GIBBERISH

The morning dew has settled on the leaf of the bonsai. Blessed day. I wake up with a half- moron expression and scroll down my mobile phone. The last sms reads: Recharge immediately to prevent termination of services. I realize I’ve missed a deadline again. Every day I wake up to realize that I don’t belong to the world that revolves around me. This disconnect has almost become a conceit. I relish it so much that I almost rehearse this disconnect. What if one day I wake up to find myself in a place where the mutated Homo sapiens like me stay? Would I then find a new disconnect? Estragon and Vladimir have waited for Godot ever since they understood they are lost. Or maybe the day they found themselves and did not know what to do with those selves. I thus fear finding myself. A disconnect helps me remain in a sort of acceptance. Or maybe a denial. It is a comforting cocoon. Therefore I once again doze off.

As I return from a hectic not-so-happening day at work. I retire. Facebook. Gtalk. Laziness. Three options. Unparallel competition. I choose the third everyday. A compelling addiction. So as I lie down to romance my leisure. I meet the Becketians. Or I guess the Becketians meet me. A blurry dimension. Smile fades only to replace a very queer expression. Estragon sits near my head and pats my forehead. I wish he knew how to massage. But even if he did he would not have executed the knowledge. Long back they have lost the pretension of compulsion. You have it doesn’t mean you show it. Or maybe you show it but not always have it. Bizarre the effect Estragon has on me. I swear by my monotony- I don’t want them to enter my inner space. But always, invariably they do. Vladimir speaks slowly. He sits near my feet. I feel like Krishna torn between Pandavas and Kauravas. The only difference there’s no battle. Or maybe there’s no battle field. Battle is like liquid. It comes alive in a package. I lack that. Thus all my battles are without shape. So in my shapeless battle called life...eh! It sounds so Wordsworthian. And I detest the Lucy-kid. No offence meant to his hugely lyrical ballad. So before I digress into one of my weirdness- let my put a period to my evening.

Night bestows and I wonder who I am? No a philosopher would not have been a competition. I promise to do “nothing” better than them at times. Especially with some beloved Vodka in my system. So here speaks the Vodkaish oracle. (Nothing Russian about it): My life has always been a short story, or so I love to believe. Digressions often break the rule- and my life tends to become a novel. Right then the cruel editor uses her skills to refine. And once again I become a short story tending to deviate. Well that's the thrill of it. You are never what you think you are. Catharsis, hence never comes.

And at the end what I understand is I have understood nothing. Neither have you.