"Know Thyself"

"Know thyself"

A Delphic Maxim from Ancient Greece. A truth thousands of years old yet still valid; a fact which may seem strange in this modern world of multiple and metamorphosing truths where tomorrow's lie is today's truth and vice versa, or in some cases the truth merely becomes an unconfirmed rumor, one of many millions that throng the 'news' channels of today. Though to be fair, I am comparing a philosophical (perhaps psychological, too) truth to the truths of the news that we see today and being from different fields perhaps comparing the two would be as fair as comparing an aircraft with a bike, or a pile of poop as would be apt for some 'news' agencies.

The context, usage and factors that influence vary a lot. 

Ranting apart: Know thyself, this little truth is oft repeated in the simple everyday philosophies espoused by others, be it people of a particular school of thought or self help authors or philosopher-authors like Paulo Cohelo (of this last last mention I am a bit unsure, though a reading of one of his books leads me to believe he may in truth espouse all I say he may espouse). People preach "love yourself", but to do so you must know well and truly who you are, and what you are to love oneself truly rather than in the narcissistic manner that one comes across so often in others, even the traitorous self to some extent. 

And yet, despite this popular knowledge, acceptance and demand people find it tough to do so. It's as though we have a mental block in our heads, not unlike the DMRC Diversion signs found so commonly in Delhi just a few years back (and even presently if you traverse certain areas of the national capital), that says "Nope. No way you want to go down there buster. Why not rather think of that awesome book you read, or that show you watched, or perhaps drool a little and relive that ice cream binge in your head?" If you somehow make it past these blockades and begin to actually analyse yourself, collecting tidbits of information contained in scraps of memory and echoes of long forgotten incidents, events momentous and mundane now lost in the dusty old annals of ancient history, sooner or later the Trojan Horse will turn up.

What is this Trojan Horse? Well, it is the severe self-criticism of your actions that hides behind the benign mask of going over past mistakes to understand and prevent a recap in the future. "Oh, a helpful dose of self-analysis" you go and let it in and when you turn away to return to your job at the forensics lab of old deeds and memories the horse opens up and out comes the treacherous worm.

"Self-analysis huh?", it goes (I guess) "Well, how about this treasure trove of stupid things you did and shouldn't even forgive yourself for? Here, go beat yourself over the head with all this"

After which, mission accomplished, it promptly vanishes lest some eager gardener, caretaker of the mind's twisted little green patch of floral delights, come over to whack it over the head and 'vanish' it for good.

Those who make it past the first stage oft falter at this second one and it takes a tremendous will of effort to do so. For some twisted reason our 'hearts' find it easier to forgive others than it does itself (and a real interesting piece somewhat related to this can be found at the blog of a rather outspoken and talented (and also quite delightful) lady by the name of Minal- http://rainbowsandrape.blogspot.in/2014/01/2014.html)*.

Does it derive from some inherent fault in our 'Emotional Mind', is it related to self-esteem issues, or is it something else altogether? I know not. What I do know is that it can be fought and that only when you crush that wicked little worm that'd have you ranting against yourself will you be able to know yourself truly, accept yourself, and perhaps change yourself for the better, thus attaining that little modicum of peace we so covet.

I myself have oft tried and have as frequently failed to make it past one or the other. Though sometimes I do take a few steps away from that serpentine menace and gain a little more insight, but the modicum of peace I mentioned above? It still eludes me. 

Don't let it elude you.


*EDIT: The lady in question has long since deactivated her original blog. To those who have but recently read this piece: I am sorry but I'm afraid that piece is no longer accessible to us denizens of the World Wide Web. 

Random Rant

Following up on my previous post and a conversation I had this evening.

Writing well, scripting flowing verses or paragraphs upon paragraphs of writing that readers ingest without complaint, not realising just how any the pages/lines went by, all this is an art. An art I practice or attempt to. Sometimes I fail, like my latest poem on the other blog. It came out beautifully in my head but there were a few holes and in patching them up the beauty is lost.

But that is not what this piece is about. When it comes to writing, I can write a fair bit. I can probably impress some people with it if not many, and when I'm 'in the zone', or get my mojo in order, or feel inspired as such I can write very well; I can script pieces of utter bullshit that don't seem so, or pieces out of bullshit that don't display any characteristics of their source of origin in their content, and no where is this more visible than in my 'conversations' with people, girls especially, online. The spontaneous comment-upon-comment chats are fine and perhaps the more honest ones, but the ones sent in WhatsApp messages or to people's Facebook inbox, how honest are they? After all, if I can write 14-20 lines on a chat and keep the conversation going for a bit but struggle when talking face to face to get even two lines beyond the perfunctory 'hi' and 'what's up?' isn't that but an example of how dishonest my writing is and how my writing oft lies to others about my social skills, my intellect, my poetic nature or linguistic skills?

Anyway, rant over. Signing off for now.

The Artist's Dishonesty

All artists and poets do is represent the ordinary in a different light, through a different perspective or lens; as something extraordinary by blithely plucking it out of context; and in all this we are dishonest.

 A man gifted with the brush can paint alive an apple seemingly under more pressure than poor Atlas as he endeavors to hold up the heavens, the celestial sphere. Another gifted with words would make of a cup of tea something of such beauty as to rival Aphrodite herself or of the act of travelling to work such a an ordeal as to challenge even the most celebrated epics. Yet are these objects and acts all that we portray them to be? We would like to think so, yes, yet it does not mean that they are so.

Some things can be worthy of such praise and oft these talents do unlock and reveal new interpretations of life, useful or truly moving ones; as in a fallen leaf one can see a microcosm of death, hope, and a sort of rebirth- the cycle of life, while in an abandoned toy by a dusty old veranda one may be brought back to the nostalgic past and made to remember all given up in the haste to grow up and then abandoned leaving one foundation-less, lost and wondering where innocence went and why it won't return.

Yet not all things are so, and yet armed with my words and my camera I do often paint them to be more than they are, create, at least in my head, epics and tragedies revolving around mere twigs or iron bars, bent old beams and mannequins, and even mundane events like a class in college to a hour long wait.

And in this, I am dishonest.

NOTE: That I use 'we' as though I were one myself may seem presumptuous to many, yet we all are artists, some of words, some with paint, some use light and some music; while others are of sports, or of legalese and logic, and even of skin and blood. The only difference is that in many the artist but slumbers, or is made to, and thus seems non-existent while mine only half slumbers, and walks about in my head, in a semi-aware daze.