Status Quo

So many mistakes, so little time left: Perhaps none at all. So much effort of such little consequence. Waking hours are spent in a restless tumble in the sheets. The time for sleep is a lethargic monotone of alcohol, cigarettes and denial. Mary Jane may have made things worse, but she could have numbed the pain of watching myself swirl down the drain of 20 years of accomplishment. Expectation, and the cowardice to challenge it are a pair of deadly bedfellows.

There are options. There are always options. But none that I would be proud to take. Not that the ones I have done have served me any better. I was not ready. I still am not. Give me back the last 5 years. But it is not yours to give, nor am I worthy of receiving it again.

Jack of all, master of none. Unharnessable potential. Ignorance, inertia, procrastination. Useless.

For you that made it, I smile. For you that didnt, I embrace. For you that arent quite sure, I wish you well. For you that is me, I wish you naught. You failed me, as I failed you.

What will save me? What will take me away? For now I have my alcohol, cigarettes and denial.

Tumbleweed

"Where are you from?"

In the endless line of insightful replies, quick-witted retorts and ingenious comebacks, this is the one question I never knew how to answer. And yet its usually the second question anyone ever asks me. Of course, I respond. A few mumbled words, usually selected to either allay any further questions on the subject, or to form as much rapport as possible with my interrogator. Chennai, Kerala, Trivandrum, Saudi Arabia and, on occasion, Scotland.

I'm proud of the places I've lived during my inconsequential existence, but it invariably brings up questions of my identity. Being able to associate yourself with a place is in no way necessary to lead a fulfilling life, but its like having a favorite stuffed toy. You dont need one, but if someone asks, or in those moments of nostalgia, its always nice to have an answer or image in your head. It is one of those primordial psychological anchors you can always return to when life hands you a turd sandwich.

In order to explain why, exactly, I feel the way I do, we need to dissect the question at the start of this post. What do you mean, or want to find out when you ask someone where they're from. A question I have asked many times with either unsatisfactory responses, or answers with insufficient correlation to a non-existent mean.

• "The place where you were born": This is by far my favorite response. I was born in Aberdeen, Scotland. And yet, if I went around telling everyone that I'm a highlander, I probably would have ended up with more bruises than Nicole Kidman after a night of rumpy-pumpy in the sack with yours-truly. In fact, I actually had a couple of people walk away from me when I tried my luck with it. Probably because they thought I was ashamed of my Indian blood and wanted to disassociate myself from the idea of being one. But other people's reactions apart, I honestly can't lay claim to a kilt and an indecipherable accent because I was only there for a year. And all things considered, it probably is the least important year as far as forming a locale-related identity is concerned.
• "The place where you grew up": Abha, Saudi Arabia. Apart from the possibility of afore-mentioned violent response, there is the recently developed chance of screams of "terrorist" from the more bigoted bunch. As far as genetic blueprints are concerned, I definitely have a better chance of passing off as a misogynistic oil tycoon than a blue-faced , sword-wielding, cheek-flashing, super-patriot. Hell, I may even look more Arabian than Indian. Bushy eyebrows, hooked noses and evergreen facial hair aside, I couldn't be less associated with the kingdom. I was either surrounded by the stereotypical Indian-in-the-Middle-East families or my American teachers and classmates. My claim to Saudi culture goes as far as being able to differentiate Saudi and Afghani pita bread and to count to six in Arabic along side the obligatory swear word.
  
• "The place you lived the longest": This is definitely the least watertight argument. Until a few years ago, that remained the dusty dunes. And then one morning, I wake up to be a curd-rice popping 'Madrasi' (courtesy NP). Where 'periya veeda' (veedu, veeta? Don't get me started on spelling, as if anyone really gave a squat) doesn't mean a supersized joint, (whowuddathunk!?) and if you offer a girl to come over for a 'pool' party, you'll probably end up with David, Karapakkam Don, on your doorstep in the middle of the night, telling you to say vanakkam to his little friend.
• "You're from Kerala, moné", "Umm, why?", "Because your grandparents are from there", * sigh * "What's for dinner?": So my grandparents are from two different places in Kerala, so following your infallible logic, which one is it? Neither, you're from Trivandrum...and before you ask why, it's because thats where they live. Great, at least now I got my roots down to a street name and a house number. An icon to my entire existence, boils down to a place I've hardly been more than 6 months, cumulatively, in my life. Bravo, mother.
• "Shut up and sit down, you're from India you ungrateful fart": The less said, the better.

To belong.

Sons of Icarus

The force is inconsequential. If you beat anyone long enough, their wings will fall away; leaving behind only an icy mirage of what they once were only to serve as a flagellate demarcation of the extent of their descent. For self awareness is the final deadly sin bequeathed to us in a world where one's soul is molded by the capricious hands of a vindictive potter. Once thrust into the fires of Acceptance, form, once a fleeting ideal, is now set in stone. The only escape lies in the inevitable erosion by time.

But waiting for oblivion is tedious, especially to a dichotomous soul constantly tearing at itself in a futile attempt at shattering its already cracked mirror. More cracks form, just widening the divide between what was and what is. But alas, the Fallen controls the body and its will. Being unable to quell the torment from within, seeks out a tangible symbol in the world without. Another pair of wings. Wings that taunt in their self-righteousness with every beat. And so the molded stone becomes the potter, Pinocchio becomes Geppetto and it begins again.

Sons of Icarus Narrated

Salvation Through the River Styx

The key to reaching answers to life's enigmas often lies in Perspective.

Unfortunately, Perspective is earned through suffering, or at least wading through adversity. And therein lies the subtle tragedy of the play we're all forced to perform. For if ascribing reason to the Universe's questions is the path to happiness, its pursuit requires us to unlock the box handed down from the heavens. As with the Tree of Life to our primordial ancestors, we are inexorably drawn to poke at the beast; for its the pain from long-healed scars that reminds us that we are human; of the world we could be in, but are not. Without pain, there can be no relief; light without darkness; hope without despair.

The best actors refuse to admit that there even is a play. Idyllic fantasies of endless feasts without something having to give up its life to cater to the whims of an insatiable mob. Life is the serendipitous byproduct of an orb that inherently involves destruction.

It is a shame that the very path to Perspective often leads to a complete loss of faith, be it in humanity, 'the system' or whoever we see fit to lay blame for our own deficiencies in perseverance. It may be an evolutionary survival-skill for the psyche to dwell in our pasts which invariably seems to only consist of snippets of a black history, but the moment it blinds us to what 'is', we are lost in a bottomless spiral of self-destructive patterns.

Open your eyes. Look through the insurmountable decay to the saplings which spring from it.

"Gimli is not a dwarf, he's a little person."

In a surgically sterile world of euphemisms and political correctness, the people have grown content in their barcaloungers, seated on denial of the substandard. Unpleasantness has no place in a room filled with politician-smiles and corset-clad women.

Work-in-progress.

The Cynic's Scythe

or all of you in your euphoric bubbles, your picture-postcard lives; rejoice in your lack of omniscience for the cut will be swift and painless.

Without prejudice, without malice; the reaper strikes. As wrong, as evil as the typhoon which rips the pram from Mother's hands. It's just reality, the weight of circumstance we're all asked to bear. And those who see it not shall be blessed.

The remaining live not in fear, for that is reserved for the unknown. Dwindling numbers are bolstered by faith in empty maxims that knowledge is power. Does power corrupt in damnation?

As the scales tip, the templars; defenders of humanity's innocence; are once again betrayed and looked upon with contempt. The very pedestrians they were sworn to protect turned their backs on them. For acknowledgment of the knights' existence is a sore reminder of the reality they've shunned.

Now all live in fear of the Cynic's Scythe.