Words and me.

I feel like throwing in trash all that I have said and written. In this very moment, I wish to destroy all that has been created and seek recess into unknown. At this juncture of the conflict between mind and without , I feel the limitation of thoughts ,mind and reasoning. How far can these take the situation of human cause and the vicissitudes of life? How far could a literary "Happy" be pretended to be an equivalent to one that is actually felt by humans? How far could a literary word elucidate or justify the human conditions? Aren't they all just limitations , trying to get as close and personal to the human condition, nevertheless, always inferior to what actually is.


I know I am not consistent, and I cannot be. And the same is reflected by this bundle of words. If this is as inferior as I am , why do I strive for it? If my mind is inferior to idealism , why care for it? As a fool , I am with it or without it. This moment, when I feel too low , so as to spit all my frustration on the keys , I see the irrelevance of all the effort.

Destroy everything, finish everything created. I don't care for it. Why should I ? How do I relate to it ? How do I find their worth in my inconsistent soul. Burn them all, destroy them all, there is no relevance to its existence. Why , what I would gain from it ?
Nothing , but none so from not destroying either. I shall destroy then, but wait, what I find here. I acknowledge the primacy of creation in that process. Destruction , the antithesis of creation shall prove its worth. But I am not attached to creation or destruction. I will be indifferent to anything that happens around me then. There could be no contradiction to this thought.

Indifference, is a dangerous word, though it makes me indolent. Yet, I find a glitch here too. If I am indifferent to the plight of everything around me , I may be connecting to some supreme structure. After all that is what the realization of self means. Detaching from everything while you are in it. Is it then , in a way , that this frustration is attaching me to a greater truth , or in a way, making me realize that there is no way to be out of this world , while you are in it. I can't say . I am befuddled by the sheer magnitude of knowledge that seems to emanate from all the sources around me. Is it knowledge or are they digressions, all diverting me in different directions? If knowledge is to be so confusing , why seek it?

Everything that finds its refuge in words, has to be understood from the light of expediency. The limitations of human capacity vis a vis its thought , seeks haven on papers. Mind guides the pen through the snarled roadways of literary world, yet world, run by us humans as a whole , never appears to be in sync with it. Don't we hear that adage, " its all bookish !". Yet, I know the power of words. They move the civilizations, spark revolutions, emancipate souls, please minds, and corrupt souls too. Nevertheless, that's not a de facto. Not all books are Das Kapital, nor Shakespeare's or Gandhi's. Not all readers are Lenin or Bhagat Singh or others as such. Words find their way to people for whom they are meant. They create castles for others, fragile and illusionary, so as to be broken by the next gust of wind.

Words have lent power to many, yet only to those who sought it from within. It is my only chance.May be, it hasn't arrived yet.