Our Nubile Universe

The hazel shades of dreams infused with delirium ...

A world marred with the savageness of expectations and the triumphs of vainglory, does one really care whether they live or breathe. The silences of our relationships are like shards of glass strewn on a carpeted floor. You step on them without seeing them and, before you know it, crimson trickles ...

Our universe, a mobile plasma, is a Dark Lady enticing our virility (or the lack of it). It shelters the realms of possibility, making its mark felt in our everyday lives, irrespective of whether we're aware or not. Like, the memory of sleep is as dormant as the act in itself. In fact, when someone utters the spoken word, does that person know that someone in the world, somewhere, is speaking the same words, although that might be in a different language?

We live in the microcosm of an associative nostalgia where everything that's uttered has either already been spoken aloud, or is being simultaneously spoken by someone we don't know in another destination, or is scheduled to be spoken in the future, and who knows? The latter might be in an identical context too. In fact, as homo sapiens of a sophisticated environmental outfit, aren't we drugged by this entire doll's house of the universe?


PS: Please excuse my lapses, for my intention was not to hurt any faith or belief or proven scientific theories.

Error & Trial

And then there were these semblances of purity … a limpid belief transcended by countless sojourns into the void of feeling - the feelings, shelled in carefully woven crusts of familiarity. Why do we have to put up with all this when we could do with merely blanching out the numbness?

When there's too much pain to enshroud you, never give in. What we can do instead is, fight back like a braveheart. I am independence. We are all alive threatening our very existences without the delineation of sanity. Work’s never free of play, play’s never free of work – funny! The whispers in the dark, of the rustle of the leaves awaiting your eyes to dissolve into a solemn dream.

Homer lives in the verses of his epic, like we live in the interwoven significances of our yesterdays. Once feeling goes, love goes too. How convincing is that?

Passovers in Time

Last night the stars revealed their nakedness; you took flight to the Lost City
When the boy next door sat drunk on his rooftop, bewailing a love lost.

Sometimes, I see you enter the monochrome realm of a sundry pasts that shelve the love notes, promises and surreptitious togethernesses ...
Do you still care for them? If yes, then why don't you just do something, instead of sitting tight in some godforsaken island? If no, then why have you kept the remnants of those reminiscences that are too obsolete to matter anymore?

Let's not pretend, shall we? We far too busybodied to gnarl at ourselves. I think we've left that all behind! Timelessness has its appeal as does the lust for anonymity, and once we shell our skins with the mantle of familiarity, the rest is smooth sailing. Life in a society comes with its taxes and we are paying every bit of that mammoth interest.

Tommorrow's a work, the chores of which yell completion. Do you live a life like mine? Is it the surpluses that matter? Not so long ago it was believed that all is attainable, that you could, contrarily, "transcend". That's the word. Our events are created, tried and then stamped "approved". The events are dead, long live events.

Some things lose themselves. The moon loses itself in its phases. I've come to sleep through my losses, which spawn a lulled mind. The Buddha medidates quietly at midnight in a faraway forest ...