Very few people
touch your heart. And the fewest can dwell deep into your soul that some
essence of them will be there in your conscience. A part of their perceptions
and images more frequently visiting you back. Some people may change you, but
very few sow the seeds of transformation, a transformation that you have feared
to approach, hold hands, walk along, argue, and encounter every justification
for the need of transformation that you have neglected so long. Answering so
many whys and hows. There are far more differences between an ‘improvement’ and
‘transformation’. Some want you to improve so that you may meet somewhere at
their ideal of their expectations, so that they can look at you, run their
fingers through your hair and kiss you to squeeze out the elements that they
never want you to hold, so that they can be secure and content. Some want you
to transform, to stop your story, and to begin from the very beginning rather
than a resumption. Forgiving yourself is the hardest part to do. If you don’t
then the smile of the forgiver does not hit you, unnerve you, and won’t quench
your regret. It will not make any difference. An ocean of forgiveness waiting
you miles apart in the shape of people, moments and kindness. For all the
mistakes you are going to do, you have an ocean of forgiveness in store for
you. The only thing is you just refuse to plunge yourself into the water and
get embraced by the waves and tears.
The head slightly tilted every now and
then. The fingers run faster than the thoughts. Thoughts striving to reach and slow
down the far running words. What is it we call for forgiveness when the one who
seeks for forgiveness cannot really seek for it anymore because those who have
to forgive have slipped out of reality and distilled in to a memory? Atonement. Brione Tallis. Could they
have forgiven her? Have they forgiven her before they get melted into the tears
that they have shed over the years, over their unfulfilled love and passion? The
fire of the two souls burns her, burning her, have always burnt her within,
without, all over her existence! Guilt, cowardice, denial. False perception and
false accusation by the sheer ignorance of a horrified, foolish girl. She wrote when she was dejected and disturbed.
She wrote with embellishments and adjectives, her imagination flaming like fire
from the ignited phoenix surfaced from its ashes! Oh the ashes! The ashes of
her supposed truth! The sense of truth has betrayed her. You didn’t know that
truth can be lies! You didn’t know that your assumptions can’t be truths, that
the world is different, that there are strange feelings yet to be tasted of. You
didn’t know it because you were thirteen then! “How old do you have to be to know the difference between right and
wrong?” You “prevented” them from their
very “ life”. Prevented them from their love that they deserved each other. Can
your words ever serve for the atonement? Is it a reparation at all? If your
mind has twisted your perception in a little other way round, if you were a
little more grown to perceive it the right way, then he would not have to be yearned for that
resumption. Hoping their story to resume, he walked towards death, exhausted,
pale, grey, still Cecilia in his vision, dream and voice. “I will
return, find you. Love you. Marry you. And live without shame.”
Dorian
Gray. His picture and his soul. Soul entrapped in his portrait. Soul rotting
and soul decaying. Undying youth, unwithering charm. He sought for pleasure, “I
am the flame!” The hardest flame he never allowed to flicker, the devilish
pursuits unwavering his beauty, the lines of sin and its dread tracing and
carving its ways in his picture. Worms wallowing and figuring in the face, the
face of bartered soul, soul rasping and roaring by the most heinous crimes. The
Picture of Dorian Gray. He lived in sensuality, he ruled his emotions, he
revelled in his pleasures, sins, unpardonable deeds, bathing in fire of passion
and ever gleaming youth. Dorian Gray. The man who forbid nothing, but his
conscience. Conscience. Don’t you hear it? How often its grinding moans been reaching
you! Don’t you hear it? Beauty and youth
had brought you everything. The picture has brought you everything. And the
soul that you wished to abandon and merged into the picture has brought you
everything and taken away one thing. Your conscience. Fatal wish! Fatal
picture! Fatal hands that had painted it. How often Wilde wrote of morality. Morality
was never dissected like him with the most inverted and perverted way possible.
The fashion statement of the time, the narcissicist who made use of his
narcissism to flower his exquisite art, exquisite thought, exquisite wit. I
wish you had resumed the story and led it to a good end. The story of Dorian
Gray. Like the man in the Atonement
who most yearningly, hungrily, intensely wished for the resumption of his
story. Was Dorian not worth for a resumption? I guess he is not. Not worth of
it. My conscience says so. I hadn’t pinned it to any picture. Not yet. Though I
have pinned it so many other things.
Let me sweat in my wishes
And be rinsed in
my conscience.
Conscience. You know what it is?
Is it the voice of the soul?
Or
some bleak echo of some ingrained morality?
I get wet in the rain,
Rain no longer
perceived with romance,
But with the rocky dryness of a savage soul
That presses
and dances and fidgets on digital gadgets.
Isn't that am doing now? Fidgeting on
the gadgets instead of simply watching the rain? Let me simply resume. Let me
simply resume from where my thoughts had started sailing from the drizzling
water of the infinite roof. Our story can resume. Because some others could not
resume;)
