A Chance at Infinity

a year end delirium

The world they say is an infinite realm and if Nietzsche is to be believed, then there is a return to every possibility of life, eternal recurrence for every finite moment. A moment lost will definitely come back, crawling through the infinite space, reeling through the endless time. But, as a human being, as a worthless individual of this infinite universe, our moments are for most part fleeting. A hope for beauty lost, forever, gutted down the abyss of a hazy blue dream, an unchained consequence of midnight solitude. The year that passed in submerged sorrow, with happiness as a pill, taken from time to time in response to the croaking daylight, is a manifestation of that world. From the silent hills to the sea that rushes to redeem us, the year that borrowed a hundred sun-rays and only delivered a narrow streak of canary, it is this world that forsakes us. It is this life which promises hope, only to hang us at the end of a midnight, crippled by the callous consequence of whiskey.

The fault is of the finite time, the finite residue of our existence, which haunts human life. My existence forsakes my life, the unbridled child of delight against the man who was never prepared to age. Caught in the shackles of age, this man is celebrating his near end, forgetting streets, cafes, lovers, literature, music, forgetting the last smile that crossed his way in a sickening antipathy for the future. This man in a sudden whim, begets fantasy, which in its sheer excitement, screams forgetting. The last face he crossed in a crowded market will forever be the past, the past which is resting on a half smoked cigarette lying in an astray, the past which is barely there, carelessly buried under a heap of ash.

But the man will remain infinite through his roads that will gleam under the setting sun, his voice that would be carried with the wind into many new years for many years to come, his existence that will mingle with the sheer folly of a wall clock, dinging into quiet nights, at the stroke of midnight, as revellers cheer through yet another finite foolery. The answer to many of life’s drabs will forever cease to exist, and under the loud thump of aching bass-lines, a periodic suffering will begin yet again. In its ruse of great joy, the sorrow of life will play out in a narrow line, again and again, through the concertos of J.S. Bach or the beguiling beauty of Tarkovsky’s frames. Once upon a time, many years ago, even Bach and Tarkovsky sat to imagine an infinite life, as their hapless clocks ticked away into many midnights.

And yet, another year passed us by and man will still love the fantasies of his existence. He will forget the lovers he made this year, the mornings he woke up to, or the cups of tea he sipped in contemplation. He will forget that the infinite space and endless time will forever appear and disappear and he will forever be lost in an ineffable universe, desperate to find a landing. But that landing is a slipping island, floating away in a trance into the deepest lair. And while he is trying to grab onto all that is left, the crimson dawn and the moving sky that he loved so dearly, will wipe him away from their memory, forgetting him for eternity.

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