Every new year (or any new beginning for that matter) is gravid with expectations. This year is no different. After a while however, the expectations dilute and a semblance of lightness and sameness prevails. Often, for we stop paying attention to the possibility of that expectation becoming real.
Good words create a tunnel to allow other good words to travel through. Good words, in turn, do the same. Conversations have been a focus of this year (so far). And while a few happened at the end of last year, they were an indicator of the bright sunshine of the coming day. Good conversations, as against responding, are seemingly rare these days, or so I thought — after a good conversation about good conversations ensued, recently.
Sharpness is a single dimension; it blurs the depth of field. A blur opens up the eyes of your thought. Focus is a word that moved out of the obvious context of a viewfinder and a lens. It seemed engaged in a holy alliance, flirting with priorities and direction. It seemed like a point plotted on a graph with priorities on the x-axis and direction on the y-axis. Time became the third dimension with which I would measure the point of focus.
Knowing something isn’t enough. Seeing what you know, is important. The ever-elusive definition of love became denser with further context. Old structures did not fall, but were obscured with new meanings that yearned; demanded even, attention. At closer look, it was just a new bottle — the cause of intoxication remained the same. New and old context intertwined and a larger canvass was created. It now begs for a signature of colour.
Your past is always alive and walks in parallel to your present — ready to extend a hand and touch you. You may forget it; it never forgets you. People have surfaced from days gone by. Like clockwork. It is as if a code was executed. People from years ago; some from many-many years ago. Like an old memory you find when moving the furniture; a small dusty scrap that behaves like a time-machine. They do not say anything that changes your life. But seeing them, puts you in a tizzy — reminds you where you came from.
I can almost see life walking straight ahead, taking purposeful strides and shedding the redundant heavy clothing, a piece at a time. And some garbs are people. I can almost see life has doffed all the accumulation of the past that slowed the pace; strewn in its wake; picking up speed.
All’s well. Almost.