SUBTLE SHUTTLIN'

I first wanted to make a video of myself ‘speaking’ everything I say in this, because however intolerable I might appear in a picture frame, I could at least be glad of getting the right emotional impact that I might intend to get, like how Woody Allen wanted us to get saddened by his histrionics in ‘Annie Hall’ rather than to laugh at him, but I eventually had to put the idea aside and go on with what I consider myself to be the best at, and I fixed my mind upon this chiefly because of a couple of reasons:

1. As said before, I suck at remembering my lines and even though I am not exactly editing what I write here, I don’t think my mind-mouth connection is as synchronized in function as that of my mind, finger and keyboard and I have to add that I am actually not confident about sitting a video session, however personal that is going to be.
2. I happened to read Derrida.

I’m not impersonating Stevie Ray, and I’m not robbing him of his title (yes, this is going to be a lyric that I would write in due course) I just looked for a fancy title for this post and I decided to show some loyalty to the Mayer clan, but I actually could end up calling it ‘Shuttling’ or ‘Shuttle Run’. I think the latter does more justice, considering it covers an issue than an actual act. And I think I made absolutely no sense in my previous lines, but don’t worry: What’s coming is the actual part.

It’s about this strenuous part of life I wish to call the ‘pre-prime’ that no one who’s past it would understand (because I believe that it’s a wipe of memory that highlights its end) and which the ‘pre-pre-primes’ unknowingly look up to, and this part of life is very democratic to the extent of being wasteful where you’re given a lot of things to pick from and you’re not even blindfolded so you can technically see everything you choose, and choose accordingly, but there is a little knot in this plot: You’re not intimated about what’s allowed. So the process is that you get to learn the hard way that is in truth the easiest because all you need to do is to live it, but at a non-organic level it’s not… It’s just… too affecting to say the least.

There’re red cones, there’re blue cones, there’re yellow ones and there’re even ones that are multi-coloured and there’s this special cone that’s called ‘home’ which serves to be a point of return whenever you want to turn back, whenever the fatigue is too much to take, because going on from cone to cone just takes you far from it, and that makes you want to keep an eye on how far you’ve wandered from the place you began. There’s no rule that asks you to keep going on, but you find that the next cone ahead is much closer and the cone you left behind has nothing but bad memories, and although this sounds like a progression, this isn’t because all along, you’re just moving to your side, yeah, it’s a sideward movement in life where you’re allowed to face front or let your sides face the front and you keep doing this till you get a cone and you lift her up and you advance till she burns your hands and you let her down and then you think of turning back.

But this special cone called ‘home’, well… She’s amazing because she’s where you started from, she’s given you this ‘push’ and hence becomes a sort of God to you, not in the actual way, but in the way that she’s more than just a mentor, but there’s a flipside to her too. You don’t know if you left home or if you were kicked out, and that’s part of the package called ‘doubt’ because of which you’ll never be sure if you’ll be welcomed home again, as you don’t know if you were welcome any time before in the first place, and you know… That worries you sick. Because although you don’t know if it’s an illusion or a vague recall of reality, but you have this feeling inside that everything would get back to being alright if you get back home and that’s not like it’s a give-up in life and getting back to your cubby-hole, or at least… I’m not sure what it is, but I feel like that’s what I should be doing because you know, this cone called ‘home’, she’s pure white. And it’s not unknown that every other colour is bound to call yourself to it, to pretend that it’s more attractive than the one you’re in (which is precisely what happens when you see magenta from mauve) but that’s ruled out, that’s a closed door, a dead-end when I was on white. Because white’s everything, and when I saw this dazzling display that’s going on even now in front of my eyes, I always used to tell myself that however they combine, they’re NOTHING compared to white. Because, as I quoted earlier, she’s everything and I’m exaggerating in a worldly sense beyond doubt, but that’s the point of it all: That’s the whole heck of a silver lining, this fact that I never left home as long as I was in it, and that’s a very secure feeling, something people wish would happen to them which would, but it happens just once and I learned that through the so-called ‘hard way’. I don’t know if I would be taken in, I guess I would be rather a cynic in that aspect, but I would wish to hell she would. Yeah.

And about this whole process of ‘shuttling’ failing if I refuse to leave a cone, which could end up in obesity, well… I guess she’d be enough of a toil to keep me fit for a lifetime. She’s whatever I am, the whole metaphysical entity, and right now I’m just the poor soul who has been enlightened about the concept of enlightenment, a Gautam Buddha who wants to get back to being Siddhartha after finding out that the ultimate happiness is to derive joy out of sorrow. She made me accustomed to that. And I can’t stop hearing something telling me to get back to old habits. Old School.

I’ll be writing this lyric sometime soon. I have reason to believe that I would.