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Sitting behind my window


This is perhaps the quiescence of my being. Amidst the stillness I find myself listening to the crowds sitting alone behind my curtained cobwebbed window. The innermost part of me awakened now this very moment. Going beyond all syntactic patterns I sit before this machine what right now is my sole companion, typing cold words streaming out through my fingers punching these solid goddamn keys knowing nothing would possibly come out from all this. All I hear is the growling of the jet flying across the sky; a motor bike engine quaking the decibel level with no sense of mannerism where I even know not the stranger riding on it; a bi-cycle bell rang; the chirping of some sparrows, those kids from the street yet not concerned about the crudeness of life- innocent, folks those live upstairs coming down and their assiduous footsteps for nothing tremble the walls around me involuntarily; and faint noise of gossiping folks around the four walled structure I dwell in.
Existing amongst a heterogeneous society, I am perhaps the inhabitant only who lodged himself far apart somewhere up above a mountain in solitude. A feeling that ensnares me within myself that still not knowing this alienated- an obscured term so strenuous that I flunked to decipher. May be I wronged adopting the word heterogeneous where I should have occupied the word homogeneous. The biodiversity in nature is easily been seen. When I think about mankind, the illustration of variousness of thoughts, images and deeds surround me and this is what actually supposed to be. But while looking out the window or sitting alongside road or walking aimlessly I discerned the same pattern of life everywhere. Hardly an exception I found somewhere. Waking up everyday morning; preparing themselves for jobs or other purposes; then nine to five scribling the pen on pages or rushing here and there in the city fulfilling the quota of works submitted to them and then end of days coming back trudging down the road wearily towards home where awaits all the complexes of a private life to be dealt with. At night, injecting the rest of the strength left in the body to their so called better half they collapse into bed. The next day same routine continues. Probably the rest of their life.
The same kind of people; their stereotype thoughts and dreams; repeatation of the meaninglessness in their conversation whenever they intend to speak; same expectations from life- there no one shows indifference to the crisis residing within them. I am not asking here for perfection which is nothing but an illusion. What I seek is that coming out from the conventional confinement and live for a betterment, for knowledge, for excellence to achieve beyond expectation. Is it I am talking about an Utopian society? I really don’t know. Sometime I love to think myself a nemophilist. Into the wild far from all this complexes of life. Like Byron said-

There is pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal . . .

photocredit: pinterest

copyright protected © 2016


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