Something of Myself
Monday, July 10, 2006
Molly Bloom
How does betrayal taste? Can you define it? Is the experience explicable? There is a gallish feeling in my mouth. It's spreading all over. Like cancer. Slowly but surely. I am putting up a face. Twisting, turning, cursing and then realising that it's destiny. Of late, I have taken a lot of recourse in destiny. As if everything is pre-determined. We are, like the old bard said, mere performers on stage. Show after show after show. But does an actor not get into the skin of the character? Does he not, more often than not, forget his real self and trudge along.
Trudge. It's my word of the day. Shakespeare's Gertrude has come alive. How frail can women be? Molly Bloom. Joyce.
What does it take to betray someone's trust? Old flames? Chilling desires? Unfulfilled fantasies? Incomplete experiences? Half-hearted commitments?
The memories of that unwanted day comes back. Colours and chaos. Chaos and desire. Desire and pain. Pain and compromise. Compromise and finality.
Words are hard to find. Yes, there are moments in one's life when words are ineffective, incapable and impotent. The long-drawn, painful, druggish exercise of writing is overtaken by the futile realisation of that which should not have happened, of that which could have been avoided, of that which stings like a bee and flies like a butterfly.
Life's like playing a violin solo in public and learning about the instrument as I play on. Trouble is, I can't hear nothing...
How does betrayal taste? Can you define it? Is the experience explicable? There is a gallish feeling in my mouth. It's spreading all over. Like cancer. Slowly but surely. I am putting up a face. Twisting, turning, cursing and then realising that it's destiny. Of late, I have taken a lot of recourse in destiny. As if everything is pre-determined. We are, like the old bard said, mere performers on stage. Show after show after show. But does an actor not get into the skin of the character? Does he not, more often than not, forget his real self and trudge along.
Trudge. It's my word of the day. Shakespeare's Gertrude has come alive. How frail can women be? Molly Bloom. Joyce.
What does it take to betray someone's trust? Old flames? Chilling desires? Unfulfilled fantasies? Incomplete experiences? Half-hearted commitments?
The memories of that unwanted day comes back. Colours and chaos. Chaos and desire. Desire and pain. Pain and compromise. Compromise and finality.
Words are hard to find. Yes, there are moments in one's life when words are ineffective, incapable and impotent. The long-drawn, painful, druggish exercise of writing is overtaken by the futile realisation of that which should not have happened, of that which could have been avoided, of that which stings like a bee and flies like a butterfly.
Life's like playing a violin solo in public and learning about the instrument as I play on. Trouble is, I can't hear nothing...
4 Comments:
wounds:
if u keep them uncovered they catch germs or keep getting re hit
if u cover them they fester
beautifully written but i guess thats besides the point here
i wish u cud be happy darling ...
I am cool. I am happy. This is a piece of fiction my friend! :-)
I agree with your uncover vs cover thought. I like it because it presents a terrible choice between choosing to burn or choosing to perish. :) Deja vu.
Brilliant piece of writing. I love it. I had to come here because it did feel good that day on Howth Head. We always come back to the one we love in the end.
Thank you and welcome. Hope to see you around.
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