Winter and You

my hands are like ice
Winter has finally arrived
The cold hasn't reached my heart yet
and so I find myself thinking how
nice and warm you were.

In this stillness where nothing moves,
all I can see is a
teardrop climbing softly down your cheek.
And I try to convince myself
Tell myself that I don't want you
and I don't. I do not.

But winter puts an ache in my chest.
Winter makes me yearn.
and so inspite of myself I want you
Strange
strange to see desire emanating from a heart
that spites it's own self, scorns itself and continues
to shamelessly desire.
Even perhaps, to envy it's own desire.

Stranger still that the chaos is all mine
Mine Mine Mine.
If one could obliterate one's self then the chaos would disappear like a beautiful dream dissolves with the dissolving sun at dawn.
But then the sun just looks like it's dissolving, minutes later it's up there bright and blinding and showing you your way around as always. And so is the self.
So is the self.

If Winter was to say 'Spring is in my heart', who would believe Winter?
Gibran is beautiful.
I'm a lost cause though.

Jack Sparrow's Freedom:)

" But what a ship is, what the Black Pearl really is, is freedom."

-Capt. Jack Sparrow, Pirates of the Carribean

Freedom would mean so much or so little - or simply so many things - to different people at the same time, and then differently to the same people at different times (you know, because of the varying perspective, context et al).

To a pirate, freedom is his ship and the oblivious expanse of the sea; to a writer it is seeing in an enchantingly painful moment that which was in his head appear on paper; to an architect perhaps seeing his love and intelligence built brick by brick by stone into being - hell I don't know for sure.

But it's ironic (as every bloody thing seems to be), it's ironic that we're prisoners of precisely that which sets us free. It is the sea which the pirate shall unendingly return to, the papers that contain the writer - the building so fondled into existence by the creator's mind will perhaps forever lay claim on that mind, in the form of passion or affection, say what you will.

What is freedom then? What, really??
And are we ever free? Are these manacles really mind-forged? And if not, what is it that's stronger than the mind even, that which binds us so?

(I can watch Pirates of the Carribean everyday, perhaps even thrice a day if I had absolutely nothing to do! Anyway watching it for the zillionth time this line caught me mind...you know how a moment refuses let go of your brain.)

The Asp and Egypt

I sit by the chopped stumps of time.
Taste the smoke
A whiff of a thought beginning to roast
Lies interrupted.

The asp that poisoned,
killed Egypt
Didn’t carry that burden
Was ignorant of what it had befallen.

A Queen not brought to her knees?
Time
Irrevocable?
History,
Rewritable?

Egypt was dead already
The rivulets of poison
Had nowhere to trickle to.
Nothing spreads
Passes through or exists
In a void.

I sit by the chopped stumps of a massive tree
Not poisoned
Only defeated.

Written roughly about a year ago, lying down on crisp yellow burnt autumn/winter leaves in the muchly un-used lawns of my beloved doped out college :P

Madness and Sight, Geometry and Kundera

Reading Kundera makes my head feel floopy. Yes, floopy. I don't know what that really means, or if it's even a word. But what my head feels like right now can be described perfectly by this one word that means so much even though it probably doesn't exist.

FLOOPY.

And my chest feels so heavy. So so heavy. Like I'm carrying the entire cosmos in my breast, like I'm sinking slowly because of the weight. I'm scared that I'll stand with my feet sunken in the soft ground, rooted to one place when rooted is the last thing I want to be. Being unable to move, fleeting glances change the object of my gaze restlessly. And then comes a point where there aren't any glances or any gaze at all and the object has stopped existing.

So the rolling eyeballs of a human being, driven to the precinct of insanity ( by the human itself, for how can forces exterior to oneself have the strength to shroud logic and beauty in depravity and inanity? No, such a state can only be brought to oneself by one's own self) search madly with desperation for something that'll stop it's eyes from rolling. For is not madness a desperation, a desperation that arises out of befuddlement at not being understood- or let me put it more clearly- at your own inability to understand why the plethora of human beings around you refuse to understand or even to try to comprehend that which is so obviously obvious that it's bloody geometric obviousness.

And then they call you mad and unstable, and then they put you in with other people they call mad and unstable...all the while blaming their incapacitated reasoning faculties on 'these mad people that feel too much,see too much and hear birds talk to them in Greek'.

And now these 'asylums' created for the mad contain the world, and the world outside contains belligerent fools that can't see or feel or hear. (The asylums don't protect the so-called sane population, they protect the ones inside from the depraved uncomrehending inanity of the sane-you knew that didn't you? Didn't you?? Even if you didn't, heed the word of a madwoman and say that you did oh please say that you did.)

My eyes roll on. I'm rooted and I see nothing. I refuse to look and see everything.

lusting for desire,a tune of hollowed longing

a yearning song. desire laced with such longing that it hurts. physical pain. it subsides and just when i wonder if it really could've melted into a low, lingering note somewhere in the background, it starts building like cascading water being re-wound. Slowly tantalisingly freedom climbs the rocks in a strange world where water falls backward, and then it bursts onto the other side. Spills like an over-filled reservoir, a very pregnantly swollen river...and then a raging ocean.


-shuffle was on and tchaikovsky's violin concerto no. 2 started playing :)