Of egos and pants

---------PART I ---------

Paean to the ego

I am a man of a thousand achievements and a million and one possessions, eight billion talents and boundless virtue, or so it may seem or I may claim humbly enough. I take respite in the hope of being different, unique, disparate from all 'cause I've heard or held an unfounded belief that the difference makes the difference and indifference is the difference I cherish. Assuming that I am unassuming, a verily presumptuous presumption, the possessions and the disparity ought to be subject to indifference, but the ego relishes the affected grandeur and affects the affectation in a manner to dislodge it up to soaring heights. Then rouses the pretense , from nobody-knows whence, and pretends with all its might. The show(off) must go on.

Thousands flatter and billions slander and some genuine praises find their way into the foreground. The ingenuous emotions cast their way onto the countenance and the thoughts relentlessly recount the remarks as the second's hand counts. The undying surges of excitement and agitation roil up the serene barn of the mind, which has not descried serenity since it first visited and was shoved out by the redoubtable surges. The pleasure of the ego tingles and caresses, but the brutal despot leaves behind pangs and tears. The cycle moves and the spokes of pain and pleasure vacillate until who knows when.

In the background, there's just libel and nods of approval which engender mirth ascribed to countless other egos. But thank goodness it works this way, Thank goodness the veil of distance bars all obloquy and protects the ego from ravaging the barn completely and mercilessly. The game of all egos is played rhythmically, in harmony and arouses perfect delight for the spectator, oblivious to how the he too is simply playing a puppet. It panders and pangs and counterbalances so well, the positive hope of positivity never dies.

To regard the other as conceited is the nature of conceit and it remains so typical, unchanging. Go ahead, oh slanderer and besmirch me to hell, defile my reputation in your thought and in the thought of the surroundings, but I couldn't care less or atleast say that try not to. And this indifference tickles my thoughts. But the reality still has its feet fixed firmly into the ground. I too am a puppet, afflicted by this very hope, the possessor of a million and one, the personification of virtue, I too suffer the same. But it elates my ego to proclaim that I am different, and difference is grand, but only because I see a few of the slew of souls who have not yet been able to proclaim what I aver, what I confer, that I know that I am just an obsequious minion of my ego serving it no end, endowed with the hope that it will becalm one day. It gets distended by the fact that I realize it lives and yearn for it, the insatiable one, to leave satisfied and let lady serenity in, then.

---------PART II ---------

The jeans of my dreams

Pants or jeans are better then people. And today, occurred a horrific event which I have still not been able to digest completely.

I sat blithely facing my PC when I remembered it; I remembered my pants(jeans), the soft, blue, faded, comfort giving and fingerhole-spangled pair of jeans that I'd been awaiting for the past few days to perch, folded up in my almirah but the moment had not arrived so I decided to discover the truth behind the situation amiss. I bolted immediately towards my mother and asked her for the pants and incredulously enough she refused to give it to me on the accusation that it had catered to another finger hole at a place where it should not have, the defiled jeans. But I demanded to see it and she wouldn't let me because she was always against me wearing that lovely piece of cloth for the reason of a simple, cute little decent finger hole(at the knee). I harped and carped vehemently until it was finally bought into the room from the nether regions it was reposited in, ready to be given away.

"Oh this! Only this! This can be stitched without any effort!" I said with a relieved smile.
"Thats not possible. This cannot be stitched. ", and I knew her ulterior motives behind saying that.
"Oh no please! I know it can be", I begged
"Mani, you're not going to wear jeans with holes"
"I like these jeans!", I complained
But she was mercilessly indifferent to my imploring.
"If you wear these again, I'll tear it", she threatened me and slid her finger through the hole to warn me.

That was it. I was in love with the jeans and my mother did not let me wear them. So it was fine. I snatched the pair of dead cloth out of her hand, and with one fierce movement of my hand it rent apart. It felt like suicide and I walked away with a grimace.

I really loved those jeans. Such a beautiful piece of cloth; immensely tender and caring. And I tore them with my own hands. I wanted to cry but could not. It takes me months of perseverance and tolerance to endure a new piece of cloth for a long time until it is rendered comfortable enough to be wore devoid of any misgivings about its behavior throughout the day and at that precise moment when I fall in love with it, we are sundered apart.

Inanimate objects elicit love much more easily than people, because they are so predictable, so helpful and selectable. Their inanimateness is their virtue. Take for example a book, one could love a book. You have the fullest opportunity of being yourself, of being off your guard while with a book. Like a lamp, a lamp is lovable. It'll give us light, beautiful peaceful yellow light and demands only a predictable about of power, a nominal amount I say. People are fickle. Don't put the PC in the inanimate category because this devilish piece of plastic and metal is the machinofication of fickleness. Pants are better than people and I lost one today.

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