Monday, August 3, 2009

Demons Washing Out

Epictetus once said "...that your son is sick, not that he may die of it." I don't think many people (would) get this right. The implied ignorance is deceptive, while the impossibility is a worthy, smug feeling -- like being always sure in mistaking paradise for that Home across the road. And what people end up with is a stewed over mess. They don't realize that in their daily dosage of anxiety and fear and the verisimilitude of uncertainty itself, someone plays the anchoring role to keep them tight. Someone without whom no accomplishment will be worth a penny, let alone the pearl. Demons.

Now I don't hold nothing against the Demons when they come to hurt me; when they deliver to me something as inscrutable and as out-worldly as I'm going to tell you about. It appears that as they come and go; they become a delicate cocktail of your dissolute life - just as your morning floss and evening yawns are, just as your favorite peg and joints and smokes nail you down to your basic instincts. They make you feel like a man. They are the one's who keep you humble and grounded, the one's who shake you up from your amnesia of relentless self-love, the one's who help you to raise high and wave you flag of rebelliousness, if ever you want to.

So it happened that not very long ago my Facewash and my Laptop landed up together and decided to have a feud. As you wonder what has it got to do with Demons, you are mistaken, and you need to be sanitized. See, even demons come in variety now. Great product-mix. Demons inflict your good luck charm and disturb the normal ascent of your libido. Demons churn up your mundane assumptions and keep you on the edge. There was absolutely no fucking reason why my Lappy interfere with my cosmetic indulgences, no fucking explanation why they landed up in the same travelling backpack, and overpower each other. But Demons, here they come. The bag was traveling in high speed with me; the laptop, with its useful weight, pounded over the baby Facewash gruesomely; which in turn, with all its tenacious will --puked. Not at the front cover, not at the back casing, but right inside into the screen. Guess who won then.

The demon did its job well; 9k bucks it got from me for the laptop repair, as I still wonder of Facewash's novel prospects of usage for pouring it over to cause a crash-Laptop (can make up a great Ad, if you include a smiling blonde to do it for you). But in between the Demon also made me realize that I'm so homogeneously promiscuous when it comes to money and my possessions and my love for them. And my love for loved-once. Fuck it.


These deferential Demons -- as I must address them, are the ones who wretch your own glamorized sense of self-importance, ones which make you more than the sum of your parts. It reminds you of your finite existence, and your childish limits of showcasing modesty. "Don't be so modest, you are not that good" -- sometimes I want to scream it aloud to as many as possible. Because earnestness and modesty are like those Mannequins standing in the still and glitter of the shops. Liked for exhibitionism, but not loved. For they can't do anything.

Stoicism pays. Demons are bonafide change-agents of fortune. Because chances of Misfortune is as much of worth as is the Fortune itself. Because it causes sadness to seep within you.
Because sadness in graceful. Because sadness is so fucking real, so less superficial, so much human.