Thoughts

Of The Metaphysical Mood

Mixed Fiction

**The beginning of Aristotle’s *Metaphysics*, one of the foundational texts of the discipline.** [Source – Wikipedia]

The Patristic diagnosis of the decay of Greco-Roman civilisation ascribes that event to a metaphysical disease… It was not barbarian attacks that destroyed the Greco-Roman world… The cause was a metaphysical cause. The ‘pagan’ world was failing to keep alive its own fundamental convictions, they (the patristic writers) said, because owing to faults in metaphysical analysis it had become confused as to what these convictions were… If metaphysics had been a mere luxury of the intellect, this would not have mattered.
R. G. Collingwood

Dear Johnathan and Jerome, did you absorb this quote? Good!

Sitting down without a polite book in hand or rustling printed paper, without a smarty sneering touch-screen phone or tab or laptop, without watching the info influx or the dramatic tales, all this has become outdated it seems… and a difficult thing to do. Going on walk… just going on a walk, simply, quietly… by my own self… is a task, I tell you.

The plans I had stupidly made, the plan I am wisely making keep me tied up – am calculating and weighing and accepting and rejecting constantly. Separated from these thoughts, I laugh and cry, but my thoughts are ‘me’, when did I learn to separate these? Fragmented from within, I live.

I know… no, listen… I don’t, but please don’t explain, don’t even show me the way… don’t want to hear what the solution is… if I am asking the right question, then that’ll show, that’s enough.

But hey, tell me this, if you can sit down or go on a walk… calmy, quietly, wholly, not fragmented from within?

Then we will talk. Write back soon!

Ya-hoy to Charulata and my sweet Chihiro!

Tango-Charlie!

**By Jagriti Rumi [Source – Oxford Languages]**

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Lovely

Posted on May 22, 2021 by Jagriti Rumi Clouds Freedom Immersed Lovely Paper Paths Poem Rhythm Thoughts

Poem

**Fly my lovely!**
**[Image by Miguel Á. Padriñán from Pixabay]**

Paper like fresh

Paper like crumpled

Paper like white

Paper like light

Isn’t it lovely to match,

To catch,

Freedom and its rhythm?

Paper like clouds

Paper like crumpled

Paper like white

Paper like light

Isn’t it lovely to breathe,

To read,

Freedom and its rhythm?

Paper like thoughts

Paper like crumpled

Paper like white

Paper like light

Isn’t it lovely to know,

To follow,

Freedom and its rhythm?

Paper like paths

Paper like crumpled

Paper like white

Paper like light

Isn’t it lovely to walk,

Towards

Freedom and its rhythm?

Paper like you, me

Paper like crumpled

Paper like white

Paper like light

Isn’t it lovely to live,

Immersed in

Freedom and its rhythm?

Isn’t it lovely…?

Listen to Billie Eilish’s Lovely that inspired me to write this poem –

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Lissome Dream

Posted on February 13, 2021 by Jagriti Rumi Bountiful Circus Game Dream Imaginary Lissome Poem Thoughts Untamed

Short Poem

**The gentle, lissome dream.**
**Image by Dimitri Houtteman from Pixabay.**

Beyond bountiful thoughts of today,

Tomorrow and yesterday,

Lies the gentle, lissome dream…

Bright and blissful that scene,

Distant, imaginary if not seen.

Take two drops, without fail, of zeal,

And Sunshine, keep turning the wheel,

Playing the circus game, yet untamed,

To become the dream you dreamed.

Why should you keep your Dream Light on forever? Click here to find out.

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Me-The-Kind

Posted on October 24, 2017 by Jagriti Rumi Attention Bargain Dream Flash Fiction Generosity Kind Mind Reason Ritual Running Time Stone Steps Thoughts

Flash Fiction

**Going up, coming down, the stone steps remain the same.**
[Source – Pixabay]

Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.
Simone Weil

Stone steps lead up to a place I am yet to see. Dealing with the quietness interrupted intermittently by sweet songs of the birds, I continue ahead. My mind usher some unwanted thoughts and force me to dwell on and on and on, until I refuse, pause and take a deep breath. Don’t inquire for I don’t know why I am smiling, but I am and it has opened the collection of happy memories. Beaming face feels like being in an ocean of flowers. I start knitting happy thoughts with the golden thread of dreams and everything seems possible, the world is mine. A castle is constructed, my reign flourishes in seconds and in seconds I see my downfall. When I gather the broken pieces and stand up, I see the stone steps staring at me. No dialogues are exchanged, and I continue ahead.

I wake up, and then I don’t think much of this dream. I am already late to rush into my monotonous routine. The running time never bargains while I always find a reason to… though haven’t cracked a deal even once.

The whole day I critique myself, like a ritual, except when the dream hushes me-the-perfect and me-the-kind takes over.

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In A Rush/ Not In A Rush

Posted on August 15, 2017 by Jagriti Rumi Happily In A Rush/ Not In A Rush Life Lights Mandatory Moonless Poem Thoughts Timely

Poem

**Look what I found… a heart shaped stone.**
[Source – Pixabay]

Life seems to be in a rush…

And thoughts blurry,

Like passing an array of lights

On moonless nights.

Timely, untimely one hears

What is not said,

But is felt vaguely

And declared mandatory suddenly.

One click, one blink, one tick-tock

And life is not the same,

And I will happily testify to it

For I, unlike life, am not in a rush.

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Silk Threads

Posted on March 20, 2017 by Jagriti Rumi Brightness Silence Silk Threads Thoughts

Silk threads criss cross in high speed and after a moment’s patience it all slows down. The time stops calmly, the space lets you play.

You know nothing but brightness, you see everything in brightness. You breathe rhythmically.

Thoughts echo warmly until interrupted. Politely accept all the echoes, free yourself.

In this silence, when you hear the loud criss cross silk threads, stay and you will understand why.

Pranayama by Greg Dunn and Brian Edwards
http://www.gregadunn.com/microetchings/pranayama-microetching/

What To Do?

Posted on October 2, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Busy Life Destination Dreams Great Novel Mind Platform The Train of Thought Thoughts Travelling What To Do? Window

Literary Nonsense

The Busy Life (1953) by Jean Dubuffet
[Source – tate.org.uk]

The train of thought never stops, does it?

Standing on a vague platform, everything except me undergoes a peculiar kind of metamorphosis now and then. Bewildered, I stand in utter confusion, with a dazed expression and remain amusingly voiceless.

Waving madly for the train to halt or at least lazy down a bit, I am increasingly getting ascertained about the fact that either I am powerless or I am being considered as a crazy cheerleader.

Often, no, more than often, I have successfully boarded the train.

What happens then – settled quietly near the window, with a half-read great novel that I have tried to finish since one year, five months and two weeks, looking old and rich in my hands, I get lost in the dream world looking through the barred window; settled quietly near the window, with a notebook in front and a pen in my hand, I write down miraculous lines, tying down the strength to move the humanity and a saleable story together, staying humble myself throughout the reverie; settled quietly near the window, but loathing everyone around me and worshiping softly to reach my destination soon…

“My destination…” I say and I am kicked out of the train, back on that floating platform which dances every second on some idiotic tune and disturbs my balance.

I fall down, cry, raise questions, get answers, plan things and proudly compliment myself, with a touch of modesty of course.

And then what do I do? I go off to sleep. How much can the mind take? “So long, my friend”, says my mind and dozes off. Shut down! Power off!

Click!

Switch on and I am back on that platform. Trains have started passing me. I yawn, a full day of travelling to a gazillion places ahead.

Busy life, what to do?

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I Forgot

Posted on May 8, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Cards Fear Friends Funny I Forgot Slow-Motion Thoughts Water Colours Window

Mixed Fiction

Where are my colours? [Source – Pixabay]

I was coming back. In the bus, people sitting attuned in silence, hypnotised to the bone, were no different from me until I looked outside the window with sleepy eyes, swaying without a reason. I wasn’t asleep. Whatever was passing was in a rush and I was in a deep slow-motion, so nothing matched.

A thought came to me and I started pondering over it. Gauged a bit about the thought and would have done more, written a few lines, but I forgot; whether I just forgot the thought or to pen down the thought or both, I don’t know.

It is really funny, the party lights seem to be dancing just because they are in a party. But in that sullen room where a solitary sullen bulb glows, no one dances. Rich place for getting scolded and for discussing the future. Who listens when the elders talk? Who listens when anyone talks?

My mind keeps running a never ending tape that I have to adhere to. Yet another thought that I wanted to work on, but I didn’t because of two reasons – I couldn’t find a pen and then I simply forgot to. Hah!

Could it be that while you are walking all alone, nothing changes in you, you are naively, accidentally, mistakenly moving with tranquility and when you are a part of a loud ‘what’s up-oh that-like really?’ crowd everything changes in you, you are then surrounded by absolute confusion and fear?

Changes that crawl and form a labyrinth inside, of which you stay completely unaware.

It can happen. I completely forgot that it can.

What I remember though is that I should make a card for my uncle and auntie. There is no occasion, but then cards aren’t meant only for some special, grand celebrations alone.

“Where are my colours?” Yes, I remember that and so one day I began. I half did it; learnt a good lesson though. Here it is in parts – 1) even if you are not a 10 year old, you can still spill water and make a fabulous mess and 2) (the best one) the comfort of your bed and using water colours is not at all a good combination.

Soon million tiny things around wage a war against you without even moving and you are certainly helpless. You’ll then not find the scissors, the only clean brush, pencil or eraser and as soon as you get up to take a stand, things fall and laugh at you.

My hands… they are muddy green and bluish… am I an alien?

Using water colours mean getting your hands dirty. Oh! This didn’t bother me when I was a kid. I very often made cards for all my friends, getting my hands dirty was never a problem. I guess, I just forgot this.

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