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Monday, September 18, 2006

Twilights of Truth from the far Edges

Habits good or bad, really die hard. Its arduous to ged rid of them, one such peruse skirrs along with me. The more i try to get off with it, the more it persues me. And yet again the pervicacious self was defeated. It gives the conviction that over the ages i have grown more a poltroon, bereft of my own spirits to withhold me from my own habits.

Thoughts and feelings arise with or without our will, the thoughts that transgress the words, the feelings that fail to get construed, and for all these now, expostulating the self with the thoughts and the thoughts with the self, for the self dissuasion and remonstrance.

How vain is it to think that words can penetrate the mystery of our being! Rightly used they may make evident our ignorance to ourselves, and this is much. For what are we? Whence do we come? and whither do we go? Is birth the commencement, is death the conclusion of our being? What is birth and death? Thats not all, there are many many more to torment the truth, to question and refute the truth that we perceive.

We are born, and our birth is unremembered, our infancy remembered but in fragments; we live on, and the life strides from the unremebered birth to the senile senectitude, and how often spurring the inessential, indecorous itch and propensity, taking the misty inchoate paths we live on and in living we lose the apprehension of life.

Amidst the sea of life, as the wind ruffles against the laving water and the water laves against the ruffling wind, desires are warring against the wishes and the wishes withstanding the dissentient desires. All aloof, sailing in the canoe of hopes, rowing with the paddles of wishes, bent upon the paradoxical and profound paths searching for the distant destiny, heart seems to have occluded by its own will. On the contrary mind is making the plots to rule the heart and conquer the desires, while the heart struck by these vicious contemplates, still finding itslef dazed in the world of desires, the desries that battle against the earnset wishes. It is the battle of self against the truth, the battle of the naivete and defiance against the inner self, and while i live, the battle continues and continues all the while.

To juxtapose me with the day, neither do i remember the first day that entered my life, nor do i know when the last day would be, but each day that offers me a day to live in definitely knows that its the first and as well the last to enter in my life. I would like to live, live every day with the stoutheartedness as if it were to be my first day, live with the grit as if it were to be my last, but i scruple, for i fail to feign to have lived the way i wish to. Lost in the amaranthine search of one such alpha day, perhaps it is the day i can find no more, no more to live in and any more to die too...