Capturing Time

"People like us, who believe in physics, know that the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion." - Albert Einstein

Einstein was a genius. He was a smart, witty, maniacal man but one thing he certainly seemed to lack was tact. For this persistent illusion of time is the reason an art form exists. If anyone was to say it out loud, I can bet that he would be beheaded the next day, by artists who would mutilate his body after that.

What are you saying? You ask, bewildered. It is the talent and passion of men which has created art. If time had simply passed without our existence, time would have been of little value. The enigma of time is a paradoxical one. Time, in ways is a resource at our disposal. We need it to exist but it is of little value without us. Little value to us that is, because we don’t exist.

If you were to pay close attention to the art forms we have. You will realise that all of them are an attempt to capture a fickle, fleeting moment of some intense emotion. The truth is that all of these ‘art forms’ simply aren’t ‘dimensional’ (for the lack of a better word) enough. We all grasp the writings of an author incompletely, like when energy is converted into a different form it is never possible to convert a 100% of it, some is always lost.

If truth be told I think that it’s it is impossible to convey feelings by art forms the same way it is impossible to describe a colour (go on, give it a try).

Or rather impossible to check if what you have implied is what the reader has inferred. That’s why beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder for we have no way of proving otherwise. 

Space

Among the packets of cacophony

I found a note of symphony

Among the lightning packed inkiness

I found a space of emptiness

Oh how could I resist the urge?

And not on it colors splurge?

And let calm this space be,

Uninhabited by malady

For although the labelled atrocities

Steered clear of infinities

Infinite pairs of matching rows

Gazed at the holes below

Thus I cultivate cacophony

And steer clear of infinity

I look down at the sky and sleep

For infinity’s hole is too deep

I Watch

The red flames crawl with stealth

Bequeathing them their final breaths

They cry, scream and roar in vain

Underneath the showers of drizzling pain

The sky above and land below

Became writhed ages ago

They scatter and scurry for refuge

Which we call bravery

But the wave of vermillion engulfs us all

Between love it creates a wall

The dreams shatter

Our windows rattle

I exist, shielded from existence

To all the laws I pay adherence

I sit and sip while they scorch

And all I do is watch

Longing Loneliness

    I believe that there is a certain charm in being alone. In fact the thought of being alone thrills me more than being with my friends. But why do we love it so much? Why do we crave for some alone time when obviously it is more profitable and entertaining to be with others? What is it that we really crave for when we’re alone? Is it the space and the absence people around us; is it the liberty to do whatever we want to? Then why do we get sick of it after a while? We feel terrible, like there is no one to comfort us. Then why want alone time at all? We might as well like looking at the sky through the glass, but be too scared of going outside.

   

    Perhaps we can answer this question by thinking about how it feels to be alone. The high comes first. In this phase, we feel happy. Not excited or crazy, but simply happy. Then we go absolutely bonkers, we start dancing around the room, singing or in the likewise.  Then we sit down and the revelation strikes: what is the point of being crazy if we have no one to laugh at our antics. And then we feel lonely and sad.

   

    So why do we feel so good in the beginning? I think it is because it feels like we have all the space in the world and we can spread our wings however and whenever we want to. Or perhaps we like feeling as though we are the only ones there. Or perhaps it makes us feel whole, and independent.  We like to feel like we are the only ones who matter.

    

     But the most likely answer, I believe, keeping in mind our significance-obsessed natures, is that we like feeling like we are the only ones who are doing something. And although loneliness is basically the feeling of absence and emptiness, it makes us feel like our activities are the only ones that matter. Like the entire universe is just space, and when even a little bit of activity takes place, it is as though a something spectacular has happened. It is different, amazing, shocking and great. Perhaps we like to delude ourselves in thinking that we are great. We enjoy feeling like we are significant and consequential. Even if we acknowledge the fact that we are all already unique we don’t want to be just another variation in the mercurial weather we want to be the thunder in the clear sky. We like to feel starkly different to everything around us. That is essentially how solitude makes us feel, like we are the only ones who exist.

    Then why get tired of it at all? Why not just continue living in this bliss? It is the same reason that we get don’t want to eat candies after a while. We realize that solitude is just not enough. We realize that candies don’t taste that good unless we have to eat the disgusting eggplant before it. And although this is a very controversial topic I still will use it as a base because well, controversies are totally my thing. Solitude is sweet but it causes cavities. So as a dentist would say, “You can have some solitude but it will form the loneliness plaque that will make your disposition full of cavities and very unattractive.”

Hello dear readers
I thank you most sincerely for reading this blog and I hope it has helped you in unique ways. Anyways, I recommend you to read this blog as well by Shivangi Sharma.

Paean

The Runaway Dove

The name of my blog "The Runaway Dove" comes from this poem. This poem is the basis of this entire blog and talks about the perks of being free and unique..

The Runaway Dove

Among a thousand pigeons

Resides a dove unknown.

He flaps his wings everyday

Flying through the doors

On his destined journey,

He rests with friends and foes

against the raving tornadoes 

and the river flow

He thrives through the angry crowds

and battles the daily bounds

He flies beyond the horizon

For eternity he smiles 

For only after the wicked night

Dawns the sun's light