KATHMANDU, June 16: Like the screeching noise of the construction work in your neighborhood, the honking and bumping of the tempos and micros that speed past you on debilitating and mutilated racetracks, the crowds that throng through your present oblivion.
Modern times demand that you become; and in becoming you forget to be.
This is all I’ve been thinking for the past few days while I stare away from the plain, whitewashed walls of the hospital that scares the hell out of me. I’m trying to find where the Generation Next fits into.
In the times of clashing ideas and ideals? Fracturing identities and idiosyncrasies? Mending and healing times that are bound to leave more scars? The generation next that I’ve been writing as and writing for and I have been having doubts about whether my writings really fit into this restricted, yet such aspiring space of the generation next.
Does the generation next know of what has become of the generation left behind, or the generation that is to be, or of the generation they represent? It is absurd for me to think about myself as a “generation”.
A generation is supposed to signify something more than time duration or a period. It is supposed to represent the tides that frame young minds, shape and reshape the structures that we have learnt to adulate, dare to question and remain stubborn about those questions, and perhaps, the generation is not a generation but a dot?
My brother once told me how a dot is significant; it is not just a part of a circle but a concentrated circle itself; it is the arbitrary and the meaningful. Modern times are full of paradoxes. But I am digressing.
I aspire to be that dot- that tiny beat of poetry, that miniature bubble of a breath taken underwater; that insignificant void full of dreams; the paradox that is and isn’t. And I aspire to meet and share ideas with millions of such dots that cannot possibly be summed up into the bubble of the generation next.
The generation next, for me, is the generation that was and will be. The generation next is my grandparents who are deeply in love with each other because one is not without the other.
The generation next is my parents who respect their aspirations and struggles. The generation next is my aunt who wakes up every night with a bad dream and calls up my grandparents to know if they are all right.
The generation next is you: someone invisibly visible amongst the many, someone who knows but still questions, someone who denies adamantly but is humbled by a sight of a wrinkled face and someone who does not necessarily agree with me but will nonetheless listen.
The generation next is the “NeXT Computers” that Steve Jobs built for the creative minds that heeded to no failure. If only you knew that, I existed, this little dot wriggling in discomfort and screaming my lungs out, penning down thoughts rampantly onto the walls of the streets of the modern times, passing by Ratnapark and leaving behind dots of paints.
If only you, the dot that is and the dot that is dotted everywhere, on the walls of Trichandra Campus, wandering on the tiles paved on the gallis of Mangal Bazaar, flying onto the fluffy clouds that embrace our skies, passing by fleeting summer breeze in the heat; if only you knew that there was another dot waiting to be connected!
Imagine, these millions of dots waiting to be connected! Imagine the mess and havoc we could create, the minds that we could shift and the hearts that we could melt! Imagine that the modern times are not absolute, but times a changing! Imagine that dot is me. Imagine that dot is you!
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