Reference to context - http://scofferinc.blogspot.in/2012/05/quantum-of-admissibility.html
He loves her still.
Wounds,
many physical, some emotional, have caused him to scoff skeptically at all that
is mundane and trivial, or shall we say, everyday. He wields many a blade at
life. His lifeblood is tainted with a mutant cynicism. His disdain for reality
is infamous. His mistrust of rationality is palpable in his words, in his invective-filled
digs at his own logic and thoughts. His laughter is often opaque in its
raucousness. His whims are at times perhaps senselessly opulent, requiring the
means he confesses not to possess. His desires are worthy of commendation, he
does his homework to know what he wants, whether or not any of it is at all forthcoming.
He professes nonchalance with his heart on his sleeve. The crowds be damned, he
prefers a withdrawal to his fortress of solitude, his sanctum sanctorum filled
with the ashes of times foregone. His crammed ashtray appears symbolic of his
memories, with only an occasional thin thread of translucent smoke arising for
a few fleeting moments from the embers of a thought or emotion, pondered
through and discarded. You would think that but for a small but magnificent coterie,
his Dark Lord comrade-at-arms, his family, his thunderous bird, his alto that
screams a soprano, his knives and indubitably his writings, he has no care for,
or in, the world.
But
in the midst of his angst and withdrawal, even he had a Poem. Conceived in
incredulity, pursued with foolhardiness, realised in alien hope, nurtured with
surprising love, he truly imagined the possibility of everlasting happiness in
its finality.
But
alas, that the rhyme should lose its rhythm! That the spool should lose its
thread, and the intricate tapestry evidencing the beauty of yin and yang, that
one so hoped would remain conjoined in joyous perfection, should fall apart so
tamely.
So
many of his scars have been embalmed over, and though he tries to claw at them
afresh, praying for a resurgence of the bilious venom that saw him through the
worst, he has failed to fool even himself.
He
loves the Poem still. They have been my hope, such that I have thus far refused
to lose. He has now given me hope anew.
He loves her still.
2 comments:
That's probably the best, well the only piece about me ever. Thanks, da. There is still no hope. zilch on the redemption front too. Its a limbo I've possibly grown to live with. Kills me. Keeps me alive. Objectively and subjectively.
i'll hold onto that hope for a while longer anyhow. for that limited purpose, i do not have a problem with being perceived as a fool :) gandalf did have a fool's hope after all. and the king did return.
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