Bourgeoisie people: Sky high ambitions; grounded reality. Few look at education as a bridging gulf but it ain't in all cases. Social media platforms do their truculent part in capturing the brightest parts of people's lives as thumbnails to keep their bourgeoisie nature alive & perpetually in despair & an inexplicable angst. With outrunning incidents on a kaleidoscope called life, each frame that passes by leaves a fresh scar which already is old & sluggish as the next frame passes by. Humans get stomped with memories: killing, befitting & forgettable.
Few envision to possess houses to their names; few want their passports' leaves to be stamped with G8 nations' immigration stamps. Everything constitutes to indulgence. The former one treads the path of ownership. The latter - enlightenment.
Life & Meaning are two distinct entities that comprise the two elongated corrugated bars of iron of a railway track running into infinity; they never intersect. If meaninglessness comes any closer to the convincing meaning of Indulgence, then it's on the periphery of a sphere called Life.
People sport khakis which let unfitting shifts half into them & they call it Fashion. However, I sweetly despise it for its nature of taking away unchangeable gloom from one's mind for a minute or two. Or am I supposed to welcome it with no indignation because of the virtual redemption it offers from the enduring ennui? Gadgets, films, automobiles imitate Fashion while inadvertently comprising it with an unapologetic & unacknowledged enthusiasm.
Triumphalism, as a failed destitute & a theater dilettante in New York remarked with a sour spirit on a celebrated, indigenous website of New York, is (and it always has been) the wave this world follows. They are taking pride in participating in clearance deals while experts are endlessly yet unsuccessfully advocating the cascade of consumerism into abyss. Possession is gradually replacing the core essence of triumphalism. The sold middle-class is infesting the unsafe harbours of oceans filled with indulgence, philistinism and organized chaos.
While the optimists rejoice in the rise of entrepreneurial souls from working class coterie, realists see the faltering nobility behind the failing enterprises.
Amid all this, there is art, as it always has been. Silently noting down the squander. It is one for which people like Evelyn Waugh lived, chasing purpose (if discovered) in utter despair & boredom. They give a glimpse of what awaits. (Here's what happened to the genius who wrote The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold - Mr. Evelyn Waugh)
And yet again, art is a sweet, beguiling epicarp on the face of indulgence, what we call Life.
Few envision to possess houses to their names; few want their passports' leaves to be stamped with G8 nations' immigration stamps. Everything constitutes to indulgence. The former one treads the path of ownership. The latter - enlightenment.
Life & Meaning are two distinct entities that comprise the two elongated corrugated bars of iron of a railway track running into infinity; they never intersect. If meaninglessness comes any closer to the convincing meaning of Indulgence, then it's on the periphery of a sphere called Life.
People sport khakis which let unfitting shifts half into them & they call it Fashion. However, I sweetly despise it for its nature of taking away unchangeable gloom from one's mind for a minute or two. Or am I supposed to welcome it with no indignation because of the virtual redemption it offers from the enduring ennui? Gadgets, films, automobiles imitate Fashion while inadvertently comprising it with an unapologetic & unacknowledged enthusiasm.
Triumphalism, as a failed destitute & a theater dilettante in New York remarked with a sour spirit on a celebrated, indigenous website of New York, is (and it always has been) the wave this world follows. They are taking pride in participating in clearance deals while experts are endlessly yet unsuccessfully advocating the cascade of consumerism into abyss. Possession is gradually replacing the core essence of triumphalism. The sold middle-class is infesting the unsafe harbours of oceans filled with indulgence, philistinism and organized chaos.
While the optimists rejoice in the rise of entrepreneurial souls from working class coterie, realists see the faltering nobility behind the failing enterprises.
Amid all this, there is art, as it always has been. Silently noting down the squander. It is one for which people like Evelyn Waugh lived, chasing purpose (if discovered) in utter despair & boredom. They give a glimpse of what awaits. (Here's what happened to the genius who wrote The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold - Mr. Evelyn Waugh)
And yet again, art is a sweet, beguiling epicarp on the face of indulgence, what we call Life.
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