Everything must Go
I was writing my famed post on Helmet in the evening but failed to complete it. It's sitting somewhere in some server on the infinite internet waiting to be printed. At 7 today we went for Chin's treat. Chin is a great friend of mine and that's an understatement. We've discussed over long hours everything from Science Fiction and Fantasy, our favourite topic incidentally, to Structure from Motion. We went to Zara's by the way and had a jolly good time. There was little to say, then, about Helmet after such a night. We returned to insti via Taramani gate.
I had actually thought that I would complete the post on Helmet on returning. However, the sepia hues on the leaves on my way back, the crickets chirping their lonesome messages into the night and the rains in Africa thought otherwise. And so, here I am, alone and palely loitering, as it were, writing about the futility of it all. At times like this, the only music one can listen to is Floyd, the sheer melancholy that one feels resonates with the music in ones ears. I had dreamed you had left my side.
Four years is a long time to have to chronicle in one post. However, one only gets the chance on occassions like this. At other times, the spirit is too proud to make inroads into one's own heart and reveal one's deepest feelings. And thus, one understands why Coleridge needed help to write his most visually stimulating passages, how he managed to touch cords deep inside which woke to his hidden music, though long dormant.
Drink, for we know not where we go or why,
Drink for the world ends with a sigh.
Or something like that says the Rubaiyat, and how true. There is only sadness as witnessed by his Lord Sepulchrave in that book of books Gormenghast. All that remains at the end of any venture is regret. Regret for things undone, regret for mercy unshown, regret for people not met. If there is one thing apart from the final chess game with Death that is sure, it is regret. It claws onto the heart of things like a bloodsucking leech, pumping out the plasma from the body till all that remains is a broken shell of a man that stood brave and tall. Regret is a nagging disease that eats away at the soul of things. And why, may I ask do I write of regret? What, indeed DO I regret?
And, here I lie stumped. For I can ill answer this question. I can find nothing that I regret except the fact that we must go. The fact that it shall all go, and go it shall, in a week's time. Be still my heart, the sailor cried. for I can hardly bear the tossing of the waves, much less the rocking of your arrhythmic beats. While I promise to complete the story on poor old Helmet, I cannot stop the action of my fingers on the keyboard. There are more things lost in friendship, my gentle readers, than all the riches in the world can buy. While we so proudly decide on careers of choice and how much money we wish to garner, we little realise how little of the world we actually possess. How little have we actually learnt in these four years in this hallowed portals, to use a cliche. How little we have fought for the knowledge that was to be shared with us, how little we have realised that the moment has arrived. This is the end of our trials and tribualations here. No one to question us on our decisions anymore, no more gradingm no more cups ans double u's, no more S's or A's, no more 12 o'clock quizzes. No more lively discussions in our wing. No more wondering where we are headed. No more 1 o'clock crying sessions after getting stinking drunk. No Nothing. We, or rather, I, leave in a week...
And that, my friends, is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering.
Though the sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
The lights were brighter, the grass was greener... Everything... must Go.
I had actually thought that I would complete the post on Helmet on returning. However, the sepia hues on the leaves on my way back, the crickets chirping their lonesome messages into the night and the rains in Africa thought otherwise. And so, here I am, alone and palely loitering, as it were, writing about the futility of it all. At times like this, the only music one can listen to is Floyd, the sheer melancholy that one feels resonates with the music in ones ears. I had dreamed you had left my side.
Four years is a long time to have to chronicle in one post. However, one only gets the chance on occassions like this. At other times, the spirit is too proud to make inroads into one's own heart and reveal one's deepest feelings. And thus, one understands why Coleridge needed help to write his most visually stimulating passages, how he managed to touch cords deep inside which woke to his hidden music, though long dormant.
Drink, for we know not where we go or why,
Drink for the world ends with a sigh.
Or something like that says the Rubaiyat, and how true. There is only sadness as witnessed by his Lord Sepulchrave in that book of books Gormenghast. All that remains at the end of any venture is regret. Regret for things undone, regret for mercy unshown, regret for people not met. If there is one thing apart from the final chess game with Death that is sure, it is regret. It claws onto the heart of things like a bloodsucking leech, pumping out the plasma from the body till all that remains is a broken shell of a man that stood brave and tall. Regret is a nagging disease that eats away at the soul of things. And why, may I ask do I write of regret? What, indeed DO I regret?
And, here I lie stumped. For I can ill answer this question. I can find nothing that I regret except the fact that we must go. The fact that it shall all go, and go it shall, in a week's time. Be still my heart, the sailor cried. for I can hardly bear the tossing of the waves, much less the rocking of your arrhythmic beats. While I promise to complete the story on poor old Helmet, I cannot stop the action of my fingers on the keyboard. There are more things lost in friendship, my gentle readers, than all the riches in the world can buy. While we so proudly decide on careers of choice and how much money we wish to garner, we little realise how little of the world we actually possess. How little have we actually learnt in these four years in this hallowed portals, to use a cliche. How little we have fought for the knowledge that was to be shared with us, how little we have realised that the moment has arrived. This is the end of our trials and tribualations here. No one to question us on our decisions anymore, no more gradingm no more cups ans double u's, no more S's or A's, no more 12 o'clock quizzes. No more lively discussions in our wing. No more wondering where we are headed. No more 1 o'clock crying sessions after getting stinking drunk. No Nothing. We, or rather, I, leave in a week...
And that, my friends, is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering.
Though the sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
The lights were brighter, the grass was greener... Everything... must Go.
posted by TenG at 10:25 AM
2 Have Spoken Thus
damn...I wish I could have been there at Zara's...or that I had a glass of something more than coffee right now to raise to you two.
@bofi: should have. we finally got chin completely drunk. no theatrics from me for once. just smiling the whole night through. i think u should have that sake now.
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