Maktub

Why Maktub? "It is written" not that I read it myself but then again, it's the word. Words are beautiful and the irony is that the word beautiful does not match up to the thought. In the last few years, there have been words I have come up against, that imprint themselves on to my memory, those I cherish. "Huzun", "Maktub", "Incommensurable", "Ineffable", "Melancholy", "Umpolung" and others I can naught but recall at this moment.

However, that was not the intention of this rant. I started blogging to pen down my thoughts, and most importantly my poetry, for it was the best vent I could give to my feelings, a doorway to my own soul to be melodramatic. Initially, I had hoped to type down all my old poems to preserve them, but then, now in retrospect, they seem to childish, so naive...But then again, its their naïveté which is so endearing and its why I have typed them out. On occasion, I am victim to unsolicited inspiration. Those rare times, which are most when I am sleepy and thereby not in my "rational" senses, I spout poetry and its not necessarily in verse. Lines poignant, which I read later to my own amazement, their profundity I marvel at and then again laugh, thinking that it is but due to ego mine that I think splendid. But then again, it is my nature to try and disprove my thoughts, silly though it may sound. In truth, I like what I write to the point of egoistically vainly rereading even the inanest of my rants....

I come up with lines that strike me as philosophical and though they are probably derived or inspired from others....still

"There is Beauty in Sadness and Sadness in Beauty"
"Most men do not want happiness, they would rather spend their entire life seeking it"

This from today morning :

I must admit it is not as good as what was running through my head the instant I thought it and the timegap of two hours or more would have probably diluted it to quite a large extent.

The line drawn inspiration from "Even all the water in the ocean may not fill a bucket with a hole" and "The discord is a tribute to them" from a graphic novel on Lucifer

The hallmark of humankind is its imperfection, and its most endearing trait the quest to negate its own existence by seeking perfection. All the water in the oceans of the world may but fill a bucket with a hole if there was a steady flow, but then, happiness is turbulence personified...We seek solace and create contradictions and paradoxes so beautiful and yet we even ignore the beauty in our imperfect thought. We seek solace in life from life using escapist religions, seek happiness and yet shudder in horror; for the fact that we be selfish and would dare want our own good is anathema to us. Such is life, or atleast as most lead it, touching, endearing, pitiful by its own accord. And such is humanity, mired in contradictions, baffled by its own creations and annihilated by its own thoughts. We shape life by thoughts our own and yet regret existence. The beauty of melancholy is in the fact that beauty by itself is melancholic to a degree and what greater tribute to beauty than life...

Consummatum Est

This blog article as such is not well written, for the desire to write did not move me, its just that I had to put up the above somewhere and hence, listening to sound advice thought that the blog was probably a better home for it than an Orkut profile.
Hence.