How I wish!

How I wish, just like Gregor, the central character of Kafka's metamorphoses, to start afresh,  to consider that world is still the  same, to imagine that I  am still the same . How I wish, I could get rid of my madness, of my yearning and thirst, and still imagine myself   a child who can  look up to his elders to make amends. How I wish, I could be the same individual, as I see around me, and then most of all , become a man of action. How I wish, I was not troubled by  pangs of loneliness, and be freed of the curse of freedom . How I wish, I could be that which normal people around me already are, be that which has been so firmly established; be that which has been so well institutionalized . 

How I wish, I could be a writer , whose books would embellish the shelves of intellectuals and laymen alike. How I wish, I could own a house, with sofa , and a balcony with an untrammeled view from there . How I wish, I could then sit atop a reclining chair; looking obliquely at my library behind , muse upon the world running by, and then shape a theory , an idea, that would move me and my readers from the deepest recesses of heart. 

How I wish, I could harbor a wife, to embellish my staid disposition, and sink into the deepest mysteries of bodies, through her submission . How I wish , I could fornicate in grandest and weirdest of ways, and then bear a child , and relish its innocuous ways. How I wish, this child of mine , to be a greater being than what I could ever be. How I wish , it then opens up the world and decorates my name beyond his own self.

How I wish, I could see my hairs graying  as my children  grow old in front of my eyes. How I wish, I could celebrate their successes , and relish their joys as time grows further by. How I wish, I could then renounce my life , and part with all that I would have gathered . How I wish, then , one fine uneventful summer day , I would find myself sitting in a rocking chair on the balcony of my hard earned house ; look at the books I have read and written in my library through the corner of my eyes , take the final sip of piping hot tea , and draw the final breath. 

How I wish, I could belong to all the follies of trite, conservative life I just now wished for, the established perfection to my parents and other conservative eyes.

And then , I know , this devil within me, has no wish to be anything , but only to sink in deeper and deeper and be more and more of myself alone.

Mooning in my room.

Moon above , in the star spangled sky, pours its calm radiance through the meshed window, shining over my head, bending at the edge of the floor where it meets the wall,climbing over, and as my hand rises to obstruct this flow of purity, a dark shadow appears on the wall, remonstrating against my mischief.

The quibble lingers over who would claim this beauty, and as the fight progresses to its bitter end, moon gradually fades and disappears from my window, leaving after it, a faded trace of the wrinkled smile that had shone with the pouring moonlight a moment ago.

On Boredom!

Ah! Writing  on boredom, while one is getting bored is something of a catch-22 situation. One cannot write on boredom and remain bored, while, one could be so bored that he may wish to write about boredom, while one engenders it. Nevertheless, I am bored now. This is not to say, that I wasn't bored anytime before, or that this is the epochal moment in the history of humanity, when boredom has dawned upon me. No. On the contrary , I have been bored so many times, that it is helplessly boring to even recall traces of them. I am bored now. This is exactly, what I mean.
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One discovers, amazing ( or rather queer ) aspects about himself and of his surroundings , when one is bored. Like, just now, I reclined my head on the back of the chair ,and found that the roof was a repeated block of perforated white tiles. I repeat the act several times again, and yet could not decipher what part of the tile did I miss in previous gazes. I look at them again, now, they are still the same, and still repeating. As I stare at them, my eyes draw to close, but just then, I realize that I am bored and I get back to writing.
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I have been looking at my fingers for quite some time now, a small part of finger-skin has erupted from the corner of thumb, and I wonder why does it happen all the time. I stare at it for some time, and then play with my other finger , and then abruptly chew off the protruding skin and spit it off. I see it land on the mat there in some distance. Perhaps cleaners will clear it tomorrow, or even if they won't , it could get stuck in someone's shoes or slippers, while he crosses that spot. I half-chuckle at the thought,  and then back again, to the same posture.
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I am bored.
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I have listened to the sound of breath earlier too, but now I do it again. It moves at first in slow spurts but in quick succession, along with  the bulge of shirt (or rather the bulge of tummy), and then almost after ten quick shots, it bursts into a large sweeping deep breath, drawing in a whole balloon of air. A sharp swishing noise erupts as the wind billows through my nostrils. And now back again , to the slow rhythm.  I sometimes find this final, yawning, deep breath as a signal to the end of boredom, saying , as if , "Enough of tomfoolery! Get off your ass!". Not now, I am back, again.
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I am bored.
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I have tried all that one could, brushing my nose with my index finger, rubbing my eyes  deep enough to squash away any element of drowsiness  in them, rubbing my palm against my face, and stretching the facial-skin with my palms. Not enough, perhaps! I take in the next gulp of spit , and bend my head backwards. The perforated tiles, again, lying at the same spot, seem as droopy as the whole office. I look at my bag, there are books nestled in them, but my mind shrugs at the thought of letters playing before my eyes. I turn away from them. Internet has had its fair share of the day. I have stalked enough on Facebook today, deleted enough mails on gmail, and tiredly closed the numerous pages of Wikipedia.  Marx ? Kant ? Sartre ? Psychology? India?  Rape? Oh! Mere mention of the names , seem to drag me to another bout of boredom.
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Boredom!
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I draw another deep breath, and now something seems to pop up somewhere. Isn't boredom eternal? Isn't boredom truth? In no stage of human evolution has boredom been absent, and I am sure animals get bored too. I am not sure about plants  but considering that they have been restricted to be rooted, they must get bored too. I recall Sartre, and his line, "Boredom is (reveals) existence." Perhaps, it is so, for I know, in this bored state, I have been conscious of my existence, of an existing self, and that I have exist(ed). Ah! And I see another thing, as well, the meaninglessness of it all , even of the self, that is so ponderously laboring though the "time" construct, and yet all it does is to just exist.I draw another deep breath and this time a good-chunk of boredom blows away too, something stimulates my mind back into action and I slowly return to "nothingness" or "acting-ness", to stamp a meaning on this "existence".


I was bored ...