Her blossoming, dazzling petals electrified the entire ambience. Her bewitching beauty summoned the ceaseless clamor of the buzzing bees restless to savor her nectar. Her unparalleled splendor, her magnificent radiance set her apart from the rest in the bouquet. But she withered away in the callous clutches of oblivion. Putrefying…….. In ignominy…….
Where do I find my bliss……. I find my bliss in that impish little ant breathing through torment relentless, undaunted while walking through vicissitudes.
Where do I find my bliss……… I find my bliss in the agonizing chilly bites of the wintry breeze searing through the sinews of my soul rejuvenating, invigorating the numb veins of my lifeless stupor.
Where do I find my bliss……. I find my bliss in the inundating whirlwinds of silence while drawing in several puffs of thoughts and blowing them into nothingness contemplating, words weaving the tenuous tapestry of meshed hearts.
Where do I find my bliss…… I find my bliss in the senile dilapidated ruins suffused with steadfast ivy and verdurous moss like death shrouded with life withering, the wane glint glimmering on the seared cracks of existence.
It’s quite cold here you know. The memories that once embraced me in a soothing blanket of warmth now clutch me numb in it’s scorching, icy hold. The thoughts that sent a surge of giddiness in me erupting gay giggles now plunge me into a freezing abyss of burning nothingness. Those brittle, fragile memories don’t weave you into the person wearing a bright smile and an oozing aura of mellow kindness anymore but a shady silhouette looming over my once warm bubble.Do you remember those warm summer days when the warm gusts of wind whispered how our hearts leapt for each other…………………………..
“Let us be silent so that we may hear the whispers of the gods” – Ralph Waldo Emerson
Such words truly make a profound impact, truly elevate the silent musings of the soul. Ralph Waldo Emerson’s one-liners are renowned for the depth of their words and so are his extended expressions. Here Emerson seeks to discern the subtle whispers of god, which emanate from our very being, through the medium of silence and so he paused, let the clattering of his mind come to a standstill and chose silence as a medium to fathom God’s whispers resonating within one’s consciousness. “In each, pause I hear the call” he once said. The idea of pause is something that has enticed thinkers and ponderers of ideas. The pause, that enables us to hear the tingly whispers of the souls, the pause that enables us to fathom the depth of silence and immerse in it’s blissful resonance.
The idea that gods whisper to us is not just poetry. They really do whisper- among themselves and to us as well. They are within us, not without. These gods are the silent sounds of one’s own conscience, one’s own innermost reflections of the world. The soul after all is an inseparable faction of the supreme soul like the sparks of a giant dazzling bonfire. When silence is the language of the Gods’ whispers, one must also fall totally silent and totally still so that the whispers are not missed, the call is not lost. Emerson heard ‘the call’ whenever he paused. That was the call of his inner self, the call of his conscience, the call of his engagement with the self in the deepest realm of his being. Thus for one to completely immerse in the silence of the pause one must ensure that the clutter and clatter of the head is fully doused, completely dead so that in that real of complete peace, gods’ whispers becomes one with the ears of the soul.
The three lustrous petals of a heavenly flower had once fallen from the elevated realm gracing mankind with enlightenment, heavenly bliss, illuminating the path to the real goal of human life, the divine realization of the eternal oneness with the sublime being, that we are all the glimmering petals of that transcendental flower, the sparks of the heavenly ignited fire. Their ethereal presence in the human race has been like that of a sprawling shade of an enormous banyan tree, shielding, solacing afflicted beings from the scorching malice, misery of the outside world burning in raging wanton recklessness and ignorance. Their ethereal, elevating guidance have aided troubled salvation seeking souls in crossing the ocean of despondency, of gripping darkness, to the ultimate goal of self realization, bringing out the latent, intrinsic divinity in man.
Those divine petals of the transcendental flower who have abluted humankind of the grime of malice, of ignorance, of animosity, who have sparked spiritual awakening in the hearts of deprived human beings, who have cast off the blindfold of humankind, Swami Vivekananda and his divine guide and Master Shri Ramkrishna Paramhansa and the Holy Mother Shri Sarada Devi have indeed molded the world with their hands and changed it for the sake of enlightenment of human race.
This auspicious day marks the 159th birth anniversary of Swami Vivekananda whose words like a reverberating echo of a conch shell have shaken the souls immersed in darkness, impelling them to come forth for the good of human race. May this indomitable spirit of selflessness and chastity reign eternally.
The sprawling grey clouds adorning the flimsy white sky like the grey buttons on my grandma’s white cardigan have reduced the the burning glaze of the sun to a mere glint as if mocking its existence. Yet the sight has an uncanny allure to it, the grey clouds choking the blazing sun, the chilly breeze the leaves and the grasses seem to be dancing to, sending poignant, petrifying chills to every inch of my bare skin hold an enticing appeal I cannot turn away from. It is one of the myriad manifold forms in which nature manifests itself, something that enraptures me to the core, something that is so much a part of my intrinsic self as rebellion is to consciousness and vitality or as silence is to the consecration of a sanctum.
The sight of the grey clouds creeping up on the sun, overpowering the sun with its intimidating insipid colorlessness makes me eagerly want to wait for the sight where the blazing, dynamic rays of the sun pierces through the grey clouds suffusing the monochromatic world with the vivacious, chromatic lifeline again.
The dark demons choking my conscience, draining me of my vitality, my creativity remind me of the grey clouds and in the same way I eagerly wait for that concentrated, dynamic ray of undaunted determination and steadfast perseverance to pierce through the dreary darkness stupefying my once vivacious disposition. That is one bizarre sweetness about anguish, it makes you revel in poignant endurance while endowing upon you the strength to see your pain dissolve in gratification with alacrity.