by: Tushar Jain
My heart yearns for contact. I feel that this desolate life, its segregations and vanity has kept to me its vastly aggressive and alluring, if not impressive, promise of seductive isolation. I am not saying that I am lonely… that would be a cynical way of presenting one’s situation when there’s isn’t much about except that single human longing to be touched, physically and mentally and in what perverse proportions these exist, I dread to declare or even discover in me.
My quantitative perception towards need of ambition was and has been consistently contented but as I have often observed and seldom displayed – consistency mars progress. I do not want to deliberate experiments, I really do want liaisons and the unfulfilling need keeps taking over me like a bare, ragged umbrella that serves no purpose.
I cannot comprehend that why suddenly this longing has gone so obstinate and awry, and has heightened to such an ostentatious degree that it is sorely taxing and unreasonable. I long impatiently to be felt and fondled, to weep and to laugh, to know that there is some leading going on and there is a definite end to all – that happiness in its short outbursts can be pleasant, and in its rare and severe moments can be more than pleasant. It can be satiating and like sex, stimulating,
It is so sad that I remember when I was last happy, actually happy when happiness meant not the forged smile, not the crinkle of lips or deliberate twinkling of eyes or simpering under covetous shyness but a certain excessive discomfort in a lovely presence or a hindering, shameful feeling of confident love. I feel that if in snippets life brings forth a new paradigm, a new conviction that can help me tolerate love or a rather tempting feeling that has its better qualities, exists within me and that I am but merely human and emotion surges and upbraids my soul now and then, that romance is a new meditative adventure for me, that I can be to someone something virtuous and meaningful – it will be a comforting and resting excuse from this slumbering and sluggish styling of mischievous tracts and factions of conditioning and experimenting with or against solitude. I wish to no more be so lonely in the achievement of a thing that I loose the skein of life that is but the end resu!
lt or the lees or the residue of all endeavors, motives and aims – happiness.
I know that smaller, paltry and tawdry spasms of happiness accost or waylay one entire orgasmic convulsion of it – it is but only estimable to regard that to quench any sort of a thirst that is predominate or rampant or predatory, in a journey, little ventures go a long way in achieving a goal and in the end, the result or the entirety will not matter and hence, if all purpose is lost or never totally achieved, there shall be no remorse, no regret, no contrition, no self-contradictions because a thirst that has been abated can do without being slaked completely. Survival is thus easy without mortification.
“In happiness, if love is the catalyst, happiness is short-lived. In happiness, if love isn’t the catalyst… there is no happiness.”