Existence is Fluid;
the Universe is Multiple;
Each Life is Unique;
A Human is Born Free;
Justice is its Need;
Happiness is Holistic;
God is You.
Take off your shoes,
Would you like some tea?
Have some cookies,
Eat your brownie!
Put on this unicorn horn,
Now hear me ramble –
So, what is this blog about?
Frankly, even I don’t know. I needed some place where I could talk shit and maybe, hear your crap. So, I opened up a wordpress account and created this blog.
This is a place where we can chat and have some ‘intelligent’ conversations. Well, not really!
Who is the target audience?
People who have escaped from mental asylums, intellectuals, dumb-asses, art lovers, art haters, philosophers, laymen, stand-men, sit-men, teenagers, oldies, truth-seekers, lie-seekers, people curious about the world, people bored with the world, YOU!
Basically, anybody who can read the peculiar language called English.
Great! Where do I start?
Scroll down blind-boy (or girl, whatever).
Or you can check out the footer of the blog for some categories.
Comment, like, tweet, share on facebook and don’t forget to follow me on twitter.
And lastly, add the blog to your reader –
If you dive deep into the abyss of Reason and have that insanity in you which drives you till the very end of your wits,
You will eventually ask:
The questions will start questioning themselves. The circle of Reason will be complete.
There will be no answers. And that will be the real dawn of truth.
It was so different when I was a child.
Happiness was so easy. It wasn’t that there was no pain or no fear. In fact, I was very shy and insecure. But I FELT life so much more…so much more intensely.
If a put a standard, a template to measure life — then of course I am better off than I was then. More money, more luxury, more friends.
But I feel that my insides are blunted. Pain doesn’t hurt that much. And there isn’t so much pain any more. But joy feels so dull too.
I was too sensitive towards life. I was affected by it far too easily. But there was an unsaid depth to it. I don’t know if anyone else felt it like I did. But life was special. I did not have to philosophise about it. I didn’t have to ‘figure’ things out.
I was vulnerable — but that’s exactly what made me feel so much more alive
I think people and society unnecessarily attach too much importance on things like pleasure as opposed to pain.
I think that the only inherent purpose to life is to experience it. After all it is because we experience that we know we are alive.
All other ‘purposes’ which philosophers, scientists and people attach to it are mere interpretations.
Experiences — wild, varied, ever changing, sometimes positive, sometimes negative, sometimes calming, sometimes overwhelming.
Everything has its place.
But now I just don’t feel it.
Maybe I got stuck in my pain and my anger for too long.
Of course it hurt.
Now it doesn’t.
But is it because now I am numb?
I don’t know.
When I passed out from school, my psychology teacher wrote that I should always cling on to my innocence.
I was a child who talked freely about sex (in all its variations) and liberation back when we weren’t allowed to. When it still wasn’t cool to think on your own.
I was a little surprised she called me innocent, but somewhere I knew what she meant.
Innocent doesn’t really mean ignorant or naive to me.
It means being a special kind of Honest.
Not in the Abraham Lincoln/Gandhian sense in which you don’t lie to others for your own benefit or when lies are needed.
Innocence means being Honest with YOURSELF.
I am 19 now, and I fear that I am slowly ‘growing up’.
I don’t want to.
I always want to feel as honestly as I did when I was a child.
I am afraid.
And I am not lonely. But I am alone in this, for no one can help me.
I am desperately trying to find my way out, and sometimes I don’t even realise the desperation.
Metal bars stuck around the hollow of his stomach since the day he was born – it never went away.
The nomad was abandoned, his mother was the drain. Everybody knew the stranger from the underground.
The gypsy roamed the international sewers trading a part of him with the merchants from the surface.
If you were to be one of them, you would definitely ask, “Where is his gut?”
And there would be none.
Let your name be Alice.
A louse crawled in his flowing, gray hair and Alice ignored it, pretending to be disgusted by the sewage instead. Perhaps she wasn’t pretending after all. Alice was genuine.
A leash held him in. The jail was made up of metal pipes filled with the black bile from the surface which their citizens couldn’t stand. It was made to prevent the traders from stealing the nomad.
The Gypsy from the sewer smiled from the enclosure.
He could stand us. He could stand anything.
The people liked him because he was the only one to ask, and they wanted to tell.
His eyes would gleam with the sheen of dreams, as if his tear ducts collected your stories.
He remembered each one of them.
He remembered the time when the two towers fell as the bird went blind in the middle of the city.
He remembered the boy who left tears on his shoulders when he told him about his brother who left.
When that girl gave him daisies, he asked her how she found them and he still remembers the garden in her backyard where she played with pythons.
He hasn’t forgotten the wall which fell when the cold years went away.
When he slept it all came back.
He walked through the garden, breathing the dust from the towers, looking for the brother who was lost past the broken boundary wall.
In his sleep he lived on the surface, amidst the part of the lives the people left behind.
He worked the hardest in his dreams. Breaking and mending the weak, creaking parts – making a whole which functioned.
He found the answers to the questions they didn’t even know they will ask.
When he awoke, the answer was found in the cage of his stomach.
Each time it was different.
Once, it was the bonsai tree with thin, paper leaves.
The merchants took it up to the surface and planted it in their cities. The plant grew into a metropolis.
Then he made a red star and it made the wall which crumbled.
A tiger cub sat curious in his stomach when Alice told the nomad about her cycle which broke. The cub’s piercing eyes searched her face, maybe looking for the tooth which went missing when she fell, or imagining the white fluid dripping down her lips and eyes. Her stomach was yet not fat.
His pupils dilated, its throat vibrated – its purrs called to you, Alice.
When she finished telling her tales, the other merchants handed him the money.
The cub was squeezed out of the cage.
It trembled with hesitance. Its tiny claws dug into the metal of the pipes.
Alice picked it up; the tiger’s licks left wet, red trails on her neck.
The merchant group walked away – ready to fuel their machine of civilization with dreams that they would distort and promises they couldn’t keep.
This one would be good for a decade.
After which the merchants will return to buy a part of the nomad again.
It’s best for business.
Alice glanced back towards the gypsy again. His cage lay hollow, his eyes caved-in.
He will never see his cub alive again.
The surface which thrives on his organ implants bars him from living his own dreams.
Or does it?
Alice strutted away.
A leash has its way.
A louse still hangs on his silvery strands which may never shine with Sun rays.
The light awaits the nomad.
I am tired of walking
On your dreary paths.
I shall rather sleep
On a patch of grass which is my own,
And later fly in a sky which chooses me.
My life has too much laughter destined for it.
I can’t waste my breath
Running after dreams
Which you failed to achieve,
Or obeying rules
Which failed you.
In order to find what was before existence, what will be after it and what it is, we have to peel the layers of our own presence until we have undone ourselves — reached that point where existence and non-existence cease to be apart.
The absolute truth, hence, requires our absolute death as a precondition.
We can’t be IN existence and discover non-existence.
All theories about such a subject will be mere conjectures.
The Oceans have lost their depth,
The night has killed its stars.
All the metaphors have broken-down,
Meaning was empty since the Start.
If you want to speak to me,
Look into my eyes.
She peels her skin at seven in the morning.
“Let it be,” he said. “What harm can it do?”
Both knew that she wouldn’t listen.
that would be preposterous to say.
She always listened.
It would be a crime to say that she didn’t.
She was the empty paper which would let you write on her.
But she never obeyed.
The paper is blank again…
Crumpled, it lay around her.
She makes little mounds of the dead skin.
It peels off easily.
Chemicals which burned her had already left half her face hanging.
The next layer is tricky.
One can’t know whether its skin or just sewer crap.
“It’s my own fault.”
She feels cool when she is caressed by the vapors.
What is left are stitched rags of prison created by her parents and her childhood — which she loves but has to loathe.
What did they think?
She will embrace their anger and failures so that her life could be wasted fulfilling their failed dreams and borrowed expectations?
That she will live the tar they blow into her lungs?
That she will live chocking?
Their stitched-up prison will never wrap her in her grave.
When the rags are burned away,
He cannot see her anymore,
And she knew she was free.
She hopes to see him invisible too.
She knows he dreams of it.
She feels he will find his emptiness –
that he will go back to his source.
Everyone will eventually find the vessel which is them,
And be free of the shit which it is filled with now.
But she will not wait;
It’s been too long.
Let others take their time.
And as for her,
She is Freedom already.