Convenience, is a non-negotiable vice. Its a virtue, a business, a tractable nuance of luxury that has diversified across spheres which compose a gigantic framework abstracted by meticulous presentations and beguiling packaging. Convenience has an apparatus, a destination, towards whom its directed to. Its what every business plan is designed to immure, its a consumer. A consumer, like the one within all of us, having his tribulations and opinions, tastes, cultivated and acquired, preferences, natural and pretentious, has outgrown his/her own reactionary impulses. Now, we look beyond palpable consumption. There are markets and arrays of products that don't have a physical existence. New theories of products, which haven't yet materialized, yet only exist as a fad, have made as much money as a seminal bar of soap. Not replacing the bar of soap in its indispensability but creating an outlet within the consumer to obtain a seemingly higher state of satisfaction through availing it. Needs and their deliverance, demands and their supplies, these variables and economic dicta are losing their dependence as a function of the lives of people. Today, the focus is not on what people want, but what to make them want. Its an unbridled matrix of demands tabulated against supply, where the former is independent, and infinitely pliable. Surveys, researches and thesis which concentrated on how lives are can only limit themselves to furnishing what we already have, the grotesque arises from what we could want. That prediction and vision creates products that have a precarious span of gaining consent. Nonetheless, irrespective of an economic perspective, such steps have littered us with choices that we find hard, often unreasonable, but feel definitely special to make.
The service industry which ranges from tissue papers to software support provides such abstracted levels of consumer support, that what could be accounted for a bashful provision could be ubiquitous as a irrevocable need. Years and innumerable instances have enjoined within us a stupor where handkerchiefs become an uncouth ancestor of the very sterilized and hygienic, bedaubed with germ fighting serums from natural plants, the very convenient neem and tulsi, (whose names can be wantonly played around from toilet cleaners to health drinks) toilet papers. Of course, convenience rules, who could take the effort to wash stains every time the cloth is used. Toilet paper, use and throw and Voila! There goes the articulate sophistication that roams in assumed airs of self awareness, lofty steps exuding confidence of an efficient individual of the clerisy who can eat a burger with one hand perform a swift, precise turn with his car with another hand, all the while talking over the bluetooth dongle attached wirelessly to his phone nestled like a jewel in the car charger, and through all this great humanitarian circus, to keep you dry and fresh... so fresh that you can impress a female by climbing stairs when the lifts are off to reach for a multi-billion dollar meeting on time... toilet papers. What fantastic imagery, what a beguiling script, that glorifies a disposable to life altering proportions; you could miss your meeting as the lonely woman with a voluptuous appetite wouldn't have been smitten by sweat dripping even after rigorous wipes from you not so super-absorbent, obsolete handkerchief. What a sad sad business choice, you almost seem to lack vision, the basic sense to aesthetically propel your enterprise in the Forbes top 100. What a sick loser!
Look back, rewind the tape. That handkerchief, bearing your embroidered initials, that non-antiseptic sweet smell of your favorite fragrance, enunciating an individuality that could distinguish you in thousands if not millions. Isn't this individualistic article an accessory enough, that sets you apart from a boxed version of virulent existence that fawns to a master who can never be a character of repose. Ranting and demanding in inseparable syllables, invariably, this induced haste of heightening the discomfiture of a careening droplet of sweat makes an insatiable creature out of the user, who might not hesitate to wipe off his back in order to look like a postcard, grabbing the indistinguishable papers as much his fist, pandering to an illusion which insults human restraint.
This downward spiral of insatiable needs has galumphed consumerism into turbid waters of moral decadence. Indiscriminate, irresponsible and ruthless, markets now aim at not creating a man out of a suiting, but a chicken who can prance his insecurity in fabrics that could give him another skin. Day in and day out, billboards and front pages are crammed with slogans, punchlines and propagandas of brands that attempt to brand you, as theirs. What are free markets? A profligate practice of hedonism that debauches a lifestyle into a dependence, where there is no life, only style? Couldn't people concentrate more on themselves with the suit on, and not on the suit? And not like they were created to wear that, and not that it was stitched in some violated cantonment in China for them? In their temples of entreating, a family will share a trice of over fried, stale chicken tikka, maintaining their intake of calories by defiling their share of the snack to a mouthful, and returned like gourmands of classical tandoori cuisine, calling their "ma" and "pa" in tongues they were not brought up with, and neither their "ma" and "pa", who reply in a sharper articulation. Could they be more empathic and redolent of the same warmth and accord as the language in which each of these heavy waisted trophy families mouthed their first words? Sweetly sounding, seductive mothers of thirty, broadening by the minutes not so much due to the oil in homemade food but from utter sloth, stutter on 't' in "beta" and bombast sarcasm with two year olds quoting it as a practice of culture, cheaply emulate disasters, whose lives within that ambit of a few minutes are like uncooked meals that become their handicapped set of ethos, neither to be spat out, nor to be swallowed. This dilemma more than a swaggering and hip bad temper delineates a monster who is baffled at the drop of a mascara, and can with hold the mast of their ever awakening sex in this country famous more within than outside for social disproportionation, by uttering choicest slangs that repudiate the smothering shade of that very mascara that might have impressed the offender in the first place.
One such hoarding read, "Real life is so boring", and pop goes my wallet for a 150 rupees multiplex seat, again a delectable import enjoyed for inexplicable reasons. Again stacking you into units of 300, in indistinguishable seats for which all payed reverently and can bloody well show that with a sonorous monologue in well-accepted language of the ones who-come-to-such-places. This giant wave of acquisitions by a moronic refurbisher of classical cinema halls, which had that concept of balconies, which brought that individualistic pleasure of watching the movie like you could almost walk up into the scene. The halls which had back stalls, serving the slick and the more tractable crowd who frequented as a matter of routine and passion rather than luxury, are now a numbered few after losing their legendary cousins to these retouches of ubiquitousness. Outnumbered and against popular practice, they stand on the verge of a lock down.
Such factory lines sit and operate within each of us. They generate millions of insinuated impulses that arise within someone else and culminate through us. Simmering rages and random favors give out a nonplussed routine that struggles to balance itself, vacillating between the dreamy character in the movie watched over the weekend and general droll of life. In such inconsistencies, it seems more like a self preservation measure to harbor a belligerent attitude towards any intrusions into your personal sphere of physical existence. Since the reactions are so much a function of our physicality and physical being, and seeing that unwillingly shared by a foreigner becomes unbearable. It occludes our sense of well being, it further mystifies that already ceaseless task to wrestle with inner fears of being materialistically inept. You have your surroundings secured, arranged and fashioned according to your comfort, even your unreasonable whim, which you find maddening to self-debate. This awareness and control over your space gives you an authority and frees your mind to rise above this quibbling and become a creative entity, which can think and progress, build upon a security of firmness that is so ethereal because it can easily be breached by that neurosis of disturbance in your physical space. Here, the mind is a slave, it snivels on things that are immaterial because they are beyond its control. The definitions of a creative universe, an empyrean oblivion are misled in this groping for comfort and objectification of satisfaction. Perhaps thats why love is such an enlightenment. There your subject, your romance exists in thoughts, which reside inside and there is no possible intrusion that can disturb that stream of unconscious obsession. And seeing this, finding this super invulnerability we feel secure, and hence the curves on the forehead are bewitchingly substituted by the curve of the lips.
Such factories sit in cubicles in my workplace, such species of quibbling stooge over little glances of attention and praise, and feel like children given ice creams of just being the sons of man. Compliments and good natured smiles work just magically fine there. But its hard to smile, to lie every time. Sarcasm saves me. "Hi. A very good morning. What an imbalanced psychotic prick you are!"
The service industry which ranges from tissue papers to software support provides such abstracted levels of consumer support, that what could be accounted for a bashful provision could be ubiquitous as a irrevocable need. Years and innumerable instances have enjoined within us a stupor where handkerchiefs become an uncouth ancestor of the very sterilized and hygienic, bedaubed with germ fighting serums from natural plants, the very convenient neem and tulsi, (whose names can be wantonly played around from toilet cleaners to health drinks) toilet papers. Of course, convenience rules, who could take the effort to wash stains every time the cloth is used. Toilet paper, use and throw and Voila! There goes the articulate sophistication that roams in assumed airs of self awareness, lofty steps exuding confidence of an efficient individual of the clerisy who can eat a burger with one hand perform a swift, precise turn with his car with another hand, all the while talking over the bluetooth dongle attached wirelessly to his phone nestled like a jewel in the car charger, and through all this great humanitarian circus, to keep you dry and fresh... so fresh that you can impress a female by climbing stairs when the lifts are off to reach for a multi-billion dollar meeting on time... toilet papers. What fantastic imagery, what a beguiling script, that glorifies a disposable to life altering proportions; you could miss your meeting as the lonely woman with a voluptuous appetite wouldn't have been smitten by sweat dripping even after rigorous wipes from you not so super-absorbent, obsolete handkerchief. What a sad sad business choice, you almost seem to lack vision, the basic sense to aesthetically propel your enterprise in the Forbes top 100. What a sick loser!
Look back, rewind the tape. That handkerchief, bearing your embroidered initials, that non-antiseptic sweet smell of your favorite fragrance, enunciating an individuality that could distinguish you in thousands if not millions. Isn't this individualistic article an accessory enough, that sets you apart from a boxed version of virulent existence that fawns to a master who can never be a character of repose. Ranting and demanding in inseparable syllables, invariably, this induced haste of heightening the discomfiture of a careening droplet of sweat makes an insatiable creature out of the user, who might not hesitate to wipe off his back in order to look like a postcard, grabbing the indistinguishable papers as much his fist, pandering to an illusion which insults human restraint.
This downward spiral of insatiable needs has galumphed consumerism into turbid waters of moral decadence. Indiscriminate, irresponsible and ruthless, markets now aim at not creating a man out of a suiting, but a chicken who can prance his insecurity in fabrics that could give him another skin. Day in and day out, billboards and front pages are crammed with slogans, punchlines and propagandas of brands that attempt to brand you, as theirs. What are free markets? A profligate practice of hedonism that debauches a lifestyle into a dependence, where there is no life, only style? Couldn't people concentrate more on themselves with the suit on, and not on the suit? And not like they were created to wear that, and not that it was stitched in some violated cantonment in China for them? In their temples of entreating, a family will share a trice of over fried, stale chicken tikka, maintaining their intake of calories by defiling their share of the snack to a mouthful, and returned like gourmands of classical tandoori cuisine, calling their "ma" and "pa" in tongues they were not brought up with, and neither their "ma" and "pa", who reply in a sharper articulation. Could they be more empathic and redolent of the same warmth and accord as the language in which each of these heavy waisted trophy families mouthed their first words? Sweetly sounding, seductive mothers of thirty, broadening by the minutes not so much due to the oil in homemade food but from utter sloth, stutter on 't' in "beta" and bombast sarcasm with two year olds quoting it as a practice of culture, cheaply emulate disasters, whose lives within that ambit of a few minutes are like uncooked meals that become their handicapped set of ethos, neither to be spat out, nor to be swallowed. This dilemma more than a swaggering and hip bad temper delineates a monster who is baffled at the drop of a mascara, and can with hold the mast of their ever awakening sex in this country famous more within than outside for social disproportionation, by uttering choicest slangs that repudiate the smothering shade of that very mascara that might have impressed the offender in the first place.
One such hoarding read, "Real life is so boring", and pop goes my wallet for a 150 rupees multiplex seat, again a delectable import enjoyed for inexplicable reasons. Again stacking you into units of 300, in indistinguishable seats for which all payed reverently and can bloody well show that with a sonorous monologue in well-accepted language of the ones who-come-to-such-places. This giant wave of acquisitions by a moronic refurbisher of classical cinema halls, which had that concept of balconies, which brought that individualistic pleasure of watching the movie like you could almost walk up into the scene. The halls which had back stalls, serving the slick and the more tractable crowd who frequented as a matter of routine and passion rather than luxury, are now a numbered few after losing their legendary cousins to these retouches of ubiquitousness. Outnumbered and against popular practice, they stand on the verge of a lock down.
Such factory lines sit and operate within each of us. They generate millions of insinuated impulses that arise within someone else and culminate through us. Simmering rages and random favors give out a nonplussed routine that struggles to balance itself, vacillating between the dreamy character in the movie watched over the weekend and general droll of life. In such inconsistencies, it seems more like a self preservation measure to harbor a belligerent attitude towards any intrusions into your personal sphere of physical existence. Since the reactions are so much a function of our physicality and physical being, and seeing that unwillingly shared by a foreigner becomes unbearable. It occludes our sense of well being, it further mystifies that already ceaseless task to wrestle with inner fears of being materialistically inept. You have your surroundings secured, arranged and fashioned according to your comfort, even your unreasonable whim, which you find maddening to self-debate. This awareness and control over your space gives you an authority and frees your mind to rise above this quibbling and become a creative entity, which can think and progress, build upon a security of firmness that is so ethereal because it can easily be breached by that neurosis of disturbance in your physical space. Here, the mind is a slave, it snivels on things that are immaterial because they are beyond its control. The definitions of a creative universe, an empyrean oblivion are misled in this groping for comfort and objectification of satisfaction. Perhaps thats why love is such an enlightenment. There your subject, your romance exists in thoughts, which reside inside and there is no possible intrusion that can disturb that stream of unconscious obsession. And seeing this, finding this super invulnerability we feel secure, and hence the curves on the forehead are bewitchingly substituted by the curve of the lips.
Such factories sit in cubicles in my workplace, such species of quibbling stooge over little glances of attention and praise, and feel like children given ice creams of just being the sons of man. Compliments and good natured smiles work just magically fine there. But its hard to smile, to lie every time. Sarcasm saves me. "Hi. A very good morning. What an imbalanced psychotic prick you are!"
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