Saturday, September 19, 2015

Lazytalk, Hanging brains, Hanging heads

"May in Ayemenem is a hot brooding month" So is June and July for me at home, near the waves and the monsoon. Thanks to my joblessness. I wish for everyone to be jobless and free. Employment is a scam and a euphemism for slavery. But if that is the only way to livelihood, who do we blame? I blame the powerful, how inhuman!

The guilt of inaction while brooding away seeps in deep, to a spot where I cannot differentiate between leisure and boredom and the arbitrary suffering. Mad people I think. Stupid people I think. Don't they see? But I'm not the one to tell them, to try to show them, see see. I say, sometimes. But I'm too lazy to talk about it now. I'm as lazy as a leaf in a breezeless summer. I let it be. I believe too little in my own self. Who am I anyway? I would often think of disappearing into a background where no one notices me. Please do not. It's fine.

I drown in guilt but I am lazy and I'm guilty that I can afford to be lazy. I can live silently in the background and die one day hoping no one registers either my absence or presence. But if only, right? That never happens. Too many memories created already. It's only in my own head that I suspend my own self to disappear. To identify with the air or the leaf or the grain of sand that is always around but will never be noticed. Can I be like that? Like, I don't interfere or do anything. Like, I have no aims or plans. I'm just there, as well be dead. There's not even an I. As I could be as many things as there are in the background.

This is babble. This is cowardly lazier too the worse. Who fancies words and blabber blah but is too lazy. A coward who can see, is aware of her cowardice, who resigns and dreams of complete disappearance. Who likes the monotony of the ceiling fan. Why the ceiling fan, no, that's too much, just a hand fan, which we used during power cuts when I was a child. The dull monotony of just staring into nothing, when meanings were not formed, ambiguity was a fact of life. She loves it, wants to blend into it. It is monotonous, yet familiar, comforting and passive. What is the need for anything else. But the paradox is I have no interest in preaching this. Please suit yourself, just let me be. Too comfortable in my own shell.

And anyway, lazy people are harmless, no? They're too lazy to harm. Sometimes, disillusion with all ideologies brings me to find solace in laziness, fiction and random reflections of words in my head. At the root of everything, is complete arbitrariness. There's no real reason or cause for suffering or happiness, it is built upon arbitrariness piled on arbitrariness, maybe that's what Camus calls absurdity. From whatever I have read, there is no root or origin of any phenomenon, good or bad, it is created and believed in and forgotten and it goes around. I will come back to hate my own cowardice and say, you bloody hypocrite, you, but you have your own history, on which your life is pitched, you cannot just find solace in all this root talk! Okay, lets wait. It's not the end. I have lived a quarter century of a useless life, already. Come on, I didn't choose to be born, you see. This life, this world and its problems are my forced inheritance. I would be happy to die if it was an effortless death.

There are other deaths, there are deaths where a stranger hangs another stranger and gives death. I wonder, how can one do this as a job. Of course, I'm too privileged, and with guilt, to sit in judgment over anyone. But what a world, where you can pay for someone to kill a complete stranger as a daily job. And not just the one who is at the end of the act. A whole institution, a whole country, actively or passively supports it or resents it to no consequence but to kill. I'm not too big to oppose nor am I too tiny to disappear or be dead. I'm alive in this whatever space I occupy and I have the guilt of privilege that I have not given up. I seek solidarity, I wait, it's neither an end, nor a beginning, it is a passage, that I would cross as time leads me on, to resolve the web of meanings that have been constructed. It is our knowledge of history, one version or the other, that makes us ideological, as I define and am defined by my own.