Sunday, 25 September 2011

THIRST

This is not madness. No, I’m not dazed. I’ve been fated to be like this, destined to end up craving for more, more and more. This may sound gibberish to you, but, then, it is not my purpose to influence your thoughts. You must not have felt the pressure, the thirst that develops deep within the loins and comes out jittering between the fingers. Have you ever felt the burning desire to lay hands on the pious, virgin book that lies tempting on the stand? Have you ever felt your eyes bulge and burn with desire on seeing the immense collection of books on the racks of a bookstore?

Oh! How to describe the pleasure and pain obtained during first reads, the smell of the virgin pages turns on each and every senses; the crispness of the pages, the hard bounds, the letters, words and sentences, the innately different styles of the writers - all things add up to the crave and passion. Varied writers of different genre baffle the choices. But, would this dilemma ever come to an end? How can I let Mrs. Dalloway lie there beside David Copperfield? How am I to discriminate between luring Austens and Kafkas? Or else, how am I to let Allan Poe lie there untouched by my hand’s soul, unscathed from my mind’s toll? Only I know how seductive they are, only I know how tempting they are.

But, then, what is the purpose of this craving, when I know it wouldn’t end? No matter how much I read, this ever-famished-yearning-core won’t get appeased. At times, I question myself, what is the purpose of reading? Isn’t it a tantalizing process, a flirtation without end? And isn’t the textual pleasure consumed, subjective, solitary or rather masturbatory? I mean, can another reader extract the same pleasure I obtain while reading the same text?

To me a reading session is more sort of a striptease session. I guess the purpose of the text is to tease us into submission. It keeps us fascinated and glued on by raising our curiosity. But does it really satisfy our desires in the end? We keep on devouring a text, sentence by sentence, just to reach the end and unveil the mystery hidden within it. But does that satisfy our thirst? No, it doesn’t. And it is so, because we fail to discern the exact perspective of the writer’s purpose in writing the text. No matter how hard we try, we can never substitute the writer for its text, or vice-versa. Failure to do so has turned me into an obsessive reader and I know that sooner or later I would have to glide out of the reader’s mind, and get into the grip of the writer’s. There is a striking difference between reading and writing, and I know the day awaits me, when I would see my name shining amongst others on the shelves; that would be the day when my ever-famished-yearning-core would feel quenched; sated with ultimate pleasure.

Death perception

Death doesn’t restrain me from doing this. It just can’t prevent the outpour of the thousand things stored up inside me – things that have grown wings with time, and now wants to fly out. I’ve been a fool to think that there are ways out; actually there are none! Life has played its part. I’m not running away from life but understanding a way out of this indifference that has grown as a layer over me. The last drops of rain in my life have given me immense pleasure; inciting more pain. My noose of life’s thread is closing in decaying; worn out with time, and still it holds on to these last few memories of happiness. But now no more. It’s time to move on. Someday I’ll awake from my sweet slumber to die again. Till then it’s goodbye!