my existantial crisis

this is an attempt to seize my whirling world of perceptions again, to be able to comment on the experience, if not control it. it has been a year since i last wrote, not just on this blog, but anywhere. as a result i have been suffering an anguish, the thought of expressing which leaves me exhausted. my writings used to contain a certain vigour and perhaps, a certain vanity, which was it's halmark. that 'energy' seems to be sucked out of me and the very thought of writing, which invariably entails invoking thoughts and emotions leave me weary. that vanity, that sense of being in control when i write seems to be lightyears away from me now and i am left with shivering fingers trying to compute wavering thoughts into words.

it is asthough i have exhausted my ability to feel and have rendered myself numb, except during the painful sporadic fits. it started with a tingling sensation, which was not too difficult to ignore intially, but eventually took over my body and mind and left me gaping at the pace of my life. i did and said things as if i were an automaton. there were brief spells of recognition which passed by me even before i could grasp the shock of where i was; or should i say- what i was.

it is with a lot of courage that i have used the past tense because i know that i still run the risk of meeting myself at the turning of some dark alley and being shocked at the prospect of what i am. i have been grovelling, for as long as i can remember, for a mirror that reflects the various dimentions that i exist within, so as to decrease the shock-value at various junctures. when i tried to turn my gaze upon myself, it was words that helped me do so. without their aid i feel lost! not to mention completely vulnerable to the feeble perceptions that world around holds up to me. however, it is now time that i muster up every iota of strength in myslef and take charge.

those who know me will be able to relate this trait of mine to the state of my room. it is usually in a catastrophic condition, resembling an area affected by a violent tornado (there is method in the madness, i always vehemently proclaim!) until it reaches a point where i can't take it anymore and then it magically transforms into an excusitely and accurately pruned and groomed garden. however, the precision soon begins to suffocate me and the order eventually disintegartes into the cherished 'salmagundi'.

even though the struggle seems to be an existantialist one, where the action, atleast at first, appears to be futile, i cannot disregard the momentary satisfaction that i derive from a job well done. i have proclaimed often enough (and quoted simone de bouvoire to back myself up) that i hate housework because there is simply no end to it! the furniture that you dust today shall gather frustrating amounts of dust the very next day, the clothes you so painstakingly wash will be soiled sooner or later, the dishes that you wash with a sense of achievement will be greased yet again! how is it any less than sisyphus pushing his boulder up the hill? despite my victorious argument, i find myself succumbing to these petty basics urged by own needs and habit and as reward, i have a fleeting moment's satisfaction.

as i try to clamber my way out of the pits that i have found myself over the last year, my epiphanic realisation has been that the greatest folly of human intelligence is the hope to perpetuate an experience. as the corny old proverb goes, " nothing is permanent except change". however, the theory of change itself, entails within it, the theory of regeneration and as certain optimists would say, the theory of evolution.

what comes to my mind now, is the words of an aquaintance who said we don't go round in circles but infact we follow a spiral trajectory, moving up another level each time we reach where we started. even as i quote her, i wonder if the differences in levels are not merely imaginary constructs, in order to give a sense of purpose to the otherwise inane human existance. perhaps there is a difference, perhaps sisyphus devices new methods and covers the length of the hill in a shorter span of time and therefore relishes a moment of exulatation in "achievement" before he is thrown back to the starting point. perhaps the starting point is not always the same point, perhaps it is moving upwards and the distance covered is impercptibly diminishing; yet there is no hope for sisyphus' salvation, is there?

even camus who made a case for sisyphus' happiness was not bold enough to grant him redemption. what i retain most from his enchanting worldview potrayed through the myth of sisyphus are the last few words of the tract - " one must imagine sisyphus happy."
there are two words that strike me significant in this statement- must and imagine. the cynic in me cannot help but point out the desperate need for positivity as implied in the word "must" and the incredulous nature of human emotions that need to be catalyzed by their strongest weapon against all that is unfair in the world- their imagination.

so, here i am, in response to the imperative of camus' "must"and am subsequently struggling to find relevance in shelley and keats so as to be able to reinstate my rusted motor of imagaination. if in the process i begin to grow tedious, i beg my readers to be patient; i must imagine my dear bought Ithaca round the corner... i must wait for the evanescent godot to appear before me any moment now...