The Deception

What began with an inception of a thought must fittingly end with a deception of some diabolical sort. The end in parlance of this post by no means refers to the end of my existence, but it more likely points to an impasse, or a moratorium that is so often imposed upon an individual through an ill fate or his own treacherous whim.
My dear readers, you must pardon my allusions and insinuations, but I cannot afford to give everything away in a jiffy. I say this not out of any insecurity or impertinence, but because I want to keep you in the habit of exercising your cognitive powers. So, let me continue from where I had left in the first post. After a roller-coaster of a beginning, I was gradually reduced to a mere reflection of my sublime self.
The reason for this drastic turn-around is subject to qualification as it’s really difficult to judge whether it is I who actually slowed down and made way for others, or it is the others who took gigantic leaps to supersede me. My ardent readers would now question me that how does it actually matter now that I have been deemed a mere failure? Unfortunately, any response would appear to be as futile as my own existence. I must confess that yours truly is at his most masochistic while trying to give you an account of his repeated failures and his abysmal fate.
The one who once personified narcissism is now forced to hate his existence. Isn’t it unfair? Isn’t it atrocious? Doesn’t it reflect the tyranny of time? You must realize that my ego has been smothered, pride humbled and soul chastised, but this is not how it was all supposed to end. As axiomatic and absolute the end might actually be, I assure you that it ain’t time yet as everything still seems so murky and cloudy, for it is said that in the end, all things become clear.
I must not give up! I must not give in! I must live to fight another day! That’s what I had thought when I failed myself for the first time and that’s exactly what I had said when I was marooned in the MODERN-DAY MORDOR. I would spare my readers the horror of spelling its dreadful name. I had then thought that the misery would end soon as I had thought while contemplating my first failure. Alas, it wasn’t to be. Just when I say to myself that the worst is over, the fate impishly supersedes my estimation leaving me bamboozled and bedraggled.
While there are millions of those who cherish the essence of mediocrity, I for one detest its very idea, for mediocrity is a poison that not only crucifies novelty, but also surrogates it with atrocities of monotony and banality. These deplorable elements can lead to poverty of thought, which once settled, can raze an entire civilization to ground. Before I digress any further, I must confess that I myself am a victim of mediocrity of the highest order: having suffered at its hands, endlessly for years. I, who once supported its cause staunchly can’t help but condemn it most ruthlessly. That’s what the winds of time do to you apart from making you rot in your own guilt and chagrin. They say time is a great healer and a great leveler, but I say to them that time is a notorious trickster, an arch-nemesis, perpetually on the prowl, to ambush you when you are at your most vulnerable.
It all started out when I was a kid, innocuous and pristine. The forces of deception were busy hoodwinking their other preys, far more wretched and supreme. The only lust that I possessed then was either for a stick of candy or a scoop of ice-cream. I was devoid of the fancies of a grown man. If there is bliss in this world, it is in the fulfillment of those little yearnings of a child. The older we grow the more tense we become. This tension is the source of all evil known to man. According to a famous Hindi proverb, “Chintah Chitah Ke Samaan Hai”, this means that tension is tantamount to a funeral-pyre. If we overcome this tension, we can easily overcome our inner fear and insecurities, and can easily progress on the path of eternal salvation.
It might appear to my readers that I have completely digressed from my purpose, but you must realize that such drivel is an essential part of the prose as it is this rambling that makes other parts considerably interesting and readable. By this I don’t mean that I do this on purpose, but that it’s just a means of leveraging what is available at my disposal. As I continue to foray the unexplored realms of human psyche by exploring my own, I once again implore you to vest me with your utmost and absolute trust as only then I would be able to do you and myself some justice.
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About A Potpourri of Vestiges

Murtaza Ali is an independent film critic, sports writer, and content developer based out of Delhi. He is the author of the movie blog ‘A Potpourri of Vestiges’. He has been writing movie reviews at IMDb.COM for over four years. He is also associated with F1India.ORG as a content editor. Cinema is not only his passion, but also his greatest obsession. His all-time favorite movie-makers are Akira Kurosawa, Stanley Kubrick, Luis Bunuel, Andrei Tarkovsky, Charles Chaplin, Orson Welles, Federico Fellini, Ingmar Bergman, Satyajit Ray, Fritz Lang, Sergio Leonne, Francis Ford Cuppola, and Martin Scorsese.
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