The prelude to my life


He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realise.
Oscar Wilde

If the world is a stage, how I wish I had started my life after a dress rehearsal. For now, it seems like I'm standing at the apron, though fortunately, there is no spectator to laugh at my gaffe. The problem kicked off when I realise, I have been in the backstage all along. Maybe I have to learn the tricks of the trade and go, play a part better — a character that takes the best out from me. I always want to be the central character in the story of my life. But there is an ennui bred of merely watching the stage. There are so many things that we can do/become in life; and whatever you become, you can do many other things; and whatever you do, you can also become many other things. An offshoot from the stage-and-life parity is the narrative thread, which cohesively binds my ego and the mundane relationships with myself and the world.

I hear the whisper from my conscience. The soft breeze of accomplishing things, quite often, ruffles personal reservations about things that can be done, and things that appear to be. In this squashy conflict, I feel myself on edge, though the rustle keeps reminding me of the diegesis that unfolded only recently. To be frank, living as a professional has somehow made my existence a part of some kind of musical exposition, in which the themes are first presented. For instance, I have been gradually clued in to my responsibilities. No dope or hard drinks can give the kick that we get from achieving something worthwhile in life. But we lose the plot if there is a lack of direction — and this is at the helm for the comedy of errors.

We are not fit to live in a society if we do things that many people dislike. But does the society behave like what I want it to be? Or am I too egoistical, too arrogant? The social mores — the diktat of the individual writ large, they say — assured us as if these are our gatekeepers of the socio-cultural, political and historical legacies. It's not even comical, nor looks like a work of some newfangled repertory groups; but rather appears to be a serious stagecraft. Life's surely a play!    

Yet in my heart, there is a paucity of essence in our existence. While everything is permitted in life, not everything is acceptable. In his “The Myth of Sisyphus,” Albert Camus wrote of the absurdities: “Rising, streetcar, four hours in the office or the factory, meal, streetcar, four hours of work, meal, sleep, and Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday and Saturday according to the same rhythm — this path is easily follow most of the time.  But one day the 'why' arises and everything begins in that weariness tinged with amazement.”

Apart from the speculation and the thoughts, there are jobs to perform, relationships to maintain and dreams to fulfill. There are also endless aspirations that buck up the humdrum life. I feel you find a narrative hook in life only when you are eminent. Otherwise, you are just a part of the hoi polloi and obscurity is so dreadful. Here, the irony lies in the friction of non-fulfillment. If success is the rising action of our life, then our thought depends on the struggle; whilst the favourable outcomes of our efforts also serve the gist of our reality. In flashback, you perceive the epiphanies – when you are on the top of the world or when you feel like you are so alone in this world. Come what may, our lives have to move forward, stockpiling the stories within stories of the story of our life.

the prelude to my life in a minor scale  kapil arambam



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