things that life dont teach u. things u'll never remember. things that've been lost with time. things that've been lost IN time. things that breathe. things that live. things that'll never see tomorrow. things that'll reach apocalypse. things tied in a jar of freedom. things immured in the head of religion. things liberated from the world. things that'll hit ur head hard. things that'll carress ur soul. things u'll never begin to understand. things that'll cling to your memory. things that'll cast a shadow. things that see the light of day. things that u'll wait for, all ur life. things that'll befall ur path. things that'll leave u jaded. things that'll ripen ur fruit. things found in debris. things that've been abandoned. things u'll never want to know. things that u're cursed to know. things with which u grow. things that're hidden from ur sight. things exposed to broad daylight.
there're plenty of things in this vast wild mad beautiful filthy wasted world.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Warm Wetness
On a sunny winter afternoon, a drop of sunlight fell on her lap. Its warm wetness reminded her of him.
She could fight the tears but she could not drive away the wave of nostagia. She could not forget the time he wrapped his arm around her neck in a moment of eternal bliss. She could not forget his eyes staring unblinking into her's, a picture of pre-mordial calmness. She could not forget the magic in his smile, an ecstasy lost in centuries of uncivilization. She could not forget the gentle clasp of his hand, the unfathomable love.
Caught in the web of his memories she tried to forget the night when he'd slept on her lap. And wetted her sari. Its warm wetness reminded her of him. She had fondly named her son 'Surya'.
She could fight the tears but she could not drive away the wave of nostagia. She could not forget the time he wrapped his arm around her neck in a moment of eternal bliss. She could not forget his eyes staring unblinking into her's, a picture of pre-mordial calmness. She could not forget the magic in his smile, an ecstasy lost in centuries of uncivilization. She could not forget the gentle clasp of his hand, the unfathomable love.
Caught in the web of his memories she tried to forget the night when he'd slept on her lap. And wetted her sari. Its warm wetness reminded her of him. She had fondly named her son 'Surya'.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Surrealism
"Enchanted" she said.
"Enchanted" I was.
Winter fog, smog
I leapt into her arms,
Forgotten histories
I swam in her skin,
Endless solstice.
"Evanescent" she said.
"Evanescent" I was.
Falling dusk, lust
I melted in her heat,
Plunged nudity
I fumed in her breath,
Defied gravity.
"Phantasmagoric" she said.
"Phantasmagoric" I was.
Raging skies, twilight
I slept in her dream,
Distorted paradigm
I murdered the goddess,
Somnambulism.
"Enchanted" I was.
Winter fog, smog
I leapt into her arms,
Forgotten histories
I swam in her skin,
Endless solstice.
"Evanescent" she said.
"Evanescent" I was.
Falling dusk, lust
I melted in her heat,
Plunged nudity
I fumed in her breath,
Defied gravity.
"Phantasmagoric" she said.
"Phantasmagoric" I was.
Raging skies, twilight
I slept in her dream,
Distorted paradigm
I murdered the goddess,
Somnambulism.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
This One Goes Out To The One I Hate
last time i spoke to pinni was an year back and though i dont remember how the conversation went, i do remember we abused a lot. 'fuck you' filled in for all the awkard pauses. and with every 'fuck you' another argument started. this is one of the nice things when you know you're breaking off. i mean it's better than having to listen how she couldn't have her morning cup of coffee because the milk was spoiled. Fuck, can you beleve that. i mean, for godsake, get another fucking packet man. there're worse things in life to crib about.
but before i go off track let me tell you i miss you. sometimes i feel like giving her a call (yes, i do have her number). not because i want to patch up or something, no. we're far beyond that. and i guess she has another guy in her life now. afterall she was no ordinary looking girl. i just want to let you know i still hate you. and this hatred creeps up in every conversation i have with any girl i meet. not that i meet too many these days, but hell, that's another story. and inexorably they start avoiding me. they probably think i'm still hung up on you or something. probably they just want to avoid me anyway.
and yeah, if you're reading this let me tell you, that name of yours 'pinni' is the funniest name i've heard. if i ever have a koala bear for a pet i'm going to name him that.
you know nothing satisfies me anymore. no number of songs, no books, nobody.it's not like i long for you or something. i can never be with you again. the thing is i want to find a girl who's exactly like you in every way except the ways for which i hate you. but more than anything else i want to forget hating you. yes, that's exactly what i want. forget hating you.
but before i go off track let me tell you i miss you. sometimes i feel like giving her a call (yes, i do have her number). not because i want to patch up or something, no. we're far beyond that. and i guess she has another guy in her life now. afterall she was no ordinary looking girl. i just want to let you know i still hate you. and this hatred creeps up in every conversation i have with any girl i meet. not that i meet too many these days, but hell, that's another story. and inexorably they start avoiding me. they probably think i'm still hung up on you or something. probably they just want to avoid me anyway.
and yeah, if you're reading this let me tell you, that name of yours 'pinni' is the funniest name i've heard. if i ever have a koala bear for a pet i'm going to name him that.
you know nothing satisfies me anymore. no number of songs, no books, nobody.it's not like i long for you or something. i can never be with you again. the thing is i want to find a girl who's exactly like you in every way except the ways for which i hate you. but more than anything else i want to forget hating you. yes, that's exactly what i want. forget hating you.
Few Nothings
Nothing hurts more than love. Except the lack of it.
Nothing screams louder than word. Except silence.
Nothing lives longer than life. Except death.
Nothing is faked more than happiness. Except memory.
Nothing is loathed more than an enemy. Except fate.
Nothing endures better than strength. Except time.
Nothing obscures like failure. Except success.
Nothing disillusions like magic. Except reality.
Nothing bares more than nakedness. Except shame.
Nothing frustrates more than hope. Except a mosquito.
Nothing screams louder than word. Except silence.
Nothing lives longer than life. Except death.
Nothing is faked more than happiness. Except memory.
Nothing is loathed more than an enemy. Except fate.
Nothing endures better than strength. Except time.
Nothing obscures like failure. Except success.
Nothing disillusions like magic. Except reality.
Nothing bares more than nakedness. Except shame.
Nothing frustrates more than hope. Except a mosquito.
Monday, April 14, 2008
A Madman's Idea
I can write a 1000 pages tonight with no thought no meaning no song. i can write them down with the vehemence of a wood-cutter with blunt rusted blade. until slowly insidiously the words eat into my brains leaving a starved larva in the midst of incoherence. i can write about the statue of death i stumbled upon right in the middle of the lake and how it refused to answer when i asked 'why do people always stumble upon you. why dont they simply embrace you'. yeah, it refused to answer but i think i read his expression. it went something like 'they hate my smell' which very frankly shocked me. 'they get used to smells' was my defence. and the statue stood speechless there in the middle of the lake. i did not speak anymore i guess it was trying to avoid me. perhaps it was just shy. i could also write about about how the statue of life stood with broken knee in the desert a few further miles down. it seemed eager to get into a conversation with me as i passed but i avoided it. perhaps i was just shy. it gave me a nasty glance as i went past him holding on to the last 'real' thought i'd once held on to as it continued to chew on what seemed like chocolate-coated ignorance.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Liberation
He was born to be a painter. But it was not until her death that he took up painting as a substitute to living. As he walked back from the burial ground on that rainy day, he decided to hide in the veil of imagination to escape reality. And pull out a thread of reality from the burden of imaginary.
People said there was magic in his hands. When he picked up his brush he created near impossibles. Each stroke on the canvas brimmed with a spark of genius. Each blank spot was adroity placed. Each blank spot spoke of poignant silence. They said he had an ability to create life with his art. And he knew it. Yet, he felt there was a tinge of non-existence in all his paintings. A lurking vagueness in the midst of vivid ingenuity.
Next morning he was stroking vigorously on the canvas, treating colors with utter disdain. His hand moved hurriedly across the canvas. Then, almost as if waking from a frenzy, he stopped. He could not paint the summer breeze. He tried every possible combination of colors. Yellow and orange. Blue and pink. White and almost white. But nothing could create the exact shade of a summer breeze. After an hour of futile attempts, he placed the brush back. He moved closer to the painting and held his head against one edge of the canvas. With a gentle blow across the surface, the greens smeared beyond the edges of the leaves, the browns freed themselves from the confines of the trunk and the blues crossed the forbidden horizon. It was there, in that precise moment, that he smelled her. Smell of a living woman covered in rain drenched mud carried by the summer breeze. He shut the doors and windows, and savoured the day.
People said there was magic in his hands. When he picked up his brush he created near impossibles. Each stroke on the canvas brimmed with a spark of genius. Each blank spot was adroity placed. Each blank spot spoke of poignant silence. They said he had an ability to create life with his art. And he knew it. Yet, he felt there was a tinge of non-existence in all his paintings. A lurking vagueness in the midst of vivid ingenuity.
Next morning he was stroking vigorously on the canvas, treating colors with utter disdain. His hand moved hurriedly across the canvas. Then, almost as if waking from a frenzy, he stopped. He could not paint the summer breeze. He tried every possible combination of colors. Yellow and orange. Blue and pink. White and almost white. But nothing could create the exact shade of a summer breeze. After an hour of futile attempts, he placed the brush back. He moved closer to the painting and held his head against one edge of the canvas. With a gentle blow across the surface, the greens smeared beyond the edges of the leaves, the browns freed themselves from the confines of the trunk and the blues crossed the forbidden horizon. It was there, in that precise moment, that he smelled her. Smell of a living woman covered in rain drenched mud carried by the summer breeze. He shut the doors and windows, and savoured the day.
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