Who’s in Control?

Poetry is what I want to write. I don’t believe what I need to say can be said in a prosaic way. It’s about the recent surreality of events. It is about sitting in a living room with scattered toys, a blaring TV, street noises down below, dripping wet watercolors freshly painted by a little girl with words that say how much she loves her Grandma and Grandpa, while the objects of her affection, her Grandpa and Grandma sit facing each other. They’re pensive. There’s relief etched on one of those faces and fear on the other. My own thoughts are homeless; they don’t know which way to turn.

The relief stems from a feeling that the worst is over, that the chapter can finally be closed on this frightening episode. The fear comes from feeling that this is just the beginning of whatever else may still be in store. The fear is voiced in words that speak of entering the deep, dark woods. The relief thinks in terms of emerging at the other side of the woods.

A deterministic attitude prevailed here before. Science was the savior, science was God, choices, consequences and being in control of ones destiny were the way things were. Now there’s talk of fate. Now one wonders about that which has been written and who the writer is. The question of control comes up again, who has the control? Is there such a thing as a grand design and a master manipulator?

We seek parallels in our histories, our mythology; we observe patterns and believe that the patterns would lead to an answer, an answer that may lie somewhere in the near or distant future, ever elusive but out there. We prepare ourselves for an exploration, a journey, a decoding adventure. But just when we get ready to dig in our heels, a voice within urges us to live in the present and take things a day at a time, to do away with the feelings of nostalgia for the present.

But when has it ever been possible to live our lives one day at a time? It sounds good, it sounds sound, but the future has a nasty way of encroaching on the present, of showing us the skeletal versions of faces that are animated and full of life today, of wrinkled skins and rheumy eyes, of unremembered histories and unfulfilled expectations.

2 Comments

  1. Very eloquently and poignantly articulated Prags! In fact you have spoken for all those of us who are similarly placed – and said it much better than we could have!And yes, tell poetry to expect you!

  2. Yes, life's like that, as they say. The past haunts us, and the future wrecks our psyche up such that we cannot seem to live in and for the moment. Sigh. Points to be cogitated, certainly. On another note, however, poetry can wait. I hope it does :)HugsRonj


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