That so-called conflict with the so-called conscience

I guess when we are young it is quite easy for us to categorize things into two broad groups; bad and good. Our criterion is pretty simple; Parent’s and favorite teacher’s take on various things. As we grow old, we shed this naivety and we began to question our long accepted criterion and our two beloved groups begin to merge into one another. Is it the maturity? Or is it because as we grow older we quite ironically grow more and more clueless and dubious? Maybe it is our way to search for answers. Such is the thirst for experience and experiments that we can’t help but abandon our notions for black and white. I mean who cares what’s black or white when you are not able to justify your very own existence! The child inside us just simply stops talking as we ignore everything he or she has to say.

Well. Almost everything.

During those ungodly hours of so-called deep contemplation when that child does squeak amidst the eerie silence, we have no choice but listen to what he has to say. A lot of things that you do now weren’t quite in your bucket list back when your age used to be in single digit. It’s almost hard to believe that you are the same person. Weird people had warned you that you might not end up being what you imagined yourself to be when you grew up. It was with such ease that you declared them wrong in your little half developed brain. And yet now, you realize that those weird people with weirder opinions couldn’t have been more right. What’s even more interesting is that you yourself have become one of those weird people.
That child is almost gaping at you in horror.
“Oh come on! It’s not really that bad you naive little fool! World is different shades of gray! There is no black or white.”
The stubborn child stands there unconvinced.
What to do with this stupid child?

However, by now a part of you has begun sympathizing with this Mr. I-always-want-to-ruin-your-mood half-wit creature.”Et-tu-brute?” Now, you are irritated as fuck.The images of what you had imagined yourself to be versus what you ended up being begin flashing in front you. You know what’s coming.

Carpe-diem. Seeing the weak little you, the child seizes the opportunity. He is no longer mumbling in almost inaudible voice. He is shouting. His voice ricochets through your whole body. You want him to shut up. Except of course, you don’t. You keep listening. For some fucked up reason you just keep listening. The world splits into black and white again. All whites you have ever done disappear into the black hole of your memory. And you are smeared in black paint from head to toe. Oh well! It has happened -The exact reason why you hate reflecting about yourself.

And then out of the blue, you snap out of it. That part of the brain that somehow managed to stay exclusive to you during all this just cracked a non vegetarian joke. The child suddenly stops talking quite possibly because he didn’t get the joke and is trying to figure out why it cracked you up.
“What does this immature little bastard know about life?” You suddenly ask. This child is no better than you.

It’s happening. You have got an elastic brain. It’s reverting back. How can you trust this child? How do you know he is right? His voice reverts back into an inaudible mumble. The world becomes one again. The black paint washes off your body. The eerie silence transform into a soothing symphony. The conflict with the conscience; It’s over. However, it doesn’t mean you have won.  The truth is you can’t win. Another truth is you don’t want to win. The child will strike back. Hell, you want him to strike back. But first you need to do things that you didn’t want to do once.

The child is again gaping at you in horror. But he doesn’t know. He simply doesn’t know the thrill of watching that very expression on his face. It doesn’t quite wash the existential crisis. But the thrill dude! The fucking thrill! The freaking pleasure of getting smeared in nothing but the black paint!
What does he know?
What the hell does he know?

It’s a war you like being in; the crazy conflict with the so-called conscience.


The Orange Sky

Time has come and the time has gone,
Another sun will rise with another dawn,
All I have now are the traces of the missing star,
An unknowingly discontented heart or an unacknowledged scar,
Oh! If I could just know the reason why or just the meaning of I,
As if listening, “Why bother?” whispers the lovely orange sky.
So, maybe I am laughing I cannot really see,
Or maybe it’s alright, I cannot really feel,
Anyhow I look forward to another misplaced sun,
Another beautiful day and another misleading run,
Maybe the night shall make me tough, and hope will keep me high,
And then, as if listening, “Why bother?” whispers the lovely orange sky.
So now I finally listen, I melt into the beautiful hues,
Lost or Found? I don’t really have many clues,
Few tears escape my eyes as if they have committed treason,
Is it the dying day or the dream? I don’t really know the reason.
Few more fall as the colors fade and as the last traces of light die,
And then, as if listening,” Why bother?” whispers the lovely orange sky.