There’s a climb a mountain, to be marooned on an be somewhere in isolation. Yes, I think it will take such a measure to clear the clouds shrouding forever in my head and it has grown into something of a monument lately. I have begun to ask questions and it always starts with a WHY?

Why do we have to the puppets filling the roles created by destiny and written by Gods? Aren’t we such fools, to think we are in complete control of our lives when all the events in our lives are predetermined and that the fact is, everything in our lives is a sequence of events, one causing the other and we merely assume the authority over them but in fact, we are just innocent but live actors, filling up on duties that are required of us but honestly, that which we often loathe.

It is almost as if somebody has tattooed my face without my knowledge and I look in the mirror to find a ghastly image that I cannot acknowledge as my reflection but perhaps, that is how our inner reflections would look like if they could be visualised. We are all civil people but some of us with minds wild and untamed. What appears to be and what really is are often contradictory.

I see people going about their routine, polished from the head to the toe, going about their business with earnestness as if their minds never betray them. Then I see people, hopeless and useless with no sense of navigation and without purpose or care. Then I begin to wonder if our lives are all about having a purpose, however futile or small, they maybe and to go about fulfilling them. Or are purposes the veil hiding the ugliness of this worldly life?

But from all sorts of purposes one can pursue, I find that the purpose of love is the noblest one. A man in love is in his kindest form, his honesty immeasurable and his spirit for life is at its summit. Unfortunately, love comes with its many seasons and if one does not have the patience to endure it, love is a purpose failed. Another noble purpose, I find, is the quest for spiritual understanding and the pursuit of enlightenment through the practice of dharma. But this is not for everybody because everybody would rather be drunk in the ordinariness of the everyday life than renounce it for what seems like a mad pursuit. At the moment, it appears that I am one among everybody.

But at this very moment, the purpose of writing this unbeatably crazy piece is to have an answer to the man who comes home every evening and asks me if I have scribbled something and made my day useful but unlike the past two months, today I will tell him that I did write something afterall although it appears to be written in a language that none can decipher. The reason for not scribbling anything for months was the newfound belief that a writer would amount to nothing worthwhile if he wrote more than he read. It would be more like sitting in one corner of the house and to talk of the world and its enormous beauty. Unfortunately, my readings have been minimal but nevertheless an improvement in my habit. Instead i sought to learn more about the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen and a bit of John Keats. One thing that all these great writers shared was their state of poverty. There you see, if you think if you are aspiring to be a writer in Bhutan but slumped by the hopelessness of the possibility of success, despair not my friend. You will have had something in common with these great figures of literature for whom accomplishments came, success never.
2 Responses
  1. Nice read,

    Now I understand, that in life one can become an accomplished man but not a successful one....

    thanks for sharing your thoughts after a very long long gap.

    all the best


  2. Kinga Choden Says:

    Ecjacttly PSN!!! Glad to be back too and hoping to be more coherent in streaming my thoughts into words hereon. Thanks!

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