Is this eternal? Will this ever end?

"I have outlasted all desire,

My dreams and I have grown apart;

My grief alone is left entire,

The gleamings of an empty heart.

The storms of ruthless dispensation

Have struck my flowery garland numb,

I live in lonely desolation

And wonder when my end will come."

(Alexander Puskhin)

Dear Reader,

A strange reminiscence of my generation is of a blissful time when the world is lost in solace of sleep and yawns of nature. And then there comes a rude intrusion of reality. There are some people troubled by clutches of destiny, miserable minds filled with all kinds of pessimistic thoughts, an urge to change the fate wholesale yet fully realising the weakness of one's own. Standing before the mirror at some where near 2 am, when the lashes beneath the eyes turn darker than the night outside and once upon charming eyes turn misty, bloodshot and wet. Half awake but completely sane. When the veins forcefully pump blood yet the mind pretends to be unaware of it and I lifelessly grasp the pen as I sit before a blank paper reflecting my own life-devoid of any enthusiasm. The pumping of veins in perfect tune with the Tick-Tock of the clock providing background music to this deafening silence of night.

Darkness is growing moment by moment, for the Apollo of my life has long set down leaving behind a lusterless shell to strive for its fate and to fulfill its ordeal, for death is sometimes considered too easy a punishment, than being damned to a life carrying burden of guilt and regret.

Today, in honest restrospection, these trophies, medals and golden cups, those cheers and long moments of self adoration, are not reminiscent of a distant victorious past of mine but constant mocking of my present. The reflection of my face on its rusting surface shows my fading presence too. How subtle memory is? The reflections of past gleam most in the darkest of time. Yes, today too, I spent time talking with that photo, somewhere hidden between the pages of my diary, my pitch ranging from feeble requests to startling wails.

Yes, There has been moments when I feel that the song of life isn’t a pleasant acoustic or tune of mesmerising flute, instead it's a cacophony of a thousand howling jackals and bleating vultures, which we tend to ignore unless destiny plays it’s turn. There are certain tunes in life so mute as almost inconceivable so loud as almost unbearable. How wrong was she, in saying that sun will always rise and set, no matter what, it will. But… But my sun has not set, but cooled down, lost its warmth by the action of seeping of tears, tears those which at a time held power to burn even the heart of rage.

Those who saw me eloquently speaking rhetoric on stage amid chorus of claps, never saw those shivering legs of past beneath, shaking the very foundation of me, my heart. And the question that lasts is, “Are these thoughts eternal?” 

Yes. They are. But so does human will which keeps us moving through no matter what. However dark and grim the night maybe, the dawn that supersedes it is only more sweeter. However painful the past maybe, it's remenicences when told to the right listner, leaves behind a mystic smile on oneself. No doubt, one of most secure moment is when after sudden outburst of muted or sometimes loud scream, you violently open your eyes, with a stream of perspiration on forehead, clutching tightly your pillow only to find that all that was so solid, so gripping, so inescapable was nothing but a nightmare, a mirage, an illusion.

"I loved you; and perhaps I love you still,

The flame, perhaps, is not extinguished; yet

It burns so quietly within my soul,

No longer should you feel distressed by it.

Silently and hopelessly I loved you,

At times too jealous and at times too shy.

God grant you find another who will love you

As tenderly and truthfully as I."

(Pushkin, Translated by Babette Deustche)

--- Bhuvan Krishna

     31.05.2021

(Image Courtesy - Internet sources.)

(Echo, Alexander Pushkin via Poetry Foundation)