Skip to main content

How to Live: Anti-Utopian Perspective

I don't have any blueprint and I can not have. I may have certain immidiate purposes to achieve but it has nothing to do with the ultimate end. In fact, there cannot be any pre-decided end. Many times I tried to follow a routine to succeed, each time I failed miserably. Those failures are close to my heart. It is only failures which make me realise that life is not a manifesto to be proclaimed. Life is situational, temporal, here and now. It doesn't mean that I don't have any problem, or I am living with eternal bliss. In fact, I'm full of problems which make me engaged to solve it. Many problems are solved and many more come in between. But I don't think that these problems are itself the problem. Only this conflict deserves to be named as life. I cannot dream a heaven on earth. I cannot imagine a fairytale to come true. Life is what it is obvious to my senses. I witness it, feel it, what else is life. Here is bliss, ceaseless coiling, full of waves, ups and downs. If I follow a routine, something will die in me. If I follow a situation like solving a puzzle, I may grow, I may find some new adventures and with it some new problems.  I may dream endlessly but at the end I can't be there. Instead I am here, right now with what is perceptible around me. One of the modern rationalists Karl Popper writes, "Our moral enthusiasm is often misguided, because we fail to realize that our moral principles, which are sure to be over-simple, are often difficult to apply to the complex human and political situations to which we feel bound to apply them". I cannot agree more than what he has to say. It is manifesto which doctors my life. It is prophecy of the end of history  which makes me numb. I do not have the ultimate desire. I do not know how to live. I am alive!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

पिरोता जाऊँ एक माला ज़िन्दगी का

पढ़ता हूँ हर एक दिन एक ही पन्ना, हर दिन हज़ार ये मालूम पड़ते हैं। जबसे होश संभाला है एक ही पन्ना सवांरते आया हूँ, लोग इसे ज़िन्दगी कहते हैं। इसपे लिखे हर एक लब्ज़ जो मेरे मालूम पड़ते हैं, ना जाने कितने जुबां पे चढ़े होंगे। आज हम भी कुछ पल के लिए ही सही इसके सारथी हैं, जाने से पहले कुछ रंग मेरा भी इसपे चढ़ जाए, बस इसीलिए एक ही पन्ना बार बार पलटता रहता हूँ। हर कोई अनजाने किताब की तलाश में बाहर निकलता है, जिसका हर एक पन्ना वो ख़ुद है। जब ख़ुद के रंग को समझ ही ना पाया, तो भला इंद्रधनुषी किताब के क्या मायने हैं? अस्तित्व में ना जाने कितने पन्ने बिखरे पड़े हैं, बस एक से ही अवगत हो जाऊँ, उसके हर एक शब्द को चुनता जाऊँ, कुछ पल के लिये सही, पिरोता जाऊँ एक माला ज़िन्दगी का।

Time and Love

Time passes by Like moving in a train of thoughts Its sequence is always forward Vibrating like a cosmic dance of Shiva Time is creating and engulfing The little waves of the ocean Going where? Nobody knows Like a dream does not have a destination It is as true as any absurd play With friends of pleasure It moves like speed of light With friends of need It is felt like a moving river Allowing a little moments of thoughts Before everything becomes a history With friends of virtue Time becomes a sublime touch Soothing and healing the pain Becoming a spectator To watch the cries and follies Beauty and ugliness The rainbow of joy And an album of suffering Time touches Yet it remains aloof Like Purush is witnessing The colours of prakriti Yet remains unblemished And untouched The union of two is always mystical Their touch is a source Of creation and transformation Time is witnessing everything In its sequential movements Who is witnessing time? What is independent of the originatio...

Dreamer

Empty is mirror, Yet it reflects what is. Chit is absolute abyss, Yet it contains the existence, Like unending horizons of sky. Chit in bond with manas, Creates and witnesses, The playful dance of life. Shunyata is the absolute truth, Yet it is all of the possible worlds. Out of its voidness, World appears and disappears. Is it real or unreal? Or merely the Dream, Of all the possible dreams? If it is the case, Who is dreaming, the dreams of all? The One, the Cosmos. What if the One is also a figment of imagination? What if the world is a poetic creation? And the Poet has deployed itself, In every form of poetry? The poetry of life. What if only bhokta is bhojan? Only observer is observed? Only worshiper is worshipped? Only subject is object? All are the waves of same Ocean.