Growing Up

I remember the times when you are in the state of indulgent consciousness of a dream. Actually, I remember that first moment in your dream when you realise in the serenity that sleep grants you, that this is just a dream. Oh, to imagine the absolute vulnerablility and the delicate transitions of that instant in time! I cannot say for sure and I don't know if you will agree, but I have always thought I like the few moments of torment that follow, sweeter; the moments that mark the walk away from the dream.

What makes them sweeter? What seperates our perceptions on either sides of the moment? The consciousness? Yes. The antagonistic play of intentions. When you are preparing to let go. Not wanting to. Sad that the dream will not go on. Relieved that you will go back to reality. However that is. Somewhat stupified at having believed so intently in something. Amazed by the brittleness of what appeared perfectly logical and real to you on the otherside of that moment. That one deciding moment. That one waking moment. That one fleeting moment.

I was walking the walks I walk everyday. Then I noticed it first. And no matter how much I pondered I could not find that one moment, that one day, that one incident that marked this remarkable shift in who I am. Or at least who I believed I was. Had been. Where was I when I first realised that nothing really matters? That nothing could possibly matter much? That everything will come to an end? And a lot more many things will spring from absolutely nowhere? Was I passing the middle aged panwallah with gory lips when it happened? Was I asleep? Where was I when I metamorphed? Then again, metamorph is a term that clearly indicates a positive development. Growth. I am not entirely certain it is the word I ought to be using.

When was it that happiness almost always started coming with an internal dis-association, or a conscious effort of it? When you start almost looking at yourself like an old man looking at a gleeful kid and smiling to his self? When all things that ought to have made you sad come with their very own world-wary gurdian angel? Worst, you trust him implicitly. You know he is right when he says it won't really matter. That nothing matters much. In the end. When was it that you stopped screaming out like a mad man at such guiding spirits? Telling Him you don't bloody care! That you want what you want? When did you settle in the numbing soothingness of wise serenity?

I try looking for that one moment. Just in case.