There was something amiss, something that felt as though a peculiarly integral part of me was not there. It is not too abnormal I thought, reminiscing the pensive days and nights that seemed not so long ago. It used to be that there were thoughts of conflict sometimes, thoughts about thought itself in the more youthful days of my life. Not that these days aren't any more youthful; well, a small digression here seems apt.
About five months back, when I was at the brim of a youthful 23 and the beginning of a less youthful 24, it struck me that I was past my prime, literally (the number 23) and figuratively! It seemed to me that, here I was brushing past yet another eventful day in my life, yet all I would do was serenade it with no less interest than its predecessor. Probably, Einstein was in his late teens at the time thoughts about the origin of the universe engaged him. I know! Could I have thought of a more unequal comparison?! No, but the point is... lets make it point blank for reasons of rhetoric. Suppose a dark villian was to hold a gun to your head, point blank, and asked you to do something crazy: do something that would be remembered beyond your time. Success is an appropriate word! Well,what would you do?
Digressions make stories in themselves and are sometimes antithetical to one of the main purposes of storytelling: getting to the end! Having a notoriety for stealing my audiences of an ending, for which they have patiently yearned and failed, I reluctantly shorten this piece which I have called "Time of change".
Talking of pensive days and nights from where I flamboyantly took a detour, they are common. Aren't they? That's what I told myself and thought that would be the end of it. If it were, what you are reading wouldn't be as colourful.
As the sun set on the silver-coloured clouds that had descended upon Lausanne, and my lips slurped the first sips of coffee from shiny cream-coloured cup from the terrace cafe of EPFL (my graduate school), and at the stroke of 5 (I somehow happened to notice my second love then), a eureka moment was born.
It was the hourly chime. My first love doesn't approve of it. It irritates her.
About five months back, when I was at the brim of a youthful 23 and the beginning of a less youthful 24, it struck me that I was past my prime, literally (the number 23) and figuratively! It seemed to me that, here I was brushing past yet another eventful day in my life, yet all I would do was serenade it with no less interest than its predecessor. Probably, Einstein was in his late teens at the time thoughts about the origin of the universe engaged him. I know! Could I have thought of a more unequal comparison?! No, but the point is... lets make it point blank for reasons of rhetoric. Suppose a dark villian was to hold a gun to your head, point blank, and asked you to do something crazy: do something that would be remembered beyond your time. Success is an appropriate word! Well,what would you do?
Digressions make stories in themselves and are sometimes antithetical to one of the main purposes of storytelling: getting to the end! Having a notoriety for stealing my audiences of an ending, for which they have patiently yearned and failed, I reluctantly shorten this piece which I have called "Time of change".
Talking of pensive days and nights from where I flamboyantly took a detour, they are common. Aren't they? That's what I told myself and thought that would be the end of it. If it were, what you are reading wouldn't be as colourful.
Being someone so devoted to time that jokes of being born with a strap around the wrist being not funny any more (to me that is. Somehow, it is always a different person with the same wisecrack); on a more serious note, a constant reminder by my sweetheart that it has been the victim of repression for long and needs to be liberated, in a manner imaginatively analogous to the British freeing the sub-continent after two centuries of occupation, had made me time conscious. Conscious of my extreme time-consciousness rather!
But I could live with that. What was bothering me was a feeling that this somehow weakened our enduring friendship: between time and myself. It was weird. Words fail when I have to describe it. I still wore it everyday. And all the time. How could I feel its gentle grasp slipping? I was confused.As the sun set on the silver-coloured clouds that had descended upon Lausanne, and my lips slurped the first sips of coffee from shiny cream-coloured cup from the terrace cafe of EPFL (my graduate school), and at the stroke of 5 (I somehow happened to notice my second love then), a eureka moment was born.
It was the hourly chime. My first love doesn't approve of it. It irritates her.
