seventwentynine and a gazillion doomed monkeys

fuzzy happy gooey yummy

2008-07-17T09:33:00.000-07:00

pink and green.pink for me, green for outside. or green for my feet. subliminal existence and coffee galore. conversation leading to fiery arguments where you-know-who flies into phenomenal rages. and a kiss. balance. lightness in tummy. heavy in head-in a good way..

i float with my feet on the ground
i love
:-)

the leafleaf my fellit

2008-03-26T00:55:00.000-07:00

i sit tracing the fall of the leaf. i've been looking at it for almost two days. waiting,watching. waiting. willing it to stay on. the leaf didn't know i was looking though. if it knew i was staying on because it was not falling, it would've broken from the tree and begun its fateful descent from the sheer weight of me. aren't we glad for some things that don't happen too soon in the world. aren't we resentful of the knowledge that eluded us when it should not have. 'if only i'd known sooner...',they say. 'they'? it's uninterestingly pathetic how human beings hide behind pronouns. always pronouns. me included. despairingly cowardly i'd say.

i've urinated only when i couldn't hold it anymore, rushing to the nearest public convenience piece of crap 3 times. in almost 48 hours, only 3 times. i was so worried it would fall in my absence. if i wasn't there and i saw it on the grass with all the others, i'd never know which one it was. i'd never be able to tell. i'd...spend the remnant of my day crying over the demise of my leaf, knowing i wasn't there when i should've been. at its last.
it breaks pointed-side first and then flattens out, weaving through the air, waltzing, teasing the earth.
nobody speak a word.
nobody breathe.
i stop. i can't look away. can't look away.
it lies on the grass. barely resting on it, wary of getting soiled. a blurry view does not help, it does not erase anything. only morphes what i know is the truth. can't see it, can't look away. i see it. clearly now,in my head.
i breathe. force myself to breathe.
inhale. exhale. inhale. exhale.

its fallen.
my leaf.

love silhouetted against a wet day

2007-08-02T22:41:00.000-07:00

This is how it rained in Jose's town. Water poured and poured and did not accumulate. The trees were still visible, dogs could be seen running amok as always, lazing around as always. Huts floated, but Jose and his people went to work, played with their children, made love to their wives. The town would not sink, would not be submerged. It had a planetary existence of it's own, an existence that was unaffected by everything. Everything except sadness.

It could rain forever, as it did - as was happening even now - and it did not matter. But if a heart broke, you could feel the lightening bolt under your skin. A single tear from any of Jose's people reduced the whole town to a state of unspoken misery, and an inexplicable sadness seemed to permeate the very mud of the huts' walls. The dogs wailed and the air over Jose's town thickened with pain and hung low around the people, so that they felt, at all times, a knot in their throats and a spirit weighing down their stomachs.

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

One by one, all the people of the town went to Cemilisna's hut with baskets of food and fruits, exotic nuts and strawberry vanilla muffins. No one knew what happened to the food, because though her door would not open the food would not be there the next day.

No one had been behind the closed door, not a soul had seen her in the past thirty seven days. They did not know of the irrevocability that had occurred, but they knew she was alive. Inside her hut, Cemilisna's heart was beating still. And the whole town knew that each reluctant heartbeat carried a throbbing ache, an ache that had filled Cemilisna's little hut and overflowed into the town. An ache that had taken over the roads and woods of Jose's town, an ache which was now threatening to bring onto the whole town the all pervasive malaise of pain.

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

He sailed on.

The town now lay far to his West, and his heart lay somewhere farther north-west. He looked ahead and saw the form of that which he had to search for in the inkiness of the dark world. A flash of her jaw set firm, lips commanded sternly to keep from quivering and eyes forbidden from expelling pain came to him and he stared at the blueness of the ocean, willing the water to swirl malevolently and to swallow him in a rush of violence, a movement akin to the contorted symphony of violence on her serene forehead and in her clear eyes.

Her clear eyes. Like a still ocean asking to be chartered. Like an unknown form in the darkness, waiting to be discovered.

He looked up. He sailed on.

i'm runnin' against the wind

2007-07-29T03:23:00.000-07:00

You realise that something is different, changed somehow. You know it's changed when the rain outside your window sounds incessantly chaotic instead of being the usual soothing pitter-patter. Constant non-saline tears of heaven. Shitty cliche. Something's changed when you sing along with a song incorrectly, when instead of singing 'I wish that I could turn around' you sing 'I wish that I could let you down.'

I'm being told repeatedly that the question of right or wrong does not concern me. I understand that tragedy doesn't concern itself with the one that it befalls or with black and white, that the deserter is as much at a loss as the deserted, perhaps in a sense more so because the one who lets go first carries the albatross' dead weight for all time to come. So maybe I agree that right and wrong needn't concern me in my capacity as lawyer/legal advisor. But being told that worrying over the 'truth' of the matter also doesn't concern me - well, that just worries me more.
In fact, it perplexes me in a way that questions do when I know that I'm alone in thinking about the answers and that I know the answers, as does the world but the world will pretend it does not know or that it sees a different answer or better yet, that as far as it is concerned the very question that I posed doesn't exist.
To see justice being done, or justice as a part of the larger picture - the legal system doesn't bother with such trivialities.

I'm not a child. I knew this was how it worked. Works even now. Perhaps will always work. It just amazes me that so many human beings collectively decide to stand and fight for the muck of the world. To stand and fight for all that's ugly and incoherently twisted. And that they can't see themselves and their foolery.
Maybe they ought to stand where I'm standing. Just once.

broken pieces of some of the all that makes me

2007-06-28T04:38:00.000-07:00

Each year
a little farther
we move along the tangent of our lives

a bit fartherer
not from where
we began but from where we
stopped

I wish I could say with honesty that I've forgotten. Or forgiven.
I wish I could say honestly that I remember. Or that I care.

*******

I saw with my very own eyes, heard, felt with my own mind and heart. I still couldn't believe. Sometimes, in the silence of the night when one can hear drops of water trickling from an unclosed tap, interspersed with the violent conversations of the lil dog with the strays outside, when I can hear the tick-tock of each second of time and my irregular heartbeat making strange music -- sometimes when the night is threateningly calm I still refuse to believe.

*******

They talk of jealousies of long ago, jealousies that gnaw at their stomachs yet. They whisper meaningless fragments from forgotten songs of desire love lust, remembered now with ghostly aching minds. They wail softly about confessions left unconfessed, lament pitifully the utterance of a harsh word where none was required.
Strange, I think, that we mourn the death of the living while the dead mourn their lives ill-spent.

*******

War to establish peace, whatever the fuck that means. Passing through a mayhem of torn bodies strewn on bloody streets, of mutilated fingers dabbing in puddles of muddied red. This silence is not peaceful calm, it's the morbid sickening silence that pervades each atom of the air at the birth of a stillborn.
The birth of death.

*******

Pain, move thee farther.
Love approaches and my heart hides in the
shadows.
It beats, the Earth reverberates
My secret place is given away.
You found me didn't you.
Didn't you?
I knew you would.
I knew.

*******

An empty house where you can't even hear the creeks. But you can imagine.
Construct a sleepy sound to fill the empty spaces. Pretend you can hear. Pretend you're not alone. Just so it hurts more when you wake to the fact that you are. With 77 gazillion people around, you're still alone.
Gah.
Prettiest sentence I heard today : "Don't hide behind language."

*******

What happened why how when
all questions are pretense
Because the answers I remember by heart. .

*******

I wonder if he thinks about the past. I'm sure he does. Not because I know I do, but because how can he escape it?

it aches, it burns
there was love in it once.
Once.
now it roams haunted streets at 3 am
bereft of people, abandoned by ghosts
plagued by phantoms of the mind
fiery with silent rage, it kills.

two down
the world to go.

*******

He stands there everyday. Just waiting. Waiting to kill, or to get killed. He stands there so that I may become a lawyer. Hide and seek, with life and death, he plays all the time so that I may play with words, relentlessly chasing the dream of eternal justice.

One day, Death will say "I spy you".

The pseudo-necessity of war and armies, the pointlessness of soonering the event of death. Ending another human being's Life to protect a line, or the piece of land behind that line.

The stupid blindness and tragic hopelessness of it all.

*******

Leave the lights on
so that I can see

I can see leave the
lights on
For all the memories

Oh see them fade away
see how they fade
fade away

*******

****

delhi rain,when it oughtn't be there

2007-05-24T07:08:00.000-07:00

Restless but weary

tired yet looking up

A drop of heaven grazes my cheekbone

Another

touches my forehead

Forms a path, wilful or impassioned

down my brow, past my cheek

Reaches my jaw, falls

on the ground to be one with the Earth

The ecstasy of a Raindrop.

nonpareil

don't have a title for weirdness

2007-05-24T06:36:00.000-07:00

You look around
And you think you can't fall further
Because inside somewhere
you know you've hit rock bottom.
and you inhale the poison
Feel it coalescing with your blood
Sweet misery
swirling, dark and musky
Under your skin.
You look at the sky
And you think Please Lord don't
let it fall on my head tonight.
Not Tonight.

I wrote this a million years ago.Stumbled upon it today.Everybody who writes, I think, when they read something they wrote some time ago feel that their words are unbearably juvenile, the emotion ridiculously heightened, the pain exacerbated. Hell, I know I do. I mean what, WHAT in the world drove me to the point that I thought the line was crossed. Which line, I dunno. But yeah, it was crossed.

Still, I see people more poisoned that me. People hinging on the precinct of hopeless insanity for a time period longer than me, longer than I would've ever thought possible. For years, even decades. But then one wonders how such thin lines of distinction are formed, how one is more or less insane that another. What are the degrees of being poisoned, one way or the other?
It's terrible. Ought there to be people so poisoned by society and by the faceless classless joyless masses, that they go mad with rage or despair or hatred? Imagine the monstrosity of such a force, a force that pushes a rational human mind to the peripheries of worlds defined by words like insanity, delirium, acute desolation.

I, sitting in a warm bed with air conditioning and a cozy blanket, a pen in one hand and a piece of chocolate in the other, I have the comfortable audacity of considering insanity as some sort of distilled form of existence.
And I rap myself on the head and think I'm being elitist, infinitely stupid and a pathetic escapist . Of course being deranged isn't a solution, of course it is a terrible form of existence.

Oh but is it really?

Silly Pilly Girl who then wanted to Sell

2007-05-17T08:29:00.000-07:00

I said I needed to trade something. Yes, it is of value. I need to trade my wounds. The broker with his yellow baseball cap and his broker's crooked smile said my wounds would be of no value to anyone else.

I put up a stall in a crowded market-place, I put up my wounds for sale. I looked on wearily, then vacantly as people laughed and snorted at me, smiled worriedly and wept for me, but no one came to trade.
The last to pack up in the evening, unhurriedly I folded my chair. A plump woman with hair silver as the stars I'd painted in my childhood, a slight dance in her step and a twinkle in the eyes appeared. "Oh my", she said, "I think the rumours were false". Sensing my unperturbed quiet, she went on. "You know, about some girl selling her wounds. What people won't say, just to say! Hah!"

"Rumours..", I murmured.

"Oh yes", chirped the old one. " I've seen so many fools selling their wounds in my day, when I heard this I had to rush over. I couldn't miss this sight. If you haven't closed yet, I'd like to buy what you're selling though." Strange as I'd thought she was, merry as one could look she looked, what she said made me think of serpents and quietly I wondered if she'd ever stop speaking.

"If you're as sharp as you seem to think you are, then you'd know you don't want to buy what I'm selling."

Startled, whether at my words or the fact that I actually had a voice, she missed a beat and said that of course she did.
I was getting tired of this. I wished the old woman would go away. She was making me uncomfortable with her wisdomy attitude.

"You don't know what you're selling; is that why you won't sell?"
Inspite of myself, I got agitated. I told her politely that she'd been eating the head of the fool she said she'd spent the evening searching for, and that perhaps she needed to rethink who the fool really was.

She stared straight at me, her gaze never leaving my eyes. Entranced, a flicker of a thought that I was looking into the eyes of the grandmother I'd never had passed through my head.
"But my child, you don't even know what you've put up for sale. I'd rather that buy it than anyone else - not that people are lining up." The twinkle had returned, the moment was past.

They don't care, I said.

They don't know, don't understand the value, she said. I'd buy your pride before you put it up in a stall some other day, someplace else.

But that's not even my commodity, I cried.
Is it not, she asked.
I'm selling my wounds.
Are you now?

I realised she hadn't even said those last words. I stared the longest I've stared at my hands. When I looked up, she was gone. Night had officially begun, and as I continued to look at the moon emerging from behind the meadow of clouds - it seemed by my will alone - I heard myself breathe out a ghost's whisper, a thank you mangled with sorrow, laced with gratitude. And with hope.

-Written a considerable period of time ago, not very long ago though:P
Posted now for a terrible lack of things to post and a huger, terribler, almost insanely pressing need to post.

Boo

2007-05-17T07:50:00.000-07:00

Dill thought Boo didn't want to come out because perhaps he had nowhere to run to. Jem reached the conclusion that Boo wanted to stay inside because ' folks in the world ' were too mean to each other. Outside his gothic cocoon was a world made up of people who were so busy being people that they forgot they were human beings.

Jem was correct. In his own right, so was Dill. Where would one go when one had nowhere to run to? More importantly, why would one want to run if one was even remotely aware of the existence of a world full of hyenas out there - watching, waiting, still and silent now, mad with laughter now.
Boo came out - of his prison or haven, that depends on the perspective you endorse, if you will - when he was required. He saved lives, in fact his benign existence isn't completely useless before he decides- or is forced into deciding- to save lives. He awarded Jem and Scout with little treasures for their 'interest' in him or perhaps because he saw something of his childhood in their antics, or most likely he caught glimpses of a childhood he painfully acknowledged he never had.

I think Boo would've liked to know how Scout felt about him eventually. She doesn't say it as definitively as Jem or Dill, so I know I'd like to know.
Yep, I think Boo would've liked it an awful lot.

an echo

2007-04-05T10:35:00.000-07:00

She loved him, she really did. She knew she'd been a fool to believe, but some part of her wanted to believe. Wanted to be a fool.

I see her trying. Trying so hard to relive that laughter, that love. Remind herself of his tenderness, perhaps that wild spontaniety that had never failed to make her happy. She remembers alright, she can picture herself laughing silly, smiling as if the moon shone silver-blue for her alone, like the stars were winking at her.
But she can't feel the laughter. Or the love. And that makes her feel uneasy, nauseated.

Unsettled, she looks past the benches, the trees and the sky. She remembers alright. I've seen her like that often, and I've never understood what she's looking for, or at. I hope she sees it, finds it soon.
*********************************************************************

An echo, as the title says. Something I wouldn't have put up on the blog if I hadn't seen my friend repeating my mistake. An anonyomous wail let out while hiding behind a pronoun. I doubt she'll hear it, unless I make her.

The powerlessness, of watching someone you love walk straight in the arms of a living disaster. Knowing you can't stop them. Knowing that they'll have to get hurt to realise, to not do it again. Knowing that you did it more than once, and you can't blame them because you're still one of those hopeful asses who continue to believe in that unfathomable concept of love and the fact that relationships can work.
Y'know, this isn't optimisn. It's foolery.
Argh.

Not Answers

2006-12-25T01:18:00.001-08:00

Far, far away from the damp cold earth where the Dragons of Mistrust exhale hatred incompetency jealousy, he floats adrift like a tireless eagle - a determined seagull, a la jonathan?- or a ship unchartered on sea unterrained, a ship with a mind and purpose and meaning of it's own. Below him, they scramble looking for meaning for themselves, their existence, their acts and their lives. His lips remain firmly unmoved but his eyes scatter the reflected puzzlement he sees at their need to look beyond themselves.

Lives lived, existences chronicled unchronicled long forgotten- all and sundry is an attempt to give meaning or formulate it or attain it or define it. Hanging lose over the world like an unfettered god, he sees the dragonants below hurrying to and fro from nowhere to nowhere, from nowhere to anywhere, and wonders why he doesn't feel the nagging need to define and to endow such definitions with meanings.

Is it just that he's so far away; does this ocean of an abyss signify a severing of his ties with meaning? He doesn't feel the need for meaning, he defies the need to define not out of rebellion and not as a reaction, not even as an act but simply because he knows no other way of existing. But then again, perhaps it's because he is Meaning himself, looming over the world and time, sick of being entreated and appeased and pleaded to, just wanting to be owned. For a change, just once.
He's right there, always has been...the dragonants were always so busy trying to locate and pin him onto their acts and lives that they were blind as bats before him, and stupid as mice because they didn't know and couldn't understand the impossibility of pinning down atoms ever-present in the air.

Winter and You

2006-11-26T01:58:00.000-08:00

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:)

2006-11-26T01:22:00.000-08:00

" 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

2006-11-23T10:11:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-19T03:24:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-05T09:35:00.001-08:00

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 :)

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

2006-10-28T12:15:00.002-07:00

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

2006-10-25T00:15:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-18T10:24:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-15T03:01:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-13T10:16:00.000-07:00

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.