I have been visiting this place since I was like 4. Grateful to the art gallery they did not touch the one thing I admire/adore/look out for in my life since my early childhood. They say, a work of art is called Work uptil the artist is breathing and pumping blood, but it turns into a Piece when the oxygen stops running inside and the blood stops fooling around the whole body. However, for a work to be called a Masterpiece, has no such boundaries of life and death. My very own mother made me understand art for like forever. I don't known if it was genetic or some kind of super power in me but I always used to look out for things she used to hide in her works...oh sorry...I mean pieces. Yes, she is dead now. I don't think they were very vague or complicated, she always drew pretty much clearly. What she wanted, how she felt about wanting it, and how it shouldn't feel wanting it....three majors of her pieces. It aches my heart to call her work pieces...since I have known the fact of calling an art work a PIECE is also from like forever. Anyways, today is the day I must get ahold of myself and let her art grip around me as tightly as they can, like they have always been since today is the day that person died who taught me how to think and feel. Also, today is the day the person who taught me how to hate and feel that absolute anger in me is releasing from jail. Yeah, the one who killed my mother. Who could that be? My father of course. Artistic family you see! He was the greatest sculpture artist of his time. Never understood his works though...they were all mused for someone, for something I wasn't able to understand at that particularly small age. Now that I can, I don't want to. The image has changed completely. So far I know, as he says even now, he mused my mother...but she died on his hands...by his hands...right in front of me....just for me. She sacrificed herself for me. I don't know what to do with that certainly painful and awfully biting information my mind recieved when I was three days due 5. Today he is coming back and I can't see that rage in him that I had seen 20 years ago when I accidentally broke his work (something like a naked mannequin) for the same art gallery I'm standing right now. I was dead that day only, just biological..my mother took the act and bled instead of me. I want to see that rage in him again. The work I'm standing in front of is the Masterpiece, which can be declared one irrespective of the boundaries of life and death. A sculpture made by my dad 23 years ago of me. When I was barely 3. He mused me this one single time and it became the absolute amazing art work one has ever seen and it's my ultimate favourite, it has always been since my childhood. But, things have changed again. Today is the day, when things will change altogether and I will be free from this art work forever. Today is the day when I'll see that rage in his eyes again and today is the day when I'll gladly and lonely recieve my long due death imposed to my mother because of her stupid motherhood. Today is the day he will be seeing me after 20 years right where he loves himself and Me the most...in the art gallery where he has kept the loveliest part of me safe....today is the day I'll break the bars and shackles of this gallery and come out free. Today is the day.
Pedro Calderon De La Barca, in his play, once said...."for a man's greatest crime is to have been born". The phrase dripping with negetivity have all the agony engulfed in it including the truth. It is. The truth. There are myths and faiths of heaven and hell but the truth is that the life on earth is the actual Hell...the very mortal life on earth. Living it, feeling it, embracing it or abusing it...all turns out to be the punishments and rewards of it...the bonus part. Everything that is cooking inside a mind is the root cause of everything that is happening outside it. A person in pain is equally proportional to the person unaware(since he/she is pitiful)...and a person unaware is equally proportional to the person living happily(which is a momentary reward), for the pain is the punishment of the CRIME of being born here. The real suffering. Living life chasing/seeking/designing happiness is the actual catch...we are always in agony...for something or the other, which makes us seek happiness and once we seek happiness in something...there will be another way to resurface the heartache again and you will want to rip that off your chest. Ghalib once rightly said :- "qaid-e-hayat o band-e-ġham asal me dono ek hain maut se pehle aadmi ġham se nijat pae kyun" (Qaid-e-hayat:- prison of life Band-e-gham:- bondage of grief Nijaat:- get rid of )
And he knows that before the death....there's no way one can get rid of the grief. It's always going to be there right in your heart and everyday you will have to suffer to be happy and embracing about it. The windows of lamentation open again with the thorny flowers of questioning self as to why you have suddenly ran out of the bright view...ran out of love for life...and then there's no way rushing back to where you were until you accept that all is but a dream and one day with your time being over... everything must end.
"Maut ka bhi ilaaj ho shayad Zindagi ka koi ilaaj nhi"
And when Firaq Gorakhpuri said that, I think he must be wishing to end his life sentence punished with Life in a different way than death. I think.
So this one night I'm trying to sleep in the pitch darkness with my family snoring lightly beside me, I feel it surreal. Everything. Life, people, attachment, existence, emotions, goals, death... everything surreal like a dream. Like I haven't been living but dreaming it all and then dreaming and then dreaming more. I open my eyes and feel alone, with my sister's sleepy hands laid on my abdomen and my thighs getting support from her thighs, I feel alone. Pretty much like the only one who woke up from the dream and the rest are still sleeping. Then I feel the sudden tension in my chest and tears pooling up around the iris. I open my mouth and feel the unknown pain filling up inside me which I try to kick out through sighing. I make a few groans, as low-ly as I could, and by now my side hair is completely wet. The only thing that comes in my mind is WHY? What is this sadness about? What is this pain about? Loneliness? But why I'm not happy with myself when humans are made selfish enough to think about themselves always. I'm sure in an emergency I'll save myself first, then why do I regret that action? After thinking and open mouth silent crying, I come to the only conclusion that is- I'm alone. Humans are social animal, we aren't supposed to be alone. That's why we think that LOVE is magical because we found someone to stay/live with. We aren't supposed to be alone at evenings and silent cry at nights. That's why this LOVE is so overrated and so ON DEMAND. Then I jumped to another question, but why did I end up alone? Why do I not go out there in the world and find someone? And that's when I realised, people are not reliable anymore, I'm not reliable anymore. There are people like me who are regretting their Save-yourself-first instinct. There is I who get angry if I don't get what I want as well as sell my self-respect for someone I want...so there are people like me who are not making it easier for people like me to rely. I don't rely on myself, and I represent one community of HUMAN. I keep complaining about these type of people and that type of people whereas there must be someone who might be complaining about MY type of people. We are all alike and yet searching happiness and reliability in others while we sulk when left alone. I woke up and went to my room opening my diary, I scribbled- "People always cuss People like us Us create fuss About people like us".