Friday, March 16, 2012

The joke's on me

A routine, I have discovered, can be a debilitating thing, especially when it involves having to deal with people - debilitating to the mind, body and soul, in which rests, if we are to believe the purveyors of evolution, an escape map from the horrifying banality of living.
To wake from a restless repose in the morning, owing to the mute but not soundless pleas of a one-year old child, with nothing to look forward to but the turning on of a switch that wakes a motor that pumps water into a tank that in turn redirects it to our taps... and then the humourless wait for the sound of the newspapers hitting concrete in the driveway... metamorphosing after a brief interim when one (disbelievingly) actually finds meaning in feeding, bathing and breathing in a wholly dependent dependent, into a drive in manic traffic to a geographical space defined by a psychological wasteland of denial - of individual form, personality and eclecticism. The shapes that denial takes range from an induced fantasy that a few principals still entertain about the services industry, to a downright irrational justification of space and time and that a certain person's right to them is greater than another person's natural claim to the same (this might also relate to the content of the erstwhile National Budget , and the elevation to the Chief Minister's post in our largest state of yet another scion of a career politician with no other qualification than that he is the son of his Party's founder... but I am neither an economist nor a political analyst, sadly).
What I do find in the meaningless flotsam of a rudderless profession is dark, bleak and frequently anemic, with no real possibility of encountering a mood or reflection that one can carry over into a chance at a plot or character.
Where did those days go when every occasion demanded a dive into the muddied waters of experience - a dive that never allowed mere surface buoyancy, that demanded descents into madness, eccentricity or even reactionary mediocrity?
I fear that I can never again recapture my sense of solitude - a feeling that always hinted at an eventual reconciliation with the ghosts of a manic past.

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