intimacy
my tavel to gokarna 2 weekends back, was fraught with long distances, delays and switch overs. the travel was made amusing thanks to jean paul sartre. well, amusing isn't the right word. hmm, can't put what i felt in a word. may be a para would help.. :P
His book 'intimacy' is very truely a very up-close study of us. us humans. our relationships. our emotions. by the time i read the third story, i actually was feeling a weird sensation... a mixture of hints of suffocation, paranoia and languid stillness. the kind of feeling one has when after having slept 14 hours continuously and being awake half wishing to be in dream, staring at the ceiling, one becomes so comfortable in the sheets that the idea of slightest movement is repelled by body itself. you can't will to lift your arms. the body in its languor decidedly becomes heavy.
sartre's words become the sheet on which we are lying. it knows us well. very well. in the little confines of the self, the sheet gets marked with our true contours, our true smell, our true warmth.
and being so intimate is not comforting when you are alone. the loneliness only more accentuated now. your own touch on the arm and cheeks now transforms from indifference to mild irritation cause your body knows it won't have the pleasure of anybody else's touch. a body is useless and would wither away sooner if it doesn't find love of a warmer skin, the cut of a longer nail, the softness of the more delicate soul.
i put the book away with an alarm after the third story. will only pick up that book much later in hopefully better days where intimacy is not a jail but abounds.
His book 'intimacy' is very truely a very up-close study of us. us humans. our relationships. our emotions. by the time i read the third story, i actually was feeling a weird sensation... a mixture of hints of suffocation, paranoia and languid stillness. the kind of feeling one has when after having slept 14 hours continuously and being awake half wishing to be in dream, staring at the ceiling, one becomes so comfortable in the sheets that the idea of slightest movement is repelled by body itself. you can't will to lift your arms. the body in its languor decidedly becomes heavy.
sartre's words become the sheet on which we are lying. it knows us well. very well. in the little confines of the self, the sheet gets marked with our true contours, our true smell, our true warmth.
and being so intimate is not comforting when you are alone. the loneliness only more accentuated now. your own touch on the arm and cheeks now transforms from indifference to mild irritation cause your body knows it won't have the pleasure of anybody else's touch. a body is useless and would wither away sooner if it doesn't find love of a warmer skin, the cut of a longer nail, the softness of the more delicate soul.
i put the book away with an alarm after the third story. will only pick up that book much later in hopefully better days where intimacy is not a jail but abounds.
Comments
i'll try this book too!