Perhaps life's sanctity, and not its futility,
lies in dissolute irony.
For if it were non existent, so would be, expression.
To what worth do I condemn myself that my means and ends lay justified?
To what immorality and insanity do I adhere, so to abet my obsessions?
My finality, does not exist if not for my depraved reality,
and so I live on; with heightened sense of good,
naïve, for my life exhibits evil,
in which I revel with perpetual grief.
I panic at its petulant fragility.
It might be so, it never ends.
Albeit fervent, it isn’t in love,
and the hatred sears me blind.
I feel empty, pining for a sense of morose fulfillment,
it evades me, on a shallow premise,
for it never did exist, my elixir.
So here it lay, on truth,
parched, my loving reverie,
I would bid thee farewell, and kiss thee goodbye
but if only I could accept thee 'thatwise'.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Our Last Dance
Locked in your arms,
My heart, a great stallion,
gazing glassily into yours,
how I wished I could cry.
wrapped in your arms,
delirious in my pain,
I followed along,
as I longed for you to kiss me.
If I could fathom then,
the inevitability of that end,
when your arms would slip slowly off my waist,
when my eyes would leave your beautiful face,
I would have, with all my heart,
Begged for you, to kiss me.
I would have brought my cheek upon yours
as my body would resist my hearts implore,
to be closer still, to be forever filled,
looking beyond you as I would weep,
my tears wouldn’t stop
and I wouldn’t breathe.
I wouldn’t want you to ever leave.
Oh! My sweet love,
How I would have kissed you then,
If only I knew, I would never dance again.
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Carnage
The night mourned like a betrayed lover.
It fumed as its face drew angry frowns. It cried, roared and spat infuriated sparks, firing up the woods in its wake. Not a speck of twinkle remained to be seen in the heinous gray. The heavens were livid, aching with vengeance. The wind displaced the muddy earth; it was torn out of its cozy bed. The rain thrashed soft petals as they fell bruised and flowed along with bloody mud. The fierce drops raped young buds till they forcefully flowered and finally fell. As the sky flooded the earth, the tides rose up and fought the tempest. The trees defended the earth against the fearless winds. They valiantly wrestled on, as the storm applauded a premature victory.
All other life lay obsolete in this battle.
All hope lay forgotten, as not a whistle defied the carnage.
It was war between heaven and earth.
A young boy, in a torn cape and tattered boots, was dragging his frail body against the gashes and pricks of wet winds and torn twigs. The banter between earth and above frightened him. He wondered if he had lost his way in this odd communion of nature, which so presented itself as a consequence of the great battle. He checked his compass again to ensure he was still fighting the north.
His eyes squinted, their openings covered with eyelash dew. His face was weeping from the sweat and rain. He held a feeble, lanky walking stick with one hand and with the other he held together his cape in front of his wheezing chest. On his feet there were two peculiar boots. One brown one black, one suede one leather, one broken from the heel and the other torn at the right big toe. His calves extended up to his thighs in a thin cylindrical manner. There were bruises on this knees and dried blood stains on his shin. He had obviously suffered a fall and cut himself, maybe falling off steep edgy stairs. He held plastic over his head like a skillfully crafted hat, made to sit steadily, as he slipped and stumbled to no apparent destination.
He wore not even an expression more than his measly outfit.
It wouldn’t show if he shivered, or if his heart jumped at sinister sounds, or if he palpitated from exhaustion or if he suffered physical pain. What he thought or if he grieved, what he desired and what he believed. Being so inconsequential in the great battle, he could be easily neglected.
Yet, he walked on with withheld purpose.
As he heaved his fragile body over a fallen log, he fell along it, temporarily letting go of his cape and staff as he vainly tried to avoid scraping his body against the thorny bark. He lay cut, and naked, on the glazing pine leaves as they recorded the furious dance of lightening in the sky. He regretted being delayed. The emotion, though naturally anticipated, was lost in the moment, considering his insignificance. As he rolled over on his back, he saw black roaring clouds, threatening him, marking him. He felt ill mannered raindrops patter on his face, not for once considerate of his state, as though his body didn’t exist.
And then, just before he saw his past and purpose flash before his eyes, he saw that beautiful crooked streak of pure white as it slashed, like a whip, on a weak and unassuming, nameless tree. He saw golden sparks at work as they enflamed the entire tree like gangrene spreading from a finger through the entire body. He watched the fire consume the tree and excrete it, as ashes. He saw other twigs of fire; spurting out from the debris and lighting up the pine covered earth, mimicking a giant volcano as it consumes all life around it.
It seemed that the earth was now sacrificing itself to pay for its defiance, to heavens and above.
He was a part of that sacrifice now, unborn and unrequited. Just moments ago, he had been worthless. He had been braving nature as a whole, for some personal purpose, now of no consequence to him either. Now, he was holy sacrifice, chosen by his earth. His place in this battle was sacrosanct. He watched as the fire approached him. Soon it would devour him like Satan’s hell hounds. He waited for the pain, while he withered at the insinuation of it, whispered by the blazing pine bed, not even six feet from him.
He didn’t run, he couldn’t. He was chosen by nature and terribly weakened, so that he wouldn’t defy his creator and the holy sacrifice.
He waited patiently as the flames engulfed him. He didn’t feel alone. The forest was to be sacrificed with him; he could sense the fear in it. Young saplings and nipped buds; uprooted and laid alongside him at the altar. The twigs and leaves stopped revolting as they whispered in song, their final prayer. They trembled as the icy wind taunted them. He prayed with the forest as he prayed for it.
Soon it was over, though for three days the forest burned. It was penitence. Not a sound now emerged from the barren hill. No life was to ever return to this grave. It was marked by the wrath of heavens above and the sacrifice of the ones below.
It fumed as its face drew angry frowns. It cried, roared and spat infuriated sparks, firing up the woods in its wake. Not a speck of twinkle remained to be seen in the heinous gray. The heavens were livid, aching with vengeance. The wind displaced the muddy earth; it was torn out of its cozy bed. The rain thrashed soft petals as they fell bruised and flowed along with bloody mud. The fierce drops raped young buds till they forcefully flowered and finally fell. As the sky flooded the earth, the tides rose up and fought the tempest. The trees defended the earth against the fearless winds. They valiantly wrestled on, as the storm applauded a premature victory.
All other life lay obsolete in this battle.
All hope lay forgotten, as not a whistle defied the carnage.
It was war between heaven and earth.
A young boy, in a torn cape and tattered boots, was dragging his frail body against the gashes and pricks of wet winds and torn twigs. The banter between earth and above frightened him. He wondered if he had lost his way in this odd communion of nature, which so presented itself as a consequence of the great battle. He checked his compass again to ensure he was still fighting the north.
His eyes squinted, their openings covered with eyelash dew. His face was weeping from the sweat and rain. He held a feeble, lanky walking stick with one hand and with the other he held together his cape in front of his wheezing chest. On his feet there were two peculiar boots. One brown one black, one suede one leather, one broken from the heel and the other torn at the right big toe. His calves extended up to his thighs in a thin cylindrical manner. There were bruises on this knees and dried blood stains on his shin. He had obviously suffered a fall and cut himself, maybe falling off steep edgy stairs. He held plastic over his head like a skillfully crafted hat, made to sit steadily, as he slipped and stumbled to no apparent destination.
He wore not even an expression more than his measly outfit.
It wouldn’t show if he shivered, or if his heart jumped at sinister sounds, or if he palpitated from exhaustion or if he suffered physical pain. What he thought or if he grieved, what he desired and what he believed. Being so inconsequential in the great battle, he could be easily neglected.
Yet, he walked on with withheld purpose.
As he heaved his fragile body over a fallen log, he fell along it, temporarily letting go of his cape and staff as he vainly tried to avoid scraping his body against the thorny bark. He lay cut, and naked, on the glazing pine leaves as they recorded the furious dance of lightening in the sky. He regretted being delayed. The emotion, though naturally anticipated, was lost in the moment, considering his insignificance. As he rolled over on his back, he saw black roaring clouds, threatening him, marking him. He felt ill mannered raindrops patter on his face, not for once considerate of his state, as though his body didn’t exist.
And then, just before he saw his past and purpose flash before his eyes, he saw that beautiful crooked streak of pure white as it slashed, like a whip, on a weak and unassuming, nameless tree. He saw golden sparks at work as they enflamed the entire tree like gangrene spreading from a finger through the entire body. He watched the fire consume the tree and excrete it, as ashes. He saw other twigs of fire; spurting out from the debris and lighting up the pine covered earth, mimicking a giant volcano as it consumes all life around it.
It seemed that the earth was now sacrificing itself to pay for its defiance, to heavens and above.
He was a part of that sacrifice now, unborn and unrequited. Just moments ago, he had been worthless. He had been braving nature as a whole, for some personal purpose, now of no consequence to him either. Now, he was holy sacrifice, chosen by his earth. His place in this battle was sacrosanct. He watched as the fire approached him. Soon it would devour him like Satan’s hell hounds. He waited for the pain, while he withered at the insinuation of it, whispered by the blazing pine bed, not even six feet from him.
He didn’t run, he couldn’t. He was chosen by nature and terribly weakened, so that he wouldn’t defy his creator and the holy sacrifice.
He waited patiently as the flames engulfed him. He didn’t feel alone. The forest was to be sacrificed with him; he could sense the fear in it. Young saplings and nipped buds; uprooted and laid alongside him at the altar. The twigs and leaves stopped revolting as they whispered in song, their final prayer. They trembled as the icy wind taunted them. He prayed with the forest as he prayed for it.
Soon it was over, though for three days the forest burned. It was penitence. Not a sound now emerged from the barren hill. No life was to ever return to this grave. It was marked by the wrath of heavens above and the sacrifice of the ones below.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
My Divine
When blamed of beauty, you guise, guiltily by,
Vain becomes you, yet, you proudly shine,
Your words, pithy, your gaze fleeting,
Float on, idol, divine.
And I will worship the ground,
Upon which your soles, barely linger.
I look over gently,
From your skin to your soul.
Unveiling splendor,
like you, there were never more.
Beauty now prevails, defined ,
impeaching you of thievery, deceit, undue.
And yet I worship the ground,
Upon which your soles, barely linger.
Your presence haunts my fragility, my heart,
Silence looms as my body weeps,
Overwhelmed by your beauty, revered,
I only stare, I stare.
I look away quickly, yielding to worth,
And then I bow, beneath my heart,
And I worship the ground and I worship again,
And I worship again and I worship some more
Morning chirps, breezily by, and
though golden treasures adorn your life.
Your eyes twinkle the deceit of night last,
You were conquered, sold, bought and lost.
Tarnished my love, only tatters remain,
Of your life and your worth, of you, divine.
Yet I worship, with sordid grief,
And yet In that pain, I dwell dutifully, weak.
With reborn hope, I look upon your deeds,
If they could have you, it could, just once, be me,
I would hold you tender, un-break your stupor,
Your warm skin would boil, for me,
Your hairs would rise, your heart would thunder,
Your body would weep, all for me.
But as I would touch you, your precious lips,
Would part in anguish, in protest, in pain,
As tears would flood, your burning face,
I would know my burden was nothing as great.
And soon I would wake, and find me unworthy,
and soon I would sigh, and look away,
And soon you would leave, and break my heart,
Though soon, I would lie and be content.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When accused of being beautiful, you look away guilty. You are vain and that brings you pride. You are superior and speak less. Your words aren’t wasted, just like your gaze isn’t. you never give more than what’s needed, in fact you are meager with wasting your looks to common eyes. You are divine. I worship the ground which your feet barely touch.
I sneak a peek at you, so you won’t notice me and turn away. Your skin and soul define a kind of beauty that never before prevailed on earth. You are accused of stealing beauty, deceiving people somehow. And yet, I still cannot help but worship and kiss the ground you walk upon.
Your presence sends my fragile heart into over drive. Silence rings in my ears as my body starts to sweat (weep). I am so overwhelmed by your holy beauty that I can only stare.
But I realize my worth quickly. I am not worthy enough to keep looking at you. And so I bow down as low as I can. Lower than my pride allows me and lower for my love, as it calls. I bow and I worship you.
As morning awakes, your life illuminated by sunlight. Though It’s decorating you in all the riches it can offer, still holding you as an idol of divinity, your beautiful twinkling eyes reveal your truth. You have been unfaithful to my devotion, philandering with evil, you were like a prostitute for the vices of life. You have been discarded, torn and tattered. But I still worship you, though now with filthy sorrow. I still remain loyal and though weak with self loathing, I still wait for you painfully.
But as I think and ponder on your actions. I question my position. If every vice has had a go at you, if nothing substantial of you remains why can’t I have you? I would hold you softly, yet with passion. I would be the one for whom your blood would boil, the one to give you the shivers of excitement. Your heart would pace and your body would sweat. All this for me.
But, as I touch you precious lips, I can see the anguish on your face. You are in pain, being taken by me. you cry to be free you weep in the pain that my presence has brought upon you. It is then that I know that my burden of never getting you, of never being worthy enough for your love, is lesser than the pain It would cause you, by just being mine. With this realization, I wake up. I know I am unworthy and it was all a dream. As I look away, I know you are leaving, and you break my heart doing so, but I could always lie to myself again, pretend that you love me, and be content.
Vain becomes you, yet, you proudly shine,
Your words, pithy, your gaze fleeting,
Float on, idol, divine.
And I will worship the ground,
Upon which your soles, barely linger.
I look over gently,
From your skin to your soul.
Unveiling splendor,
like you, there were never more.
Beauty now prevails, defined ,
impeaching you of thievery, deceit, undue.
And yet I worship the ground,
Upon which your soles, barely linger.
Your presence haunts my fragility, my heart,
Silence looms as my body weeps,
Overwhelmed by your beauty, revered,
I only stare, I stare.
I look away quickly, yielding to worth,
And then I bow, beneath my heart,
And I worship the ground and I worship again,
And I worship again and I worship some more
Morning chirps, breezily by, and
though golden treasures adorn your life.
Your eyes twinkle the deceit of night last,
You were conquered, sold, bought and lost.
Tarnished my love, only tatters remain,
Of your life and your worth, of you, divine.
Yet I worship, with sordid grief,
And yet In that pain, I dwell dutifully, weak.
With reborn hope, I look upon your deeds,
If they could have you, it could, just once, be me,
I would hold you tender, un-break your stupor,
Your warm skin would boil, for me,
Your hairs would rise, your heart would thunder,
Your body would weep, all for me.
But as I would touch you, your precious lips,
Would part in anguish, in protest, in pain,
As tears would flood, your burning face,
I would know my burden was nothing as great.
And soon I would wake, and find me unworthy,
and soon I would sigh, and look away,
And soon you would leave, and break my heart,
Though soon, I would lie and be content.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When accused of being beautiful, you look away guilty. You are vain and that brings you pride. You are superior and speak less. Your words aren’t wasted, just like your gaze isn’t. you never give more than what’s needed, in fact you are meager with wasting your looks to common eyes. You are divine. I worship the ground which your feet barely touch.
I sneak a peek at you, so you won’t notice me and turn away. Your skin and soul define a kind of beauty that never before prevailed on earth. You are accused of stealing beauty, deceiving people somehow. And yet, I still cannot help but worship and kiss the ground you walk upon.
Your presence sends my fragile heart into over drive. Silence rings in my ears as my body starts to sweat (weep). I am so overwhelmed by your holy beauty that I can only stare.
But I realize my worth quickly. I am not worthy enough to keep looking at you. And so I bow down as low as I can. Lower than my pride allows me and lower for my love, as it calls. I bow and I worship you.
As morning awakes, your life illuminated by sunlight. Though It’s decorating you in all the riches it can offer, still holding you as an idol of divinity, your beautiful twinkling eyes reveal your truth. You have been unfaithful to my devotion, philandering with evil, you were like a prostitute for the vices of life. You have been discarded, torn and tattered. But I still worship you, though now with filthy sorrow. I still remain loyal and though weak with self loathing, I still wait for you painfully.
But as I think and ponder on your actions. I question my position. If every vice has had a go at you, if nothing substantial of you remains why can’t I have you? I would hold you softly, yet with passion. I would be the one for whom your blood would boil, the one to give you the shivers of excitement. Your heart would pace and your body would sweat. All this for me.
But, as I touch you precious lips, I can see the anguish on your face. You are in pain, being taken by me. you cry to be free you weep in the pain that my presence has brought upon you. It is then that I know that my burden of never getting you, of never being worthy enough for your love, is lesser than the pain It would cause you, by just being mine. With this realization, I wake up. I know I am unworthy and it was all a dream. As I look away, I know you are leaving, and you break my heart doing so, but I could always lie to myself again, pretend that you love me, and be content.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
666
At this instant, I've had 666 visitors on the blog! SPOOKY!
And i know, my blog is pink. Cannot change it now, too attached. Don't sweat it!
And i know, my blog is pink. Cannot change it now, too attached. Don't sweat it!
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Freaky Valentine!
I am apprehensive about writing this piece because, for the first time, I feel I will not be able to give that night its full due. What started, as a dismal commemoration of being single one valentines’ eve, soon turned out to be the wildest night of my life!
We weren’t drunk, nor stoned. We were just wallowing… An hour passed with depressing songs of love. Love lost, lost love found, love lost and found and lost and never found…
It started out slow, a move here a movement there. Shoulder shrugging dance soon gave way to heavy head banging. No external intoxication, pure adrenalin! Suddenly, a pillow came flying my way, before I knew it, the four pillows on my bed were being ripped apart in the process of a pillow fight. There was screaming, it seemed in tune with Papa Roach (Last Resort). We wrestled with intentions of murder! There was sweat and hair all over our faces. We were hyperventilating…. almost asthmatic. Nothing deterred us. We were rolling on the cold floor, unable to breathe with laughter dominating each bronchiole. My body gave up; I now suffered from chronic hilarity! We were epileptically seizing in post traumatic laughter. It looked nothing like the pillow fight-ic arousal bits on American television. It was ugly.
Then it stopped… Time out… One could feel the tension. Though breathing, each knew that the other, silently prepared for the next attack. Eyes alert, were now Hi Tech cameras, programmed to spot and process movements in the split existence of a second….. Someone slightly shifted…. That was enough…. And the pillows rained, they thundered! Covers were torn, ripped into tatters; they were just slowing us down….props of nameless shapes were now used to smother faces and bodies alike. Each oppressor; overwhelmed and unrestrained.
In lieu of the chaotic, barbaric brutality, strategic symphony soon set in. Each doe-eyed the other. Innocent nonchalance could barely sustain to cover the exuberance boiling within….
They cornered me. I never knew where the first blow came from as I hit the cold ground, half struggling to get off my bean bag. The bag seemed to participate too. It was a wormhole, quick sand, one could never get out! The blows never stopped! I gathered all my strength and sat up. I snatched someone’s pillow. She was defenseless now! The others noticed that too…we were vultures, loyal to none but the meat of helpless prey. And we rained again, this time we were hailing! Pecking of the flesh till her skin turned red!
It had been hours, or so it seemed. After a point, our hands shivering with fatigue, just threw misdirected aims into thin air. At times, our own pillows would hit us, tiring mid way an attack. The laughter though, never ceased. It never ceased.
I will never know how it ended. How I closed the door and got on my bed. How the discarded cigarette butts reached the trash can or how a torn pillow cover ended up pasted to the wall. I will never know why my floor is sticky or how my beanbag is covered in icing! I will never know! And it’s beautiful to know that I will never know!
We weren’t drunk, nor stoned. We were just wallowing… An hour passed with depressing songs of love. Love lost, lost love found, love lost and found and lost and never found…
It started out slow, a move here a movement there. Shoulder shrugging dance soon gave way to heavy head banging. No external intoxication, pure adrenalin! Suddenly, a pillow came flying my way, before I knew it, the four pillows on my bed were being ripped apart in the process of a pillow fight. There was screaming, it seemed in tune with Papa Roach (Last Resort). We wrestled with intentions of murder! There was sweat and hair all over our faces. We were hyperventilating…. almost asthmatic. Nothing deterred us. We were rolling on the cold floor, unable to breathe with laughter dominating each bronchiole. My body gave up; I now suffered from chronic hilarity! We were epileptically seizing in post traumatic laughter. It looked nothing like the pillow fight-ic arousal bits on American television. It was ugly.
Then it stopped… Time out… One could feel the tension. Though breathing, each knew that the other, silently prepared for the next attack. Eyes alert, were now Hi Tech cameras, programmed to spot and process movements in the split existence of a second….. Someone slightly shifted…. That was enough…. And the pillows rained, they thundered! Covers were torn, ripped into tatters; they were just slowing us down….props of nameless shapes were now used to smother faces and bodies alike. Each oppressor; overwhelmed and unrestrained.
In lieu of the chaotic, barbaric brutality, strategic symphony soon set in. Each doe-eyed the other. Innocent nonchalance could barely sustain to cover the exuberance boiling within….
They cornered me. I never knew where the first blow came from as I hit the cold ground, half struggling to get off my bean bag. The bag seemed to participate too. It was a wormhole, quick sand, one could never get out! The blows never stopped! I gathered all my strength and sat up. I snatched someone’s pillow. She was defenseless now! The others noticed that too…we were vultures, loyal to none but the meat of helpless prey. And we rained again, this time we were hailing! Pecking of the flesh till her skin turned red!
It had been hours, or so it seemed. After a point, our hands shivering with fatigue, just threw misdirected aims into thin air. At times, our own pillows would hit us, tiring mid way an attack. The laughter though, never ceased. It never ceased.
I will never know how it ended. How I closed the door and got on my bed. How the discarded cigarette butts reached the trash can or how a torn pillow cover ended up pasted to the wall. I will never know why my floor is sticky or how my beanbag is covered in icing! I will never know! And it’s beautiful to know that I will never know!
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Thank You for Drinking
I am currently reading this very ‘trashy’ yet oddly captivating book called ‘Bobbed Hair and Bathtub Gin’. It’s about these four female writers and their tumultuous journey in and out of the writing arena. I was, somewhat ‘questionably’, inspired by this contemporary exhibition of female defiance in contrast to the daintily worded cries of the corseted bosom in, say, a Henry James portrayal of Rebellion. As the Karenin wife or Madam Bovary would drape themselves in curtains while prancing about married men and horny suitors and Daisy Miller or Scarlet o’ Hara would trollop around spilling out shame from behind laced, heart shaped corsets, the feisty writers of this dynamic piece of work would bare it all in four beds in one night with silk and gin!
I personally like bathing at midnight. It feels almost poetic. A day ends and another begins. All in that instant.
Nights glazed in pining for dreams, soaking in a cold bath, I soon forget if its gin or swirling water. The cubicle is dark with only moonlight pouring in. I open the window to allow additional street lights. Cold breeze gently teases my bare body. I look out at stars and night. I sit dripping on the bathroom floor, legs folded, and my knees against my bare shoulders, feeling the rigidity of my collarbone against them. My bare back shivers as the cold door resists my body heat. My painted nails reflect the streetlight as my wet hair curls into my neck. As I rest my cold cheeks on one knee, I gaze at the fresh scar on the other. I gently encircle it with the tip on my fingers. I feel cold and beautiful. The scar looks like the number 8. Or infinity.
It feels bald and reminds me of the membranes inside egg shells.
This scar is my trophy, for a month long life of dreams. A dream, that led me to infinite nights of coquettish philandering with intoxication and absurdity. I wouldn’t know when I was awake or distinguish one night from another. I still think of it fondly. I long for another brush against that infidelity, something to exaggerate my delirium. A Euphoric fiesta of every thing good and everything sinful. An iniquitous blend of strawberry and cream, that so define immorality when together.
Painted lips and powdered nose, I knew I belonged only to that burning elixir. Looking fondly at my beautiful drink in its clear glass, I recite;
“I owe you nothing. And you are nothing to me. Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love.” (Moulin Rouge)
I personally like bathing at midnight. It feels almost poetic. A day ends and another begins. All in that instant.
Nights glazed in pining for dreams, soaking in a cold bath, I soon forget if its gin or swirling water. The cubicle is dark with only moonlight pouring in. I open the window to allow additional street lights. Cold breeze gently teases my bare body. I look out at stars and night. I sit dripping on the bathroom floor, legs folded, and my knees against my bare shoulders, feeling the rigidity of my collarbone against them. My bare back shivers as the cold door resists my body heat. My painted nails reflect the streetlight as my wet hair curls into my neck. As I rest my cold cheeks on one knee, I gaze at the fresh scar on the other. I gently encircle it with the tip on my fingers. I feel cold and beautiful. The scar looks like the number 8. Or infinity.
It feels bald and reminds me of the membranes inside egg shells.
This scar is my trophy, for a month long life of dreams. A dream, that led me to infinite nights of coquettish philandering with intoxication and absurdity. I wouldn’t know when I was awake or distinguish one night from another. I still think of it fondly. I long for another brush against that infidelity, something to exaggerate my delirium. A Euphoric fiesta of every thing good and everything sinful. An iniquitous blend of strawberry and cream, that so define immorality when together.
Painted lips and powdered nose, I knew I belonged only to that burning elixir. Looking fondly at my beautiful drink in its clear glass, I recite;
“I owe you nothing. And you are nothing to me. Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love.” (Moulin Rouge)
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
As I Rode from Perdition
I have never hated anybody in life. And, people say, that when you near death, you always find it in yourself to forgive. But I know now, that I don’t care. I feel vindictive. I want to hurt the people who hurt me that day. I find it odd that barring the importance of the helmet, this feeling of hatred for some selected people is all that the accident taught me.
I keep running it in my head over and over again. It seems to me that shock has robbed me of the most important second of my life.
Everything was going perfectly that day.
I remember turning to look for my cap. I remember turning back to say that I had spotted it.
I remember knowing that I was in the process of an accident. I remember not being scared, just confused. Falling felt almost comfortable. Time dilated as I felt every second of the swing as the bike began its side wards descent. I knew I wasn’t dying, my life didn’t flash before me. I think I let go of the bike and held her for a second. She wouldn’t let the handles go. All rationality required letting go of the swiftly skidding bike. I think I remember jumping off. Years of sports had harnessed my reflexes. I should have rolled and then skidded over to the middle of the road if my wounds are to be trusted. I remember looking over while skidding. The bike was on top of her as she skid on the road as well, headfirst. I remember thinking about her helmet. I remember knowing that I didn’t have one. I had to save my face. Almost instantly I pulled my head, with all my weight on my right hand and knee. I remember scraping against gravel and hot road as I came to a stop. I remember breathing in dust and tasting salty stones.
I saw the sunglasses my dad had gifted me. I remember wanting to cry. I couldn’t reach for them just yet. I looked back and saw her head exposed to oncoming traffic. Instinctively, I reached out and pulled her head aside. I felt stupid as people started to crowd. I wanted them all to go away. I didn’t feel hurt.
Her helmet was cracked in two like a flimsy egg shell. She was bleeding from her forehead. The sight of blood jerked me back to reality. There wasn’t any water to clean the wound. I remember thanking the helmet in my mind. Surprisingly I didn’t think of god or family. I remembered having no first aid for the first time in my life. I wanted to cry again. She kept looking at me. It was just the two of us there. Everybody else was silent noise. I knew I needed to say something to snap her out of her shock but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything.
I think I smiled. I don’t know why I smiled, but I knew that she would understand what I wanted to convey. She smiled back.
I didn’t know if I was hurt. Actually, I don’t remember feeling anything at that instant. I was just brazenly calm. Somehow, I remembered first aid checks. I asked her to move her hands and feet, to spot prospective bone injury, doing the same myself. Everything seemed to be functional.
I remember sitting outside someone’s home sipping plain soda. I remember hating the taste, but it was cold and I desperately needed to do something with my hands. I focused on the taste as it washed down the mud from my mouth. I faced away from her.
As I sat alone in some idiosyncratic peace, the memories flooded me with pure fear. I relived the incident again and again. I could feel my control giving up, as tears started pouring out. Fear is my only way of describing my state.
I saw her head, dragging against the ground with such force that only tatters of the helmet remained. Every time I saw the helmet, I feared for my life. All that while, my reflexes were the only grace that saved my life that day. Paranoia soon set in. I could feel the panic of the on coming shock attack. I had never been in shock. I faced away from everyone.
At that instant, my right hand decided to go numb. I couldn’t flex it with out excruciating pain. It exaggerated the panic. I started to weep like a baby for the fear of losing my right arm. My knee wound started becoming septic, as my knee revolted in pain. I hadn’t felt so much pain ever before. I could feel my whole face wet with tears. I needed comfort. Even amidst my best friends, I longed for another kind of comfort all together. I needed some one to hold me and hug me. I wanted to bawl without shame. I wanted everybody to know I was hurt and come to my aid. I was alone and afraid. I remember pitying myself. I couldn’t fathom how or why I was thinking about such mundane things. I wanted to snap out of it, but it felt too comfortable just thinking about the prospect of the men I loved being around at that instant.
Then I remember looking at my hand. I was moving my fingers and twitching my shoulders unknowingly. I wasn’t paralyzed. I put all my focus on myself. I felt her presence behind me, she was as hurt as I was, but more worried about me. I could feel her eyes on me. I knew she wanted to talk. I wanted to smile at her again. I felt angry at myself.
At that instant I knew something was truly important to me. Maybe it wouldn’t be my life’s motto, but at that moment it was everything I would live by.
I was important.
Here I was broken, and thinking about all the people I wanted around to pamper me, all the people who still didn’t care how close to death I was that day.
In my life, I have always given importance to things I can’t have. I have always run loops behind ideas that have only existed in my head and are in fact miles away from reality. Much of my trauma that day was self inflicted. It wasn’t the shortage of friends it was just the absence of the ones I had wanted there.
Not much of an insight from a near death Experience?!
I keep running it in my head over and over again. It seems to me that shock has robbed me of the most important second of my life.
Everything was going perfectly that day.
I remember turning to look for my cap. I remember turning back to say that I had spotted it.
I remember knowing that I was in the process of an accident. I remember not being scared, just confused. Falling felt almost comfortable. Time dilated as I felt every second of the swing as the bike began its side wards descent. I knew I wasn’t dying, my life didn’t flash before me. I think I let go of the bike and held her for a second. She wouldn’t let the handles go. All rationality required letting go of the swiftly skidding bike. I think I remember jumping off. Years of sports had harnessed my reflexes. I should have rolled and then skidded over to the middle of the road if my wounds are to be trusted. I remember looking over while skidding. The bike was on top of her as she skid on the road as well, headfirst. I remember thinking about her helmet. I remember knowing that I didn’t have one. I had to save my face. Almost instantly I pulled my head, with all my weight on my right hand and knee. I remember scraping against gravel and hot road as I came to a stop. I remember breathing in dust and tasting salty stones.
I saw the sunglasses my dad had gifted me. I remember wanting to cry. I couldn’t reach for them just yet. I looked back and saw her head exposed to oncoming traffic. Instinctively, I reached out and pulled her head aside. I felt stupid as people started to crowd. I wanted them all to go away. I didn’t feel hurt.
Her helmet was cracked in two like a flimsy egg shell. She was bleeding from her forehead. The sight of blood jerked me back to reality. There wasn’t any water to clean the wound. I remember thanking the helmet in my mind. Surprisingly I didn’t think of god or family. I remembered having no first aid for the first time in my life. I wanted to cry again. She kept looking at me. It was just the two of us there. Everybody else was silent noise. I knew I needed to say something to snap her out of her shock but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything.
I think I smiled. I don’t know why I smiled, but I knew that she would understand what I wanted to convey. She smiled back.
I didn’t know if I was hurt. Actually, I don’t remember feeling anything at that instant. I was just brazenly calm. Somehow, I remembered first aid checks. I asked her to move her hands and feet, to spot prospective bone injury, doing the same myself. Everything seemed to be functional.
I remember sitting outside someone’s home sipping plain soda. I remember hating the taste, but it was cold and I desperately needed to do something with my hands. I focused on the taste as it washed down the mud from my mouth. I faced away from her.
As I sat alone in some idiosyncratic peace, the memories flooded me with pure fear. I relived the incident again and again. I could feel my control giving up, as tears started pouring out. Fear is my only way of describing my state.
I saw her head, dragging against the ground with such force that only tatters of the helmet remained. Every time I saw the helmet, I feared for my life. All that while, my reflexes were the only grace that saved my life that day. Paranoia soon set in. I could feel the panic of the on coming shock attack. I had never been in shock. I faced away from everyone.
At that instant, my right hand decided to go numb. I couldn’t flex it with out excruciating pain. It exaggerated the panic. I started to weep like a baby for the fear of losing my right arm. My knee wound started becoming septic, as my knee revolted in pain. I hadn’t felt so much pain ever before. I could feel my whole face wet with tears. I needed comfort. Even amidst my best friends, I longed for another kind of comfort all together. I needed some one to hold me and hug me. I wanted to bawl without shame. I wanted everybody to know I was hurt and come to my aid. I was alone and afraid. I remember pitying myself. I couldn’t fathom how or why I was thinking about such mundane things. I wanted to snap out of it, but it felt too comfortable just thinking about the prospect of the men I loved being around at that instant.
Then I remember looking at my hand. I was moving my fingers and twitching my shoulders unknowingly. I wasn’t paralyzed. I put all my focus on myself. I felt her presence behind me, she was as hurt as I was, but more worried about me. I could feel her eyes on me. I knew she wanted to talk. I wanted to smile at her again. I felt angry at myself.
At that instant I knew something was truly important to me. Maybe it wouldn’t be my life’s motto, but at that moment it was everything I would live by.
I was important.
Here I was broken, and thinking about all the people I wanted around to pamper me, all the people who still didn’t care how close to death I was that day.
In my life, I have always given importance to things I can’t have. I have always run loops behind ideas that have only existed in my head and are in fact miles away from reality. Much of my trauma that day was self inflicted. It wasn’t the shortage of friends it was just the absence of the ones I had wanted there.
Not much of an insight from a near death Experience?!
Friday, January 22, 2010
The Castle I loved
*(Think of the castle as a burning Cigarette)
I was in love.
I was in love with the magnificent fortress that lay entrenched in the dirty snow atop the steep muddy cliff of ‘PALL MALL’. The cliff itself was branded by the imperial symbol of its sovereign, showing two regal lions pawing the sides and a knight's helmet on top. The inside of the shield read "Per aspera ad Astra” or "Through hardships to the stars". The banner underneath the shield held another Latin phrase, "In hoc signo vinces” or "By this sign shall you conquer".
A fiery orange castle lay gently enclosed within grey fragile dusty rocks of the fortress. It burned poignantly with purpose. Bright golden flames episodically paved way for the pensive yet potent ‘orange’ of dormancy.
As the smoke blew, the incinerating orange allowed itself to be consumed by the grey rocky crust, extinguishing into oblivion, apparently having served its purpose.
The ‘modus operandi’ made the castle even more intimidating.
It called to me with promises of fantasy and fulfillment. Its blistering eye was menacing yet inviting.
I was in love.
It spoke to me, inviting my lips to a sweet release. I closed my eyes and smooth fumes enervated my body. I saw its burning heart crackling ablaze within the magma. As I neared it, pungent smoke filled my lungs. It hit my brain and then my heart. Closing my eyes I felt my brain dissolve into oblivion as my heart fell into a quiet abyss.
I was in love.
It gave me bliss, as I slowly sucked its life away.
The castle aged.
Burning deep and slow it soon fell from its magnificence till it was only but a shack. Its luster was lost along with the passion in its eye. It still burned, though dimly, with purpose. On some starless nights, its embers still glowed, resting yet robust.
As my life passed, I saw the dilapidated castle again. It was small and fading, burnt and thrashed to the ground. As the skies wept and icy waters flooded the gates, its dying embers silently cried themselves into a morbid gray. I heard it fizzle. It was the scream of protest. Of pain and death.
As the castle lay engulfed with its life extinguished, I thought of unconditional love. I thought of commitment and fulfillment and I thought of guilt.
I had killed it slowly, feeding my needs with every breath. Now withered it lay vanquished. A life worthwhile now dismissed.
I was in love.
I was in love with the magnificent fortress that lay entrenched in the dirty snow atop the steep muddy cliff of ‘PALL MALL’. The cliff itself was branded by the imperial symbol of its sovereign, showing two regal lions pawing the sides and a knight's helmet on top. The inside of the shield read "Per aspera ad Astra” or "Through hardships to the stars". The banner underneath the shield held another Latin phrase, "In hoc signo vinces” or "By this sign shall you conquer".
A fiery orange castle lay gently enclosed within grey fragile dusty rocks of the fortress. It burned poignantly with purpose. Bright golden flames episodically paved way for the pensive yet potent ‘orange’ of dormancy.
As the smoke blew, the incinerating orange allowed itself to be consumed by the grey rocky crust, extinguishing into oblivion, apparently having served its purpose.
The ‘modus operandi’ made the castle even more intimidating.
It called to me with promises of fantasy and fulfillment. Its blistering eye was menacing yet inviting.
I was in love.
It spoke to me, inviting my lips to a sweet release. I closed my eyes and smooth fumes enervated my body. I saw its burning heart crackling ablaze within the magma. As I neared it, pungent smoke filled my lungs. It hit my brain and then my heart. Closing my eyes I felt my brain dissolve into oblivion as my heart fell into a quiet abyss.
I was in love.
It gave me bliss, as I slowly sucked its life away.
The castle aged.
Burning deep and slow it soon fell from its magnificence till it was only but a shack. Its luster was lost along with the passion in its eye. It still burned, though dimly, with purpose. On some starless nights, its embers still glowed, resting yet robust.
As my life passed, I saw the dilapidated castle again. It was small and fading, burnt and thrashed to the ground. As the skies wept and icy waters flooded the gates, its dying embers silently cried themselves into a morbid gray. I heard it fizzle. It was the scream of protest. Of pain and death.
As the castle lay engulfed with its life extinguished, I thought of unconditional love. I thought of commitment and fulfillment and I thought of guilt.
I had killed it slowly, feeding my needs with every breath. Now withered it lay vanquished. A life worthwhile now dismissed.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Neon butterflies and Gingerbread Windows
Outlined world, the colour bleeding out,
a leg on my arm, many heads on their limbs.
As smooth hair tickles my bald lips,
my cheeks betray their infidelity.
As long and coarse, as grainy and salted,
engraved lines are drawn to deceive.
A whistle announces time; a silence follows the stampede.
It comes to crash, and then to whirl,
shiny polka dots on the ripped expanse.
The draped and dressed window, my horizon,
it outlines my existence, my world in multitudes of two.
It’s symmetry sacrosanct, so sustained.
The reality of the salty flesh dawns,
as gray light chips into my reason,
as the great mist surrounds, I fear to reach out, I close my eyes.
The gray disappears, the black comfort returns,
it flickers till I am strong again.
The stereo eye singing softly, my pupils dilate the limbs around me.
Digging up sand, burying my feet,
Inhaling divinity, residual yet potent,
my eyes burn and lips cry, I reach out for the smoke.
It engulfs me, I swirl I spin, I never breathe.
A big shiny coin, almost transparent,
conically extrapolates reality.
I touch its glass, it holds to linger,
It’s wetness invites my parched insides.
Rolling in a pool of transparent blood,
it smells potent and burns my throat,
My eyes cry, the cry of fire,
My body grieves my losing life.
I look up to a long palm, reaching out to the sky,
white stubby fingers, no opposable thumbs.
It hits a surface as I stand and stumble,
on that palm reality now defines.
I crawl to gravity, on smooth cold ripples,
gray and hard, they never end.
I think of steel and then of the night,
Of yellow yolk covered in gray.
I see limbs; they now have heads,
their shadows obstruct the bleeding lights.
My body grunts as I drag against the wind,
stillness awaits, I no longer breathe divine.
He stands insidious, in an insipid life,
bled out colours, drained unfilled.
Dying embers carpet his authority,
slow and menacing, he commands the night.
I now see his putrid life, his ugly sinister fiery eyes,
I am betrayed, I am defied.
I see him and I am steered in high tide,
tears flood me as I sink.
Thrown by physical manifestations of grief,
my dying life, I no longer search.
As reality unveils, I crawl feebly on embers,
Capturing, that last whiff of psychedelic dream.
Neon butterflies and gingerbread windows,
Outlined and bleeding, I dream my episodic life.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
/*Brief Expl:
(1 : I wake up with people around me...sloshed n asleep...over each other...Someone’s sandy hair is on my face, it has left a mark on my cheeks.
2 : I hear the guard whistle...the sound changes to waves crashing..I don know where I am...I look up n see stars through my eyes..I admire the symmetry of my window, my window is my set of decorated eyes.
3 : I taste my salty lips and try and open my eyes, it seems as though some 1 is chipping their way in..Its not bright...there is grey light around..but its smoky so i close my eyes again and attempt to open them again n again till I finally do...I can hear music and see hands and feet all over...
4 : The room is filled with residual smoke...it is potent enough..I try not to inhale any more
5 : I see the coin shaped base of a shot glass...it takes me some time to figure out the cone shaped glass surrounded by alcohol which burns my throat..i then describe my feet as i stand on them
6 : I crawl down stairs, people brush past me...
7 : 'he' refers to the last 'joint')
*\
a leg on my arm, many heads on their limbs.
As smooth hair tickles my bald lips,
my cheeks betray their infidelity.
As long and coarse, as grainy and salted,
engraved lines are drawn to deceive.
A whistle announces time; a silence follows the stampede.
It comes to crash, and then to whirl,
shiny polka dots on the ripped expanse.
The draped and dressed window, my horizon,
it outlines my existence, my world in multitudes of two.
It’s symmetry sacrosanct, so sustained.
The reality of the salty flesh dawns,
as gray light chips into my reason,
as the great mist surrounds, I fear to reach out, I close my eyes.
The gray disappears, the black comfort returns,
it flickers till I am strong again.
The stereo eye singing softly, my pupils dilate the limbs around me.
Digging up sand, burying my feet,
Inhaling divinity, residual yet potent,
my eyes burn and lips cry, I reach out for the smoke.
It engulfs me, I swirl I spin, I never breathe.
A big shiny coin, almost transparent,
conically extrapolates reality.
I touch its glass, it holds to linger,
It’s wetness invites my parched insides.
Rolling in a pool of transparent blood,
it smells potent and burns my throat,
My eyes cry, the cry of fire,
My body grieves my losing life.
I look up to a long palm, reaching out to the sky,
white stubby fingers, no opposable thumbs.
It hits a surface as I stand and stumble,
on that palm reality now defines.
I crawl to gravity, on smooth cold ripples,
gray and hard, they never end.
I think of steel and then of the night,
Of yellow yolk covered in gray.
I see limbs; they now have heads,
their shadows obstruct the bleeding lights.
My body grunts as I drag against the wind,
stillness awaits, I no longer breathe divine.
He stands insidious, in an insipid life,
bled out colours, drained unfilled.
Dying embers carpet his authority,
slow and menacing, he commands the night.
I now see his putrid life, his ugly sinister fiery eyes,
I am betrayed, I am defied.
I see him and I am steered in high tide,
tears flood me as I sink.
Thrown by physical manifestations of grief,
my dying life, I no longer search.
As reality unveils, I crawl feebly on embers,
Capturing, that last whiff of psychedelic dream.
Neon butterflies and gingerbread windows,
Outlined and bleeding, I dream my episodic life.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
/*Brief Expl:
(1 : I wake up with people around me...sloshed n asleep...over each other...Someone’s sandy hair is on my face, it has left a mark on my cheeks.
2 : I hear the guard whistle...the sound changes to waves crashing..I don know where I am...I look up n see stars through my eyes..I admire the symmetry of my window, my window is my set of decorated eyes.
3 : I taste my salty lips and try and open my eyes, it seems as though some 1 is chipping their way in..Its not bright...there is grey light around..but its smoky so i close my eyes again and attempt to open them again n again till I finally do...I can hear music and see hands and feet all over...
4 : The room is filled with residual smoke...it is potent enough..I try not to inhale any more
5 : I see the coin shaped base of a shot glass...it takes me some time to figure out the cone shaped glass surrounded by alcohol which burns my throat..i then describe my feet as i stand on them
6 : I crawl down stairs, people brush past me...
7 : 'he' refers to the last 'joint')
*\
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
My 'Read before Dying'
(*)- Have Read/ Am Reading/ Possess, but waiting for Death to near.
1. Tales of Belkin and other prose writings – Pushkin (*)
2. The Bell Jar- Sylvia Plath (*)
3. The unabridged journals of Sylvia Plath (*)
4. In search of lost time- Marcel Proust (Swann's Way*)
5. War and Peace + Anna Karenina (*)- Leo Tolstoy
6. The Crimson Petal And The White- Michel Faber (*)
7. 100 years of solitude + Love in the Time of Cholera – Gabriel García Márquez (*)
8. Dead Souls- Gogol (*)
9. The Scarlet Letter- Nathaniel Hawthorne
10. Rebecca- Daphne Du Maurier (*)
11. Catcher in the Rye- J.D. Salinger (*)
12. Atlas Shrugged- Ayn Rand (*)
13. Heart of Darkness- Joseph Conrad
14. The Golden Notebook- Doris Lessing (*)
15. Portrait of a Lady- Henry James (*)
16. Bobbed Hair And Bathtub Gin- Marion Meade (*)
17. Emile Zola*
18. Napoleon- Frank Mclynn (*)
19. Life of Pi- Yann Martel (*)
20. Sula- Toni Morrison (*)
21. Midnight's Children – Salman Rushdie (*)
22. Ethics- Benedict De Spinoza
23. Hunchback of Notre Dame- Victor Hugo (*)
24. Crime and Punishment + The Brothers Karamazov (*)- Fyodor Dostoyevsky
25. The Collected Stories Of Eudora Welty (*) + The Optimist's Daughter- Eudora Welty
26. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius- Dave Eggers (*)
27. The Iliad + Odyssey (*)- Homer
28. Madame Bovary- Gustave Flaubert
30. The sound and the fury- William Faulkner (*)
31. Tender Is The Night- Scott F. Fitzerald (*)
32. The Book of Mormon
33. The Perks Of Being A Wallflower- Stephen Chbosky
34. Memoirs Of A Dutiful Daughter- Simone De Beauvoir
35. Year Of Magical Thinking- Joan Didion (*)
36. Joseph and His Brothers- Thomas Mann
37. Running With Scissors- Augusten Burroughs
38. Buddenbrooks (*) + Magic Mountain- Thomas Mann
39. The Life of Reason- George Santayana
40. Lust For Life- Irving Stone
NOT INCLUDING SHAKESPEARE, SHORT STORIES AND THE OBVIOUS CLASSICS (Dickens, Bronte, Thomas Hardy, Austen, Twain, Oscar Wilde, Hemingway, etc.)!
1. Tales of Belkin and other prose writings – Pushkin (*)
2. The Bell Jar- Sylvia Plath (*)
3. The unabridged journals of Sylvia Plath (*)
4. In search of lost time- Marcel Proust (Swann's Way*)
5. War and Peace + Anna Karenina (*)- Leo Tolstoy
6. The Crimson Petal And The White- Michel Faber (*)
7. 100 years of solitude + Love in the Time of Cholera – Gabriel García Márquez (*)
8. Dead Souls- Gogol (*)
9. The Scarlet Letter- Nathaniel Hawthorne
10. Rebecca- Daphne Du Maurier (*)
11. Catcher in the Rye- J.D. Salinger (*)
12. Atlas Shrugged- Ayn Rand (*)
13. Heart of Darkness- Joseph Conrad
14. The Golden Notebook- Doris Lessing (*)
15. Portrait of a Lady- Henry James (*)
16. Bobbed Hair And Bathtub Gin- Marion Meade (*)
17. Emile Zola*
18. Napoleon- Frank Mclynn (*)
19. Life of Pi- Yann Martel (*)
20. Sula- Toni Morrison (*)
21. Midnight's Children – Salman Rushdie (*)
22. Ethics- Benedict De Spinoza
23. Hunchback of Notre Dame- Victor Hugo (*)
24. Crime and Punishment + The Brothers Karamazov (*)- Fyodor Dostoyevsky
25. The Collected Stories Of Eudora Welty (*) + The Optimist's Daughter- Eudora Welty
26. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius- Dave Eggers (*)
27. The Iliad + Odyssey (*)- Homer
28. Madame Bovary- Gustave Flaubert
30. The sound and the fury- William Faulkner (*)
31. Tender Is The Night- Scott F. Fitzerald (*)
32. The Book of Mormon
33. The Perks Of Being A Wallflower- Stephen Chbosky
34. Memoirs Of A Dutiful Daughter- Simone De Beauvoir
35. Year Of Magical Thinking- Joan Didion (*)
36. Joseph and His Brothers- Thomas Mann
37. Running With Scissors- Augusten Burroughs
38. Buddenbrooks (*) + Magic Mountain- Thomas Mann
39. The Life of Reason- George Santayana
40. Lust For Life- Irving Stone
NOT INCLUDING SHAKESPEARE, SHORT STORIES AND THE OBVIOUS CLASSICS (Dickens, Bronte, Thomas Hardy, Austen, Twain, Oscar Wilde, Hemingway, etc.)!
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Culs-de-sac
Its one of those times, you hear a word, Move Mountains to find its meaning and it is so worth your efforts that you decide to write an entire article on it!
Culs-de-sac (plural of Cul-de-sac), a French word implying ‘dead ends’.
My state of mind right now is an inextricable ordeal. When you have repeated failures you know exactly where your life is heading.
The surety of impending disappointment and destruction of all that creation has in store for you is daunting yet comforting in an odd way.
The tribulation begins when you suddenly have a brief stint with success. You can not gauge your life and your dreams are exaggerated by your delirious disposition.
For a little while you assume the role of a winner. You believe in yourself and optimism, the word.
You then apply your mind to other things that are going wrong in your life in a vain attempt to rub some of the winner luck onto them.
You fail.
You now assume that it was a small failure and blame it on what people call procrastination or lack of hard work on your part. You are still stubborn enough to try victory at other areas of your failed life.
You fail again.
You start to think, even doubt your temperament a little. But you go fishing again!
...
...
...
And it’s now that you realize that your life repudiates the success you want to define it to be.
You might as well change your definitions.
Now you repent. You even unleash the occasional fury upon whoever let you have that successful stint in the first place.
How predictable life is with failures.
So tranquil that it almost seems successful….
Culs-de-sac (plural of Cul-de-sac), a French word implying ‘dead ends’.
My state of mind right now is an inextricable ordeal. When you have repeated failures you know exactly where your life is heading.
The surety of impending disappointment and destruction of all that creation has in store for you is daunting yet comforting in an odd way.
The tribulation begins when you suddenly have a brief stint with success. You can not gauge your life and your dreams are exaggerated by your delirious disposition.
For a little while you assume the role of a winner. You believe in yourself and optimism, the word.
You then apply your mind to other things that are going wrong in your life in a vain attempt to rub some of the winner luck onto them.
You fail.
You now assume that it was a small failure and blame it on what people call procrastination or lack of hard work on your part. You are still stubborn enough to try victory at other areas of your failed life.
You fail again.
You start to think, even doubt your temperament a little. But you go fishing again!
...
...
...
And it’s now that you realize that your life repudiates the success you want to define it to be.
You might as well change your definitions.
Now you repent. You even unleash the occasional fury upon whoever let you have that successful stint in the first place.
How predictable life is with failures.
So tranquil that it almost seems successful….
Friday, November 06, 2009
Morphing into machines?
"We’d be so less fragile
If we’re made from metal
And our hearts from iron
And our minds from steel
And if we built an armor
For our tender bodies
Could we love each other
Would we stop to feel…"
Accepting an argument succumbing us to a life as machines would be paying heed to the hypothesis that the human mind could ever create something as complicated as itself. Not only is it a paradox but also an absurd concept.
Let me tell you something about the human mind. We assume that the mind like our body is finite . The day we die, our mind disintegrates. We often define humanity in the physical finite sense which is the greatest contradiction.
The mind is what makes us human. The fact is in due time, the mind will find a way to preserve it self. Refrigeration in super critical conditions is an onset to what miracles are to come. Once the mind does that, it allows for the infinite to finally occur and give definition to itself.
Have you ever wondered why is it, that man is so bent on creating eternity for himself? Visualize this. Our brains are another superior world enslaving our bodies. The only purpose of the body is to assist the brain in creating other physical structures that might be able to out live the body that the brain currently occupies. The day our brains succeed in creating that physical being, there will be an end to the era of the human body! The time is not far away, when there will be a world, not inhabited by any man or machine, but by an array of brains and intelligence.
So I do believe that the human mind can conjure up, in time, a machine that will not only make the use of touch obsolete, but also end the era of instruction dependence on sensory organs of humans. This will be the birth of our minds controlling machines (the penultimate stage to the total brain reign).
So the paradox is, what do you define as human?
Maybe as we near the era of machines we aren’t a step further, but in fact a step closer to defining what humanity really is, devoid of its physical limitations!
If we’re made from metal
And our hearts from iron
And our minds from steel
And if we built an armor
For our tender bodies
Could we love each other
Would we stop to feel…"
Accepting an argument succumbing us to a life as machines would be paying heed to the hypothesis that the human mind could ever create something as complicated as itself. Not only is it a paradox but also an absurd concept.
Let me tell you something about the human mind. We assume that the mind like our body is finite . The day we die, our mind disintegrates. We often define humanity in the physical finite sense which is the greatest contradiction.
The mind is what makes us human. The fact is in due time, the mind will find a way to preserve it self. Refrigeration in super critical conditions is an onset to what miracles are to come. Once the mind does that, it allows for the infinite to finally occur and give definition to itself.
Have you ever wondered why is it, that man is so bent on creating eternity for himself? Visualize this. Our brains are another superior world enslaving our bodies. The only purpose of the body is to assist the brain in creating other physical structures that might be able to out live the body that the brain currently occupies. The day our brains succeed in creating that physical being, there will be an end to the era of the human body! The time is not far away, when there will be a world, not inhabited by any man or machine, but by an array of brains and intelligence.
So I do believe that the human mind can conjure up, in time, a machine that will not only make the use of touch obsolete, but also end the era of instruction dependence on sensory organs of humans. This will be the birth of our minds controlling machines (the penultimate stage to the total brain reign).
So the paradox is, what do you define as human?
Maybe as we near the era of machines we aren’t a step further, but in fact a step closer to defining what humanity really is, devoid of its physical limitations!
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Chronicles of the Psychedelic Reality VOL 1: My MUSINGS ON GRASS Chapter 3
Its night, but the sky has a mind of its own…
It isn’t black with stars, today it is blue, gray white with ripples like an ocean!
I want to see it and take it in…
Suddenly it seems painted and static…
Now I am falling to it...but now I am stuck mid way, hanging…almost able to touch it…I can almost feel the canvas, the oil colors, uneven surface...its rough but smooth...its like i am touching plaster of Paris...it isn't wet..i can taste the colors...the blues are cold...i can feel my cold breath...i want to breath with my mouth for sometime...the clouds are moving now, it seems someone dropped water on the painting and its trickling down…but its slow…very slow, maybe their gravity is lower than ours…
Now it looks like a sea..I can see a ship sinking in a whirlpool..
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
The sky has changed now...My sky is punctured…I seem wrapped in silver foil with a tiny opening…or am I in a pressure cooker?
Is god a cook? That’s demeaning; he should be more than jus one talent.
Has he been feeding us with food and knowledge just to make us juicy enough for dinner?
Alien abductions are god’s way of checking if the food is done!! Pick up one person, lick and put back…those who are done comprise of the unexplained disappearances!
Our days are spent in his microwave and our nights in his fridge and the rest of the time on the table…probably thawing!
Earthquakes are his moving us and rains are condensing water droplets on the cooker lid! (at least humans got the condensation part right!)
God doesn’t buy new food…quite the miser.
Or maybe we are in an egg…some one punctured a tiny hole in us and broke the sides... we are still fetal but can see outside through the hole…the clouds are the cell fluid (was it cytoplasm?), protecting us. Everyday some one comes to check inside the egg with a torch and moves the torch around from our east to west. Maybe they don’t have randomness in their world.
The clouds are covering the moon now…are we healing?
It isn’t black with stars, today it is blue, gray white with ripples like an ocean!
I want to see it and take it in…
Suddenly it seems painted and static…
Now I am falling to it...but now I am stuck mid way, hanging…almost able to touch it…I can almost feel the canvas, the oil colors, uneven surface...its rough but smooth...its like i am touching plaster of Paris...it isn't wet..i can taste the colors...the blues are cold...i can feel my cold breath...i want to breath with my mouth for sometime...the clouds are moving now, it seems someone dropped water on the painting and its trickling down…but its slow…very slow, maybe their gravity is lower than ours…
Now it looks like a sea..I can see a ship sinking in a whirlpool..
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
The sky has changed now...My sky is punctured…I seem wrapped in silver foil with a tiny opening…or am I in a pressure cooker?
Is god a cook? That’s demeaning; he should be more than jus one talent.
Has he been feeding us with food and knowledge just to make us juicy enough for dinner?
Alien abductions are god’s way of checking if the food is done!! Pick up one person, lick and put back…those who are done comprise of the unexplained disappearances!
Our days are spent in his microwave and our nights in his fridge and the rest of the time on the table…probably thawing!
Earthquakes are his moving us and rains are condensing water droplets on the cooker lid! (at least humans got the condensation part right!)
God doesn’t buy new food…quite the miser.
Or maybe we are in an egg…some one punctured a tiny hole in us and broke the sides... we are still fetal but can see outside through the hole…the clouds are the cell fluid (was it cytoplasm?), protecting us. Everyday some one comes to check inside the egg with a torch and moves the torch around from our east to west. Maybe they don’t have randomness in their world.
The clouds are covering the moon now…are we healing?
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Chronicles of the Psychedelic Reality VOL 1: My MUSINGS ON GRASS Chapter 2
My reality, déjà vu and schizophrenia
Mental reality is faster than its physical counterpart.
I have traveled and lived all the physical potential I might have in this world. Visiting choices in my mind, I have experienced them indefinitely. Whatever my world has shown me, I have used to create multiple lives for my self, with infinite possibilities.
My physical body though, can only follow one reality.
At any present moment I send my mind in all directions to explore the infinite. But, as my body and mind are connected, my body is compelled to choose one of these directions to follow. It makes its choice on the basis of its environment and treads the most appealing path.
My body needs to meet up with my mind in some space to impart the necessary impulse for the mind to take off again. When my two realities (mental n physical) meet, they create an unimaginable yet veritable phenomenon. That’s déjà vu.
They are usually very mild and I don’t feel them in my life often, but some times when my reality (mental and physical) comes dangerously close to another mental possibility that did not take place, my reality is shaken and then the déjà vu is strongly felt!
Contrary to what I used to believe, my mind and body are co related. The mind is dependent on the body to follow and give life to possibility and create reality, while my body needs my mind to rush ahead and explore my choices and their implications.
If some day, my body decides that it doesn’t want to follow any mental possibility and refuses to move, my physical reality will come in contact with mental realities of other worlds around me and be crushed, making me believe in events that haven’t and will not exist.…
That is what people will call ‘schizophrenia’!
Mental reality is faster than its physical counterpart.
I have traveled and lived all the physical potential I might have in this world. Visiting choices in my mind, I have experienced them indefinitely. Whatever my world has shown me, I have used to create multiple lives for my self, with infinite possibilities.
My physical body though, can only follow one reality.
At any present moment I send my mind in all directions to explore the infinite. But, as my body and mind are connected, my body is compelled to choose one of these directions to follow. It makes its choice on the basis of its environment and treads the most appealing path.
My body needs to meet up with my mind in some space to impart the necessary impulse for the mind to take off again. When my two realities (mental n physical) meet, they create an unimaginable yet veritable phenomenon. That’s déjà vu.
They are usually very mild and I don’t feel them in my life often, but some times when my reality (mental and physical) comes dangerously close to another mental possibility that did not take place, my reality is shaken and then the déjà vu is strongly felt!
Contrary to what I used to believe, my mind and body are co related. The mind is dependent on the body to follow and give life to possibility and create reality, while my body needs my mind to rush ahead and explore my choices and their implications.
If some day, my body decides that it doesn’t want to follow any mental possibility and refuses to move, my physical reality will come in contact with mental realities of other worlds around me and be crushed, making me believe in events that haven’t and will not exist.…
That is what people will call ‘schizophrenia’!
Monday, November 02, 2009
Chronicles of the Psychedelic Reality VOL 1: MUSINGS ON GRASS Chapter 1
God, the Physicist
Consider a tree. Assume that the system of leaves, twigs and trunk isn’t what it appears to be. Maybe god wanted to save space and energy, so he made reality on both sides of the ground. The system of leaves and branches for us is their underground system of roots and our sky is their soil! They breathe dust and worship the core. They bathe in hot lava rivers and sleep in bright yellow nights. They are not people but they aren’t any less either.
When people die in our world, we bury them or their ashes are washed away, their bodies disintegrating into the ground mixed with our crust slowly pass over to the other side and are recreated in the world beneath our feet. Similarly, energies that are extinguished there are ‘born’ here in our world.
Death seemed like gods blunder to me. The energy of our life and soul never appeared recreated. Our infinite essence vanished with the limitations of our body.
But I guess god defines our ‘surrounding’ differently. It’s a balance between this world and the one beneath. Energies are conserved when both are taken into consideration.
And hence we finally explain what we assumed to be creation’s biggest paradox
Consider a tree. Assume that the system of leaves, twigs and trunk isn’t what it appears to be. Maybe god wanted to save space and energy, so he made reality on both sides of the ground. The system of leaves and branches for us is their underground system of roots and our sky is their soil! They breathe dust and worship the core. They bathe in hot lava rivers and sleep in bright yellow nights. They are not people but they aren’t any less either.
When people die in our world, we bury them or their ashes are washed away, their bodies disintegrating into the ground mixed with our crust slowly pass over to the other side and are recreated in the world beneath our feet. Similarly, energies that are extinguished there are ‘born’ here in our world.
Death seemed like gods blunder to me. The energy of our life and soul never appeared recreated. Our infinite essence vanished with the limitations of our body.
But I guess god defines our ‘surrounding’ differently. It’s a balance between this world and the one beneath. Energies are conserved when both are taken into consideration.
And hence we finally explain what we assumed to be creation’s biggest paradox
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
She used to be Her
I look back in adulation, to a person that used to be,
In love and enough for herself,
Her living, a simple point,
Her life, an unfathomable digress.
I look back at her untouched,
Unclaimed by her own
Other sides to her haven’t unfolded yet,
The complications have yet to set in.
I want to warn her, the leap,
Save her from her present loathing,
For all she blames her life to be,
Is that one decision that wrecked all in it.
In love and enough for herself,
Her living, a simple point,
Her life, an unfathomable digress.
I look back at her untouched,
Unclaimed by her own
Other sides to her haven’t unfolded yet,
The complications have yet to set in.
I want to warn her, the leap,
Save her from her present loathing,
For all she blames her life to be,
Is that one decision that wrecked all in it.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
“So full of artless jealousy is guilt. It spills itself in fearing to be spilt”
I believe there is a theory that men and women emerge finer and stronger after suffering, and that to experience life in its totality, we must endure that ordeal. Only then do we emerge fully aware of our actions and their motivation.
Misery brings out the honesty in people. Honesty we can only feign, never having experienced our worst.
My agony stems from jealousy, the origin of which is unknown even to me.
I do believe insecurity, about my ‘competence at living’, might be a factor, but I am yet to define’ competence’ and ‘life’, and it might just be “ a tale told by an idiot, full of fury, signifying nothing.”
Giving tribute where it is deserved, envy has been my constant companion in ennui and otherwise.
It might just be a poor whim of my fancy or a powerful tool, an antagonism, emancipating me from bitterness and futility.
Envy had come into her own and, little by little, in her stealthy, seductive way had encroached upon my being with long, tenacious fingers.
“Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.”
One might pronounce this absurdly tragic but being quintessentially promiscuous, ‘happiness’ is not a possession to be prized. It faintly implies tranquility and thereby demands resistance.
We live beneath the mercy of drama. We are yet to exist because of it though.
I don’t seem virtuous, but I do seem parasitic.
“Assume a virtue, if you have it not…
And thus I clothe my naked villainy With old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ And seem a saint, when most I play the devil”
Insidious as it may sound; my ‘villainy’ inspires my ingenuity. I do not feign indifference, my misery infuriates me, but I relish the pain.
My life, from all that I can decipher, craves drama. It yearns for that one masterpiece my mind might conjecture.
To loathe myself in the frivolity of my thoughts would be to redefine ‘living’. I wouldn’t be the furious ‘idiot’ and I wouldn’t be guilty of spite. But then, I would be insipid and mundane, falling in equality. Living in mediocrity aspiring for only love, my seduction slowly, slipping away.
But to even think of change implies infidelity. So what am I guiltier of? Not staying true to my character or adorning one whose mere existence demands penitence?
My envy is my Hamlet.
“So full of artless jealousy is guilt. It spills itself in fearing to be spilt”.
Misery brings out the honesty in people. Honesty we can only feign, never having experienced our worst.
My agony stems from jealousy, the origin of which is unknown even to me.
I do believe insecurity, about my ‘competence at living’, might be a factor, but I am yet to define’ competence’ and ‘life’, and it might just be “ a tale told by an idiot, full of fury, signifying nothing.”
Giving tribute where it is deserved, envy has been my constant companion in ennui and otherwise.
It might just be a poor whim of my fancy or a powerful tool, an antagonism, emancipating me from bitterness and futility.
Envy had come into her own and, little by little, in her stealthy, seductive way had encroached upon my being with long, tenacious fingers.
“Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.”
One might pronounce this absurdly tragic but being quintessentially promiscuous, ‘happiness’ is not a possession to be prized. It faintly implies tranquility and thereby demands resistance.
We live beneath the mercy of drama. We are yet to exist because of it though.
I don’t seem virtuous, but I do seem parasitic.
“Assume a virtue, if you have it not…
And thus I clothe my naked villainy With old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ And seem a saint, when most I play the devil”
Insidious as it may sound; my ‘villainy’ inspires my ingenuity. I do not feign indifference, my misery infuriates me, but I relish the pain.
My life, from all that I can decipher, craves drama. It yearns for that one masterpiece my mind might conjecture.
To loathe myself in the frivolity of my thoughts would be to redefine ‘living’. I wouldn’t be the furious ‘idiot’ and I wouldn’t be guilty of spite. But then, I would be insipid and mundane, falling in equality. Living in mediocrity aspiring for only love, my seduction slowly, slipping away.
But to even think of change implies infidelity. So what am I guiltier of? Not staying true to my character or adorning one whose mere existence demands penitence?
My envy is my Hamlet.
“So full of artless jealousy is guilt. It spills itself in fearing to be spilt”.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Roots and wings.
Sublime in my efforts, I beckon my wings,
My erudition to shelter my honest attempts,
I wasn’t born with feathers, or the authority to dream,
Nor with the conviction of the sky, as my limit.
Yet I would marvel in proclivity and resolve,
The endless possibilities of life, in flight.
My disposition is humble, that of a leaf.
A part of many, which complete a tree.
Caught in the middle, held by a cord,
I alone am irrelevant, dead by dawn.
The strings of my existence, grounded in my roots
My freedom would be a struggle, falling further to soot.
My dreams exaggerate when a bird brushes past me,
Swiftly with purpose, yet aimless digress.
What a life it would be, to glide freely in the wind,
The possibility of twisting, observing the world round by,
And maybe a bird would catch me by the beak,
Soaring above rocks, diving into seas.
These wings I have made, with blood and broil.
Nights of yearning, days glazed in pine.
Maybe that fall, would break me by my stem,
Maybe into oblivion, to dust I would melt.
Or maybe this miracle, to my end it would be,
Though short-lived, my one escapade.
My erudition to shelter my honest attempts,
I wasn’t born with feathers, or the authority to dream,
Nor with the conviction of the sky, as my limit.
Yet I would marvel in proclivity and resolve,
The endless possibilities of life, in flight.
My disposition is humble, that of a leaf.
A part of many, which complete a tree.
Caught in the middle, held by a cord,
I alone am irrelevant, dead by dawn.
The strings of my existence, grounded in my roots
My freedom would be a struggle, falling further to soot.
My dreams exaggerate when a bird brushes past me,
Swiftly with purpose, yet aimless digress.
What a life it would be, to glide freely in the wind,
The possibility of twisting, observing the world round by,
And maybe a bird would catch me by the beak,
Soaring above rocks, diving into seas.
These wings I have made, with blood and broil.
Nights of yearning, days glazed in pine.
Maybe that fall, would break me by my stem,
Maybe into oblivion, to dust I would melt.
Or maybe this miracle, to my end it would be,
Though short-lived, my one escapade.
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