Wednesday, August 18, 2010

The 3AM peregination


So I took a walk at 3am. A walk to organize the reverie which goes through one’s 3am mind. All the culminations of the week, the do’s and the don’ts of the affairs of the heart, the index of the beginning of a mundane week, the addendums of the remainder of a slightly stirred weekend, Jane Austen’s persuasion in my bag, and the most disposable, shaky perseverance in my heart, slightly tingling in my fingertips (course of the bloodstream?). Its 3am in a dodgy city but when you walk not knowing where you are headed, you look so foot-strong, it is an illusion, like a mended heart or a bad gin.

It would be so easy to just break some glass in your apartment instead during emotionally unregulated nights like these than to take a walk; but issues of neatness, decorum, and the general non-feasibility of courage keep me (plus something as celluloid as that should have an audience). This behavioral inability impregnates me with a seemingly fantastic idea about a place where people can just go and break glassware, dishes and fancy china, ingeniously called something like “soul-spas” or “anger-salons”. Anyway, so 3am walk on a pristine looking pavement with no pedestrian companions apart from the 3 threatening shadows of your own self, all extracting the life out of a cigarette.

I find my most wobbly yet strangely stabilizing spot in the 3am café. It is my strategically situated spot of silent observations, reflections, and consolations and of course conversations. All screamingly silent. Strangers surrounding me, intertwining our temporary 3am aimlessness with each other. Weakly drunk kids, compulsive as well as punished insomniacs, caffeine comforters.. all of us desperately seeking tacit company. The radio plays a relevant song, well; at least it seems relevant at 3am, all songs do, don’t they? Maybe it is the liquidity of the feelings that just takes the shape of the closest song.

Like a shrine where we congregate in our sleeplessness or like an escapade where we vacate into to feel nothingness. Where we break invisible glass as we read our books, stare into our screens or order our coffees unusually loud. We are all settling in this otherwise unwelcome whimsicality (that usually a painter is a proud owner of). We look busy but we really are all, unanimously, just watching the waitress robotically mop the floor; we really are just mirthfully shattering our strength that was carefully constructed over the week. We are partners in this therapeutic vandalism. At 3am, until we find a reason to retire back into thoughtfulness.


art - Coffee Cartel, water colours on canvas
artiste - Marilynne Bradley
url - here

3 comments:

The Vice Buddha said...

You have no idea how brilliant you are!

I dont see much people commenting here.. And I believe its not coz no one read it. Its coz no one can match up to it. They are rather spellbound I'd say.

Random thought.. is there a way to get in touch with you apart from this blog?

sorcerer said...

you are very kind to say so! I haven't written in quite long. Education is keeping me consumed. I do intend to write again.. Just waiting for right vein to bleed. I am Rohan. You can email me at docstar84@gmail.com.

I look forward to hearing from you! Thank you so much again

The Vice Buddha said...

Umm..
I have read ur blog earlier too!! It is phenomenal.

You know what? I am going to make a slight effort to show at least the people whom my blog reaches out to, what a talent you have!