Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“They were talking still, but more and more hogwash; the lack of trust was too evident but they did not want to confess. It was as if the deficit of trust had gone past the limit where you could stop and look back and think of a way to confront. No, the confrontation was bound to bring up way too ugly faceoff back to the podium and neither of them felt having left any strength to witness such a sight. As if they had agreed on one thing after all and that was to not to prick each other out of comfort zone, even if it meant suffocating in each other’s embrace, knowing the level of manipulation. They were much more comfortable with each other amidst that lack of trust than to having confront the reason behind it. Irony! They would agree too, and yet…Alas!”

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“Scream! Echoes haunting through the silence…

The night; cold and numb, offers no escape either, but

Darkness promises to keep the secret intact,

Of a shadow broken, unseen through the days

Trampled upon, passing by, lost amidst the ruins

Of a solitude, raped and again…”

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“An irresistible urge to get drunk, and the bottle betrays you leaving behind no more than few droplets as if mocking you, asking you whether you could ever get drunk enough to stop, and you look around for alternative, but what could fill the glass? The night has been a habitual offender that leaves behind just enough traces of darkness every night to draw one in but soon leaves him behind asking for more but Alas! The dawn brings no mercy and despite having suffered repeatedly one cannot stop but fall prey to the seduction of the night, to the perversion it brings that the void would be filled with darkness until one falls for it and finds himself trapped in those moments that last forever as if lost in the maze of abysses only to be played around forever, buried beneath own flesh and bones.

It was becoming unbearable and more, he was finding himself insensitive to his own screams, pricking himself while wandering upon the ruins of his cries, the lies of night were far too predictable, the cruelty of the dawn were ever more dreadful.

Unseen, unheard, as if deprived of even own sight and hearing he looked for leftover bottle of poison, it was his only possibility of escape out of this outrageously vulgar display of indifference that he had collected for ages now. Alas! There were just enough droplets to give one glimpse of escapade but no more, and he was left longing and yet again…”

Drink Up…

“Drink up O Heart

Before the darkness fades

Before the dawn arrives

And makes a mockery of

What is leftover of you

For the night is not long enough

And there’s little time

To heal those wounds

That you continue to caress

Only to find them aggrieved

For you must stop

Collecting the bits and pieces

Of yours

Off the footsteps

Of none other than

But trampling of your own

For walking away is never an option

And the day would never accept

Your deceptive extravagance

while

Romanticism of bohemia

Could not make up

For the void,

For the desolation is

Only relief, if any

And once more

Drink up O heart

And let yourself melt

And drench

Within that glass

Soak in the mirage

That unfolds

Beyond the horizon

Of deserted stars

And a raped silence

Which finds itself

Scattered

In the gloom

Of inanimate space

Which pretends to be otherwise

And yet…

For better or worse

You would know O Heart

For now, Drink up…”

Praveen Parasar

13/08/2018

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

"He was struggling to understand this agitation inside, or perhaps troubled was the word. it was as if He was afraid of being afraid. He often thought that he had come out of the period of uncertainty and chaos, that he was rather calm and in control of himself now than ever before but the sudden realization was growing every day that it was as false as his understanding that he could, and just here he felt unsure of what. What could it be that was keeping him baffled, agitation or was it dread, or just the fear unintelligible? Whatever it be, it was proving rather crushing in its stealth approach and he merely awaiting anxiously to raise his head beyond the overwhelming waves of it where he sank and further, losing remaining of breathes, suffocating; this a nightmare he could claim possession of. He remembered the wisdom that the more you struggle, more you sink. So was he at the bog instead of the sea he always imagined? Does his remaining still would at some point help him out of the horizon of grey. he found it hard to concentrate and decide. He could not even make himself believe of any certainty that he could vouch for. As if he was exposed to himself, he now looks at the pattern of his behavior every moment he was in the world with people, and that included loved ones beyond the sea of strangers that for some reason he had continued to have a sort of curious faith that he could make friends with, chit-chat, laugh, and discuss grand subjects of era bygone, Oh! how in vain. And though He did make friends a few passing by, the futility of it was too vivid to deny. 

He loved this restlessness once, He remembered the nights he would spend drinking with loud music and beating down upon keyboard to bring out smudged words upon a dead screen. He often attempted to convince himself of the better and yet found himself imitating those moments secretly as though if found out he would have pity upon himself. He dreaded to be pitied, he was almost certain of it, was he not? However, could that alone explain the restlessness, or is it that he could never bring himself out of the insecurities that had shaped him, defined him and gifted him these moments of intimacy with words, and had grown around him as if a tree of banyan around a crumbling ruins of an empty building.

At the end of this, he tried for once to reconcile himself with the possibility that perhaps it was that book that was about to reach its end and the feeling would subside, like always, in a while; and yet somewhere he knew how naive it would be to be convinced of it..."

Tragedy of Wanderer...

Scribbling

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“God was constructed to overcome the fear one faced through the moments of day and night, light and darkness and such contrasts, the construction was supposed to help one overcome the insecurities and impotency one was born with in an universe that proved too powerful for a being that dreaded being at mercy of chance survival. It needed something to advance through the brutal race for survival in the jungle and in the process sought refuge in the ideal figure of the god who could protect, help, motivate, and even rewrite the script if an act goes wrong, the idea was to use an ideal figure that one could look up to and survive drawing strength from it amidst the exhaustion that followed the struggle. It was a rather brilliant invention. The ideal figure that was to be a tool to help one overcome the dread and anxiety alike, while placing it at the epitome of jungle that now carried nothing but mere animals meant to be controlled and ruled, while one displayed an unimaginable success among all others behind the mask of the ideal, the omnipotent god.

The narrative was supposed to be as ideal as the figure of god itself, and yet sooner than later one found itself at the mercy of that invisible being. What was supposed to help overcome fear became the zenith of all the fear summed together. The God turned into satan and the master became the slave. The rules of the game are still the same but the players have changed their place while the creation has taken over the creator, and has turned itself into a monster that carries the omnipotence along, and yet one longs for an escape in the dark hours of solitude, alas! Who could help now?”

Praveen Parasar

22/07/2018

Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:
Tragedy of Wanderer:
"The half dazed fields are waking up to the warmth of the sun that has been dull in its own way, with its eyes pale yet without any sign of remorse, instead a sense of joy it carries, perhaps the hangover of the night before that it possibly spent in the company of exotic clouds brought about by ever so mischievous winds. Drenched in the touch of the night long gone, could it be still carrying the fragments of an embrace.
The sky is clearer now than at the arrival of dawn, the wind still looking an opportunity to play while the sleepy mountains at distance continues to look nonchalantly. The train is gaining speed and the whole imagery is turning into a state of trance like an artwork of Van Gogh. There are no stars here yet the flickering of sunlight appears them to be present while it itself pretending to be the moon, one the day has often overlooked in its forced chaos. While the journey continues."