will read mama. Four years :O
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