‘Delusion’, the dictionary says is a belief in an unfounded idea or opinion. And hallucination is described as an illusory perception or a mental disorder.
That probably points towards one direction many of us are afflicted by a grave mental disorder. We dream but we do not relinquish the dream as a dream, a fantasy, but get snowed under and ridden over by the idea, the opinion, and the illusory perception of it being real. We, late into the drama, finally cease to believe that it is an illusion. A mirage we have been after! Damn fools!
Bitter sweetness of the citrus turns sour inside out. The pod, the flesh all sour!
Reminds me of the proverbial story of the obstinate primate, who refuses to let go his purchase and continues to be held in the vice. The shackles, the chains that we let grow around our hands and feet, like the toxic creeper, entwine us, immobile, rooting us into illusion. And we still refuse. For they say have hope. But hope is when we let us be unbound by the shackles that tether us. Isn’t it?
Relationships, burdens, commitments fostered by relationships, social etiquettes enforced by conditioning! What if we had refused to be cowed down by conventions and the orthodoxy, but embrace the vast horizons of being heterodox? Society may frown, may take pot-shots, snarl and dismiss us as pariah and incorrigible .So what. Must we care a hoot? Man, it’s our life and we have the right to use it the way we like. Or from the obverse point, abuse it the way we want. But trepidness ruin life that can never be regained, or redrawn! Paradise lost from being blind.
But alas, now, it is more than a trifle late for the dawn of realisation and enlightenment, for disillusion to eclipse the apparition.
It is no wonder, intelligent have observed that if there is Kingdom of Heaven and Paradise it is here in this life and within you. And it awaits only the ones who show the hubris, the courage to go beyond the boundaries of conventions. Isn’t it? And now there isn’t any common sense in crying over spilled milk and bygones.
It is not running away from life like 'The monk who sold his Ferrari', but living the life in full the way we feel. You fall dead at forty and if you have lived life that you wanted, there will be contentment for the soul than a life till the rickety eighties and squeeze inexorably into a ramshackle coffin (more often someone will have to carry you to put you in there), and lie like a goddamn fool cold and shivering in a damp subterranean pit looking into nowhere and dumb indeed dumb! And that, “shit I messed with a good chance of life”.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the under growth.
Then took the one just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no steps trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
took the one less travelled by
And that made all the difference.