Remembering S & P

We are attempting to resurrect a dreamy and drunk artist here. One for whom love, agony, happiness and misery are just excuses for maintaining eternal loneliness. This silent turmoil dims his intellect and dampens his heart, usurping the place reserved for great joy and sadness. At times, it seemed that one of the two spirits within him had, in the end, emerged victorious, leaving the other behind, and that he'd finally forgotten that silent and loveless aspect of himself.

The unexpected appearance of a woman at an open window, silences, thought and patience. 

The forgotten parable

Insignificant movements of the fingers are the order of the day.

Trudging on the path that was, is and will probably be;

The path.

Refinement; the atonement that will never be.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!

Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd

Routinely selfish little worlds of meaningless victories over other people's seemingly

detrimental achievements.

Would we be happier to live life not remembering how many of the things we gave up hope on ? 

So oft in theologic wars,
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance
Of what each other mean,
And prate about an Elephant
Not one of them has seen!


(From The Blind Men and the Elephant by John Godfrey Saxe) 

-_-

We all have our seminal piece of work. It could be that odd-shaped poop you shit out one morning or the progeny you bring to the world. It could be a successful brawl with a rickshaw driver when you're down with diarrhoea or sitting with some useless thought looping over and over and over and over again. For each, his own.

Its all a big work of black magic. The permutations will favour us one day. We'll be satisfied. But well, it passes. Everything passes. There's an eerily unwavering pattern to the mysteries of the chaos. The God. Of bits and pieces. 

Desire. Conquests. Shattered ideals. Illusions that are too proud to go to dust. Reincarnated perceptions. The Self. All words don't go onto make sentences just like all thoughts don't get into words. But what is important is that you identify the message, the broad message. One that you already know. 

Peace.       

Jellyfish

A ship inside a bottle
cannot sink,
cannot collect dust.
Its nice to look at and
floats on glass.
It doesn't know where it sails
The world doesn't blow it's sails
It has no sails.
Its legacy;
A broken trail of bubbles no one will ever see. 

Familiar collision of Flesh against Flesh. 

Though, for some reason, there’s a hint of carefree expenditure now, a waft of warmth. 
Nuzzles her jawbone with his nose. 
He notices a faint gold-shot azure from each iris. 
The human paradox – the same and the different. 
Gaze meets gaze, revealing, as ever, everything and nothing.

Aches

The Roman emperor sends his troops across the boundaries.
The white emblems melt and flow onto the embracing streams.
And she goes to educate herself in the cool breezes.
I, fucked up, sit here with clenched wrists, hairs lost.

The Apeman Vice

I once read that the only philosophical question that matters, is whether or not to commit suicide... I guess that makes me a philosopher. You can say it was my inheritance. Somehow, I think my problems are bigger than yours. Although my teeth are sharp, belly full, the heart is empty.

I try to slow my heart down and breathe the fire out of my lungs. They all have me for the fall guy. But as the vehicle comes to a dim thud, and the hand locks itself to the wheel, I wonder.....I wonder if the architect behind all of this was me. Maybe, maybe I had become what they all told me I would, A maniac. I only seek the most lighthearted and momentary digression. The briefest indulgent in automotive pleasure.

The wind rises, electric. She's soft and warm and almost weightless. Her perfume is a sweet promise that brings tears to my eyes. I tell her that everything will be all right. That I'll save her from whatever she's scared of and take her far, far away. I tell her I love her. The silencer makes a whisper of the gunshot. I hold her close until she's gone. I'll never know what she was running from.

Back to the wheel and the low moan of an impending vacation. I'd like two words on my tombstone: what if.

Part of the Plan

You see, words are part of the plan. Disguised in content, guileful in intentions. The plan eludes grasp, even to the one who apparently weaves it. People are made to conceive what they don't actually see, spinning images of color. In hindsight, why ?

Shouldn't one just move onto IPL and put some words about the brawl here. Atleast, years on, I'll get to know world had some place inside my head. But hey! that doesn't sell here. But Elsewhere, it makes billions. The only thing that seems to dilute a few of those pupils are sexual fantasies, frustrations and a few uninhibited sentences. But the bigger plan is an enigma. The purpose of the bigger plan is to elevate and transform into a middle-aged prodigy. But the time seems to be not so much amused by it. Smeagol inside the head points out roads and taverns where jewels hide but we all know how much of a fucking bastard Smeagol is.

Yes, Shashi Tharoor is an asshole. We all know that. Except for a lucid language pouring from his mouth, I never put that head of his in high regard. Thats why it rolled. Shashi remains shashi. If you already didn't know, "for each section in Section IV, you will be awarded 2 marks for each row in which you have darkened the bubble(s) corresponding to the correct answer".

The biggest hurdle the big plan faces is to keep everyone informed about the world from my perspective. And perspectives tweak, burn and die. At the moment, the world from this height seems to be an odd place to be in. Would prefer some place more civilised, where group sex and more perversive sexual intentions would be greeted upon, cheered and chanted for. Where men speak minds, more than words. Where men would bring down the Universities and turn their attention to more deserving topics; Love, sex aur Dhokha. Where each of us are proud leaders of our lives, licking and biting our way to pleasurable lives.
Alas! it is not to be. Me here, writing this bears testament to it. A complicated political movement has wrung upon my neck, tying the voice down. Public display of fantasies will trigger unpleasant phone calls, which otherwise will anyhow.

The truth you all should remember is that this is all part of the plan.

Alternate Lives/ Blah

The chill whisper pours out white clouds. Hugging each other tight, we gaze across the stark blindness. Spread across the dark vacant spaces are snow-tipped mountains, invisible in the villainy of the night. Yet, in our imagination, we can envisage their grandeur.

************************

Walking with a carton of intoxicants tucked under the arm, I make way through fumes of the colour-filled night. Already fused with unknown hues, the head spins across the glistening pavements. Loss is an epiphany of death. Fuck you bastards, you want a taste of this ? Inadequate control over the white moon above. Wait till y'all see these screeching bats. Then yaw'll know what I am talking about. Tangled heap in a corner.

*************************

Up amongst the white puffs, we glide. For eternity and a second. Till their eyes droop and both of them set off on their own sweet little adventures. The lamp dimmed, feet skim the passage. Our bed holds sparks of yesterday's tension. Each for his own. Underneath the blankets, a little wayward thought brings me to memories of yesteryear dreams. A life I once touched, now remains solely as the object of my imagination.

************************

The mouse squeaks. Red blooded eyes behold glares of the opponents. Swift glides, clicks, screams, euphoria, high fives. Frags at WCG. Life.