Going around the Mulberry Bush
In a hideous attempt to turn things around I met the mirror that reflected a riddled soul, which still remained unsolved. An overhyped culture of forgiving and forgetting made me realize an ugly truth of forbearance. It is very easy to draw the conclusion after every experiment. What we do not do is list down the sequence of events and compare the observations ourselves. Instead, what we do is leave that aside as someone else’s job.
My take on this may not be a finalized judgment but a failed affluence that reverts back to the so-called self-righteous shadow. It is so rich that it engulfs that which could bring about a change. It is a matter of convenience. When I would want the bird to entertain me, I would love its chirping and when I would want silence, I would curse its melody. We have been doing this for ages. Mood swings, turn things around, but never allow us to reach the journey’s end. How I wish I had refuted my own persona and accepted that retort downright. But that never happened. I wasn’t ready. I may never be ready. We all may never be ready to take on such a big leap.
Going back to what it takes to improvise and mushroom that argument called life, takes away the innocence of childhood, a happier sense of living and gives out a mellowness of adulthood, a sadder version of what we always wanted to be. The circumstantial order is never the same, what remains static is the liability of maturity. Who had set the parameters to label you as amateur or expert? How that person graduated to certify such a big ordeal? Well! You may evaluate your own gratification. You are the hero and the villain in your own canvas.
In such an aggressive moment, this liability of conundrum makes me think back, holds me until I am trodden in the sand of times. It is ugly, because it is not acceptable. It takes a heart so brave to kill the shadow of predisposition and crown the glory of credence. It would be really harsh on my part to take things the idealist way. It doesn’t work that ways, no matter how hard I try. It is rather a favorable condition to hold on to what I have nurtured albeit looking around for auxiliary stuff.
All said and done, I cannot avoid the strange stares from those who had witnessed the rotten sufferings, who stood with a rictus grin to suffocate the helm I have been riding. They are plain observers yet the role is substantial enough to detain a soul- that perforated one. And then there is the usual set of learning. This etches the mind with a black mark. Black, the nigredo, a symbol of decomposition, of leaving the past and caressing the contemporaries, is the only ray of hope. It is the confidence of re-circling myself around the mulberry bush yet again. Walking with the head held high despite have fallen down the girth; smiling with the dip on the cheeks irrespective of the decayed tooth; because, it does not end there. The sun shall rise again upon the temple of radical. The journey has just begun.