Mumbling #19

There is no room for doubt here. One needs to have faith in something, ANYTHING! Something to make you believe what you're doing today is right. It is justified, at least today. Maybe that's why I gave up debating in my first year of college. I am the most fickle minded person I met. My thoughts are disjointed and it has always been excruciatingly painful to take a stand. I could talk about something with the greatest fervor one day, thoroughly impassioned, and dismiss it the next. I'm a difficult friend, even more difficult a lover. I don't make sense. I run away. I scratch out too many lines. My headache is gone now. I've probably given you one.

The things I feel for, the things I can describe lucidly are perhaps too trivial for you to take notice. In a recurrent dream I'm crossing a bridge, following faceless people. I keep saying something, but there are these screeching sounds that take over and drown my words into nothingness. 

I love Yeats. I love his poetry. In his time, Yeats created a world of his own that explained everything. I love Vincent van Gogh! Where else do you find such honesty on canvas? I would've married him if he was alive. I'd love him ardently. Every evening after supper, we would sit together and sip on wine, and look at the nameless walls on which his portraits would be hung. 

You were given a sharp, acute, uncomfortable grain- the actual meeting; horribly painful as often as not; yet in the absence, in the most unlikely places, it would flower out, open, shed its scent, let you touch, taste, look about you, get the whole feel of it and understanding after years of lying lost. 

They come in with their black machines that make clicking sounds. They ask her if she has nightmares. Does she imagine him falling dead after another one of the machine's click?
The educated can articulate their pain, even glorify it. They're privileged, protected. What about her? If she could tell her story, would you listen?

Gunnamma, widow of Barikayya Battina, who died of a bullet injury after being hit during a police firing at Vadditandra.

     

       ''How can you, of all people, dispose of yourself without affection?''

        ''How can I dispose of myself with it?''

           Runaways - Adrian Johnston                                             

Quiet descended on her, calm, content, as her needle, drawing the silk smoothly to its gentle pause, collected the green folds together and attached them, very lightly to the belt. So on a summer's day waves collect, overbalance, and fall; collect and fall; the whole world seems to be saying 'that is all' more and more ponderously until even the heart in the body which lies in the sun on the beach says too, that is all. Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall. And the body alone listens to the passing bee; the wave breaking, the dog barking, far away barking and barking. 

Mumbling #18

Find a new sense of the world. Fragments of self are left behind. Too much is lost, dropped and broken on the way. Thin lines mark her face, divide it. Her footsteps are heavy, they resound in the corridor as she tries to find the new entrance to the old library. The pieces, like shards of broken glass, glimmer in the winter sun, waiting to be picked up by someone else. Perhaps she spends too much time by herself. Reads too much and sees too little, that she cannot feel. There are strings of thought. Seemingly never ending strings of thought. Different colored strings of wool in her head, bungled. Her tired eyes wolf down the words on the yellowing paper, deprived still. Little beads of sweat line her upper lip.Words come out, but with difficulty. They always have. The knot in her head is loosened but it refuses to open. Perhaps it's best to leave it as it is.