How, HOW much can I ramble?!!? :)

Hurdles. Created, added and multiplied hour by hour by day by year. Hurdles everyday for an eternity of days. Minutes are endless and last a lifetime, weeks disappear in a single flutter of the eyelash. Time is just this concept that civilises society, a regulator that preserves some sort of superficial decorum.
Ugh.
I hate order, abhor decorum.

Back to the Hurdles. Some people jump over them, soundlessly and victoriously reaching the other side -- of course some crash and break ligaments and bones. And heads. Many choose to walk on this side of the hurdle all their lives, not seeing its endlessness and not understanding why they can't find a break and get to the other side. Never getting to the other side. A few creep through, wriggling on their stomachs to emerge dirty and tired across, but hell, they emerge right?
What I find unsettling is that most of them just stand there thinking, weighing their thoughts, looking, waiting. It makes me uneasy because if Man doesn't go the mountain then yes the mountain must and will come to Man (he'll make it come - he can, he should, he ought to) but what when men just stand there looking at the mountain? What then?

I wish to believe that such men don't exist, but then I'd be the kind that doesn't walk alongside the hurdle ignorant of its Great Wall of China status (not even that, not even that! *sniff* I'm probably the freak who loves creating them damned hurdles), but the kind that bumps head-on into the hurdle a gazillion times and refuses to see it still, denying it impertinently( the impertinence is but obviously completely natural, quite unintended) the granting of a status, or even acknowledgment of an existence.

Yeah yeah I know it's called denial.

Of rain and passion and the things that never begin and always end

Was supposed to be an off day because of Eid but the moon just couldn't wait, apparently. I had happily fitted about a million things-to-do into my chutti day, so the moon's deception made me a tad mad and in the morning I decided to not go to college anyway (post Diwali and Bhaidooj gift packing, family meeting and cousin chilling ensures that I'm also very very tired).

I was reading this blog where the author was talking about the intimate relationship that exists by default between an artist and his appreciator. And also of how the works/artists you start loving in a fiery, passionate way slowly gather dust in the store room of your brain (they reside there with due affection though...you know how you'd smile fondly at an old ragged soft toy sitting in a shady corner of your room? You're smiling no doubt, but that doesn't change the fact that the poor thing's lying in the corner no?!) and the ones you perhaps chance upon, the ones that grow on you -- well, they stay pretty much somewhere in the fore. The human aspect is introduced here (and you realise now that the author of that particular blog is the kind that lives in analogies and delicate translucent connectors between the world of the creative arts and the real world, perhaps redefining reality as the world of books and paintings, because really, isn't it here that people really really bare their souls and being?..ahem, this is called getting carried away btw..just fyi!! )
Anyway, as I was a-saying, the 'human aspect' is that relationships with people are quite the same- passion mutates into some sort of fuzzy affection, whereas affection that grew over time becomes this solid, almost physically tangible rock of love (though I wonder if it never turns into passion,which I think it does, and if it does then does it not also fizzle out like a can of Coke that's been open for far too long?)

So, this concept we formulate thus -- passion rises, and falls ultimately, but what you 'grow' to love, or that which grows on to you - it stays, doesn't disappear or get diluted because it's probably always just, umm...'growing'?!
On the lines of something like 'better to fade away than to burn out'? Well what did you think? Obviously Cobain couldn't have gotten it ALL right no?:)

Somehow, I think that even if I agree that passion has a certain shelf-life which gets burnt out or spent ( which I don't, no I definitely do not), I think I'd still prefer it to an incessant, inevitably unending sort of 'fading away'. A feeling the likeness of which I compare to being wary of words such as 'inevitable'.

Okay, here's a question. Would you prefer a joltingly fresh burst of rainfall, once in a while in many a long and short whiles, but perhaps always ignorant of the ceratinty of the next spurt of heaven, not just of the timing of its occurance but of whether it'll come at all, ever; or would you make happy slits of your eyes, your lips curled into a strange line of lovely unidentifiable pleasure because the heaven's cry, softly and constantly( they've never seen God and can't decide whether he exists or if he is just a creation of the lilliputians' very lively imagination) drizzling their pain forever?
Which one?
Which one??

Lunar Sanity

My days are busy, bustling, peaceful. As evening approaches, the moon begins to reveal its skeleton- a ghostly apparition of scarred beauty on the immense dark soul of the sky. I look at it and sigh.
The world seems to have gone numb with the appearance of the skeletal moon and my sigh sounds like a resounding 'whooooshh'. The air refuses to carry the sound or gobble it up, refuses to be disturbed from its deadly calm reverie and so the sound just lingers somewhere around me.

To normalcy I have returned long since, but I often find myself doubting this so called 'normalcy' (I so hate the word). All alone without even the ghost of a being or a movement, without even an absent-minded stir of the air, I feel acutely the absence of the peace of the day's bustle.

Can't hear a damn thing but I think that the fury of this silence
will deafen me. Nobody around yet a million colours dance like multi-coloured
snowflakes in front of my eyes.

Demons pull at my hair and I laugh and I scream. Laugh because I'm being silly-like and I know that the horror exists only inside my head; scream, because since it's 'only inside my head' I live and relive the horror, I create it and revel in it, and because it is incessant. And I perpetuate it, feed it, as only I can. (My very own psychological Frankenstein?!?) Feed the sadness-tinged, horror-filled conjectural world with instances from a dearth less pit of beauty and of pain. Feed my Being with insanity and Insanity with my being.

I look on with dancing eyes borrowed from a madwoman, watching the fire she put to the world burning everything that belongs to her, belonged to her, the entire cosmos, herself.

I cry dry tears thinking that now, even now if I could I wouldn't change a thing- not a single damn thing. I look at the moon, in all its splendour now, the shadows and scars more pronounced that ever, and I let out the animal wail I'd held inside me for months, years...for a lifetime full of lifetimes.

Festered Fear

Statistics scare me, piss me off. Numbers,years,dates...I'm talking personal statistics here,days from my own life. I hug myself because I feel cold,very cold inside.

Something's curled up, like a hedgehog touched or a touch-me-not. Maybe even a turtle,aren't they supposed to duck their heads under their shells when they're scared? So I'm that turtle, except that the object of my fear has no shape or smell or form, it's something of an invisible teardrop wrapped up in flashes from my time, my past and present,in things I've said and done and things I've screamed soundlessly and undone.

Brain Scram

I wonder if I still love him? I feel very stupid saying yes, and guiltily avert my eyes from the general nothingness when I say no. It isn't possible after all that happened, after the overwhelming (to say the least) knowledge that assaulted my senses and brain for months together, trickling in with the definitive sadism of a soul-less God -- perhaps it would suffice to say just 'God' -- that much revered biblical god (or perhaps for that matter any god) , not only monstrous in his atrocious assertion of needless authority but monstrously insecure in his need to assert it, his need to point out the direction to Knowledge with a bright big yellow on red signpost, illuminating the path to Knowledge with his ungodly light and then serving the masterstroke -- the lay-off, the forbidding, the threat of pain and of inevitible death. Give me the capacity of Reason, couple it with the need and desire to excercise the capacity and also hand to me the perfect situation to do so -- and then tell me I should not, that I can but I shall not?? Sure, right!!

Knowing hurts, but one requires to be hurt in order to know the limits of the extremes to which one can push onself, or better yet( or worse? ) to know that there aren't any. Knowledge cuts and slices through you, but it adds to you twice that which it seems to take away. So really, what forgiveness? And what does forgiveness imply really..and whose forgiveness does one fucking seek anyway?
I cant keep my mind on one thing. What I desperately need is some form of discipline.

I started out wondering if I still love him, I end now wondering if I ever did...and if I'll ever stop.