I Know Not...

I Know Not Any Forms

I know not of any forms. I am not an interpretation for everything. There is no reason why I am typing what I write or do not like. In an inner awakening, I have disliked life from what it is. I am an optimistic from definition. I wish good things to happen. All the time. It is a relief, but this showmanship is like an addiction. There are times in despair, looking to reflect the world. When solitude beats its victim, one needs love. I am beyond words, and I try to write whatever comes to me. Only the showmanship is the problem. There used to be a time when nothing used to come to my brain. An empty head it was. And then this gift of making word garland. Making imagination, giving life to words. So empty feeling, was not empty anymore. But what about happiness? Still, it is a mystery. Happiness only comes to this fake display of social media presence. Social media is such a cliché. It doesn’t matter what everyone is doing. It only matters what you are doing.

Writing is a relief. I know that. All the while I have tried to sound meaningful in my poems. I somehow connect the idea, but I do not know what I will write. It seems like there is no content in me. I don’t know who to blame. I have a fairly little social life. I could confess anything to paper here. Paper has more patience than a person. I will probably never get to share this to the world, and that idea itself is causing me distress. The business of displaying in social media is too much to handle and bear. Expectation is the root cause of all evil, is what they say. But that idea is also taught through books. Is life so bare to not know its own teachings? Why should everything be taught? Isn't life itself a learning culture?

This writing whatever comes to my mind seems to work. I am liking my own voice in writing. I immediately see another people's life and seem to belittle my own. Finding my own voice in writing is far important than writing poetry. My poetry has also helped me to find my own life. My own voice. But still, this writing exercise is so fulfilling. That childlike voice of my inner past has come to life. I am feeling happiness surge in me like liquid electricity climbing down my spine. Now, that would be little exaggeration, but life feels happier when beams of happiness starts to shower or show somewhere. Again, and again it is writing that connects the dot. Writing is expressing. I go with spontaneity. I have never a complete idea in my mind, but I have tiny element of such idea. I play with it to be honest. Never planning a poetry that I write; this confession is honest.

Relief, a pin drop silence. I looked out of my window, I have always seen Nepal. I haven't seen my country whole. I have been to the mountains, but what you call travel hasn’t been an option for me. The city life, misses a heart. It is only beautiful in poetry, but this spontaneity is so beautiful for a person who is isolated. I wish to note the date of this writing. I am being myself again. This had to be documented long time ago. But I have a personal journey, I may have not kissed success, but my journey is towards finding meaning in life. This could be the title of this journal that I have started to write. I will dedicate time to myself, to write like this and it will be of no harm to the society of the upcoming days.

I have learnt sentences should not be long. I will imply grammar here, my subconscious tells me that. You would be happy to know or delighted or you will probably hate me for no reason to bring this up, that I have won an essay competition and I was also payed for it. There must be some hope, something for me in it. I sure have to sharpen my brain. It really feels wonderful to be oneself in this age of mechanical reproduction. The cliché social media, the isolation that grows deep.

Never have I met the person inside me, rather than social media person, which I was being. This might not make sense. I might go on and on. I am so comfortable to type in my laptop. My fingers know the keys. I am boring you with triviality, but life is a long walk. All the ideas are spontaneous. Is it a waste of time to write like this? I have met me, in the long walk to words. The garden of words has greeted me. Should I not take lessons and be under the spell of the fragrance of my solitude.

My family does not feel that I am in solitude. I am with them. I have always been. I was in a foreign country. In Indian capital. I was away in Kathmandu studying or hanging out with friends. I have always wanted life to surprise me. I loved minimal reading, back then. But now the case is completely different. There are somethings that I am not going to reveal here, because I have forgotten the dark roads of my life. I am new now. Doing writing and killing my time. If I am lucky, I will learn something.

The sky is blue. It is merry. The winter is far. There is this one idea that I like, or to say I am being drawn to. The Poetic Outlaw. Does that mean freedom of expression? The poet is an outlaw, but why? There is comfort in high philosophy. But what is philosophy? How personal can a philosophy be? Or is it a redemption? Every personal feeling of wisdom, is it not our own idea? Our own philosophy? Are we guided by it?

I will be continuous to write like this. I cherish writing. My own philosophy is to be a well-meaning person. I am learning to be meaningful to myself. I am not being abstract here. I hate being abstract. It only becomes when you do not mean anything, that you become abstract. It is easy. Abstraction has no meaning because nobody searches for a meaning in it. It goes unexplained. I hardly doubt that anybody will make meanings out of abstraction. There is so less contact with what philosophy or abstraction has taught us. Abstract art or painting is always difficult to understand, but it is open to any of your interpretation. But what is truth? Are poets only being true to themselves? What if that truth is not conveyed well? Being able to interpret abstract art on our own, will it lead us to truth? Does truth differ from person to person? These are high philosophy. You will only make meaning if you act thoughtful. No any concrete answers, you will receive from philosophy.

I have known myself to expect a lot good from everything. I want to be meaningful whole my life. I don't want to write meaningless things. To replace abstraction, we should make stories. This thought occurred to me just now. When there is a story, the abstract ideas become characters. The characters perform. We also have moral and message in a story. So, every time one thinks about writing an abstract idea one can replace it with story. But I think it is hard to execute.

By Sushant Thapa

From: Nepal

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