Ephemeral

Ephemeral is the world,

The Sun, the stars and the earth. 

Ephemeral is fate,

Time, memories and faith.

Ephemeral is love,

Longing, desire and stealth.

Emotions. Words. Souls. Promises. Intentions. Whispers.

Ephemeral are the eyes.

Starry, vulnerable and expressive.

Ephemeral is life,

Fleeting, unknowable and finite. 

Two roads diverged in the woods and I took the one less travelled by

"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 has made all the difference"

-The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost

This stanza from Robert Frost's iconic poem has probably single handedly defined my life choices. Whenever I have felt the need to do something out of the ordinary and have been apprehensive about possible backlash, this has been my guiding force.

It is of course interesting to note that while Frost talks about the difference that taking the unknown road has made to his life, he does not specify whether they have been positive or not. And it is only reasonable to conclude that all life experiences, irrespective of the path taken, cannot be positive. So is it our endeavour in life to accumulate only positive experiences? Should we be consequently afraid of any possible negative experiences? For even though the road oft travelled does not guarantee positive results, there is some semblance of regularity to it, a certain degree of familiarity to it, which while comforting, can also prove to be quite revolting at times.

While self preservation is instinctive, what is it that makes us yearn to break out of the set path of life? Especially when one knows that there is nothing certain about an unknown path and an unforeseen destiny. When every sane influence in our life cautions us to tread carefully. When it is so much easier to tread the familiar path even if it does not give one any happiness?

Is it the fact that questions like what might have been, what could have been, what should have been and what will not be are too haunting to be left unanswered? Or is it because that the set patterns of one's life are not necessarily suited to one's happiness? 

And what after all is happiness? Are moments of happiness worth enough to risk possible sorrow in the future? Or is it more logical to just live in a plateau where there is neither happiness nor sorrow, where life is dominated by grey and not colours?

Questions galore and answers to none.

The Memory of Love

I have in the past mentioned a couple of books in my posts in passing without going into any of them in much detail. One of the books I have read in the recent past was 'The Memory of Love' by Aminatta Forna. Though the book in itself was quite interesting, the part that has stuck with me since the first time I read about it is the very name of the book-The Memory of Love. To be honest, I am not quite sure what about this particular turn of words stayed with me. Was it the palpable yearning associated with it? Or was it the intense desire on part of the protagonist to go back to the times when love was not a mere memory, when love was the reality, when love was the present and not the past. There is something hauntingly beautiful about the title (though it could only be just me considering my tendency to over analyze and find meanings in everything). Hauntingly beautiful and hauntingly painful, as well, I would imagine. For how does one deal with the memory of love when it is but only a memory of what was, what could have been, what should have been and what is not. How does one reconcile the listlessness, the rootlessness of the present with the tantalizing pull of the past. And what happens to the future- dark, unknown and unpredictable as it is-for when enmeshed in the memory of love, does one look forward to the future or envy the charms of the past?