Tuesday, 19 February 2013

Chronicles of pain!

Suffering! End of it! Beyond!

This is what pain entails, suffering beyond, and then the end. The depth of this lake makes water calm. Oh! How much or how little do I remember what I saw!

Pain had been chronicled . In the lonely man, but of course, for what else is human! A speck in the dust, in the drizzling sky, in the turbulent ocean, in the gusty wind.

Yet he is seen by himself! As if he bribed his body to jump out of his sentient mind.Ah! What does he see?

A chronicle of pain! Page after page dedicated to the eulogy of pain, the suffering of the tiny speck, the invisible, lonely speck.

How deep does he become then? Deeper than peace! What could move him now? The burning of the chronicle of pain?

Up in flames! There is the spectacle, it burns and burns, as flames go higher and higher. No , the chronicle is still on, page after page, ink after ink,end after end. It is I who burns.


I like drama, but this isn't.

Ever since the chronicles of pain began, it had only been harried entries, wrought out of a despairing mind, through quivering hand. Hands are firm now. They churn sheets after sheets, pain after pain, end after end.

Make another entry that the book has been sighted, that the category has been identified, that the depth has been reached, that there is no frantic activity beyond this stage, that there is no relation to justify, that in this depth of self everything finds its proper position.

Oh! How did I reach this? How can I see this , which could not be seen, sense those which could not be sensed and chronicle those which are ineffable ?

Chronicles of pain, surprisingly, serves not much useful purpose. It's as useless as the pain itself, but the idea is just that; identification and chronicling of the necessary but perennial 'useless' ,  in the sequence of pain, followed by interminable  pain.

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