It is a regular Sunday morning as I lay myself to rest on the chair in the porch admiring the morning dew as I hit the play button on my iPod. I look at the sky in eternal tranquility while I listen to the notes of ‘Blackbird’ kick in. “Paul McCartney. That man must be in such a poignant state yet with so much passion”, I say to myself as I continue laying down in the chair. I pull myself up against the gravity which fells doubly strong as before and grab my old guitar lying in the attic. I sit down to play a few chords. I play a few of my favorites, but my six string doesn’t quite glue me to it. The next moment I find myself dumping my old six string somewhere among the foliage. “That hobby is too long gone. I can’t do it”, I convince myself before I begin carrying on my composure.
The sun grows brighter as I draw myself into the house. I sit at the table as I sip my morning tea. The television flashes the new art competition going on in town. “Such beautiful pictures! They must have some weird musings!” I think as I finish my tea in a jiffy. I go into my bedroom and lay a canvas on the floor. I grab some colors and splash them on the canvas haphazardly. I sit down and try to mend the painting. But somehow it doesn’t feel quite right. I let the colors spill on the canvas and leave the room, feeling somewhat blue. The colors spread like a skyline waiting to inspire, the canvas laid on the floor like a lake only still. But my mind left the zeal to add waves to them.
I walk into the Kitchen to fix a broken pipeline. I sit down like an unflagging plumber, not realizing all my energy getting drained by all the water that has spilled out. I finally get up like an undermined loser. I see my kids having their breakfast; their little feet hanging down from the chair, their petty fights about the bottle of jam. “Daddy, can you please sing us ‘Best day of my ljfe’?” they shout before I pull out a chair and try to believe in the irony implied. I start to sing a first few lines before my coarse voice refused to tune me to the person I was years ago. The music which sounded like melodious birds when I sang as a young philander now just has a good tune only in my mind. In reality, it just doesn’t feel quite right.
When the afternoon sun convinces me to sit down in the sofa and read some classic novels, I carry myself with my burden and start reading one. Halfway through it when the dusk has just set in, I feel an unstoppable urge to do what I really like doing. I put on my running shorts and hit the streets. After a few minutes, I am pulled down by gravity and I feel as if I’m being pulled behind by loser in me. My body refuses to put me through enough enthusiasm. Somehow, it just doesn’t feel quite right.
When I finally decide to sit down and write down about my feelings, I realize that my passion is draining as fast as I’m aging. I write down a few lines but somehow it just doesn’t feel quite ri…
Just An Oeuvre 