Swimming

I have grown up with far too many heroic galores of man, to have any realistic idea of human life or its behaviour. My expectation surpasses all common sense and all real ability. Why do I really romanticize and over analyse every little aspect of life? It’s a curious little thing I do, where on the flipside I am detached and aloof. I can never function as a whole; it’s either of the two extremes. I cannot feel, if it’s not felt intensely. Thus, my perspectives are always marred with disillusions. I am my self admission- a walking, talking contradiction. Not to underestimate either of my state of being, what I feel at any given moment is true nonetheless.
It would be easy to prescribe a condition to my being. All too easy to put a label on my jar and set it aside, as a one dimensional existence fully understood. Yet that is never the case, be it humans or human life or the human condition. We are blessed with forces from the opposites constantly vying for a merge, a validation of its existence. There has always been an eternal battle of good and bad, black and white. Funny how nobody told us, that good like bad is subjective like all multi dimensional concepts that govern our morality. Morality hence is questionable, once considered a tool to keep the working class in its place, for the fear of masses discovering the joys of inhabitancy.
Say for instance, love over lust one having the ultimate golden ring over its head, while the other is synonymous with immoral behaviour, expelling the latter to a world of stigmatized degenerate promiscuity. Yet, the two are intrinsically intertwined. One cannot function without the other. Note I speak only of romantic love. Why I have spent many nights reading rather bland books, trying to figure out why people spend so much of their time filling their heads with such unattainable ideals of love. These books would only climax along with the heroine making the very act of immoral behaviour, the most sought after suffix of love. I realized, people derived an idea of how one acts under the influence of love. It is amazing how people will excuse “immorality” when it’s allowed to live vividly and fancy free in their minds.
Thus, I cannot in good judgment call one black and the other white. I cannot call people good and bad simply because they constrict their instincts to assimilate with “civilized” society. I cannot judge them for wanting more. I cannot point a finger and say fantasies are a frivolous waste of time. I cannot penalize for childish hopes and ideals, of how one is expected to find every mile stone, ready made right out of their own imagination.
This conflict they say stems from original sin, thus banishing woman to the class of second considerations, disposable objects of desire and needs. This once again is a multi dimensional tool of patriarchal ideals. It is that either conformity is etched within a woman’s mind, sending her to a world of colourful gaiety, the one world woman have been allowed to have full possession over; or it poses an either or situation threatening with stigma, where the choice is inevitably the one for survival within a pack. The question posed here is, how can we call ourselves civilized, when the very acts we condemn in our constitutions is being practiced in every corner of our lives? Has there ever been a need to break the inequality of gender? Have we forever clung on the thought process of our Neolithic cousins?
Hence, nothing really here is black or white; nothing can be labelled as such. We all work within the fine balance of interdependence with many dimensions each with its own functions, finely constructed to hold this world that we have created. Paradoxes run deep within our psyches, I am not a judge but merely an observant, questioning member of the youth, slightly thrown off balance by my own ideals and expectations. Like many others before me, I am having difficulty accepting crude realities and being forced to function within such a system; the mere hypocrisy of it all. Yet I somehow understand this now. How we all live within a grey area just trying very desperately to define it all, for nothing ever is made right out of our imaginations, not even the pictures we paint.

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