Terra Incognito

I face many choices. Many times, deciding to write is not an easy decision. In fact, it is not only my decision, but also of those who may read it. I may itself kick the idea of a reader and contain myself in the world of black and white. Then why would I be publishing it on the Internet? I may as well shoot myself throats up, who cares. But the fact is that if you are reading this then at last someone has reached my blog. I may better not serve candy bars in spaghetti!

The day has already wearied down. The sun had been eclipsed my stratus clouds for a better part of noon. I know it will not rain. We are again playing poker with the weather Gods. Not the best time to shake my head of apparent somnambulance, and sit down to update an infant blog, I created moments back. Would not it sound amazing for a man reduced one fourth of his length due to absolute absence of sleep, standing on a precipice with both hands dangling as if some creeper has suddenly lost its grip, and shouting "Its time to rock and roll!" It will certainly not boil a mosquito's borrowed blood.

Still, it is a moment of glory. If the whole purpose of a blog is reduced to mundane ramblings, I do not see how far I can go. If I do, I do not see how far WE can go. The word with capitals matter. I can say my life is thriller, a roller coaster of a life, a story no one should miss. But my Lord would not fail to lash after hanging me butts up on the gallows, come Armageddon. A lie should not so drastic. Then why are we here for?

I think for our instinct to share and communicate. Certainly some new things. And I have many of them hidden more in the gray dome, just beneath my skull, than in my closet. In a moment, the world appears to be full of unimaginable beauty, skillfully carved into tapestry of hues, smudged in purple and yellow with a fresh coat of mint. As if clear streams somewhere flow through myriad of thin tree stumps clearing a shelter for butterflies and toads, carrying with it strawberries and cherry colored petals wobbling down stream. I call this with smell of fresh apples over bed of yellow dandelions. The sky should be blue and cold. The sunlight should be yellow and warm. Bottom line is, I have yet to see such a place and most liberal stretch of imagination warns me that such places may be aeons away from me. So what, at least there is such a place that matters. It gives me hope, and it gives me reason to live. If I get it, it would completely spoil it, as Adam did to Eden.

Then with a slight shiver of terror I see how my worst fears of dystopia are slowly being realized. A stench filled
underground stream revealed through sparsely grilled gutter holes, hidden by absolute absence of sunlight, people scramming through pigeon holes into houses much like concentration camps. Voluminous clouds of smoke channel through concrete termitariums, low bass propaganda voices sliver through the smog filled air. The sky will be black and cold. There shall be no light. Eden is finally conquered.

This is not a convulsive harangue. If you look at both the scenarios, it is writer's paradise. As long as we do not live in it, every other world is a marketplace for sheer terror of sublime beauty. It is the feeling that there is something else beyond our comprehension, something on a large scale engulfing the whole concept of humanity in a single embodiment of imagination, like a giant silver sphere over an eternal ocean - it give our mind a little feel of fresh air, and our soul a little more space to dance.

It is also beginning of the story. Threads over which relations are formed and morals are born. Much of the essential intercourses of our species do not take place in the world we live in. Much of the feelings we unravel find their truest disposal within the universes captivated inside hollow tunnels of pulsating pink thing within your ears. It is far more brilliant and illuminated, full of sparks shooting and dying on a roller coaster ride. The primal Terra Incognito lays within. Welcome to the starboard.