Pete is on the run, hiding, like a wounded animal. Its amazing, Pete thought. He got so far, virtually unscathed. He was mistrusting his own instincts all this while, the survival instinct. Even as he doesn't trust his left hand from the right one, Pete doesn't have a moment to pause, a moment to recapitulate. What he left, what he wanted to take with him. He was meticulously led into a dastardly trap, outmanouvered, out thought, until he started thinking himself. When fate rid him of all his mentors, on whom Pete relied and fell back, seeking a haven for his harrowing thoughts. It was cruel, Pete thought. How bad could things be? How out of luck can I be? How can this end up this way? How can I let this happen? It was then when Pete was left to himself, when he was alone, wounded and dangerous. It was then when a transformation overtook his mien. The metamorphosis triggered by an avalanche of foreboding situations, when there was not enough room of thought for any mindgames. Where it did not matter how it is going to happen. The tryst for the destination far outweighed the perils of the journey. Pete had his path clear. He did not think how he will make it. His emotional self permeated realms of such oblivion. His mien was now that of a firefly. To make it break it. The former he cant afford, and the latter is the only thing he was made for, until he was living a fool's paradise. Pete has the goods, all that separates him and his destiny is an insight, an ilking of himself. A self awareness, a concurrence of himself with himself. Where body meets the mind, and the most contagious of all fervors are concocted.
Pete, was like a bellwether, stranded on the cutting edge of an unknown territory without a compass. Pete was brought back to the present, as he just took a turn into a dingy alley and peeps around the corner, and sees them pass. Nefarious crusaders overwhelmed by their invidious beliefs, they are hunting. Pete was the hunted, only until now. When he knows how to turn the tables, when everything around simmers down to a cartesian logic, a simple question, routing only two choices, a yes or a no. Pete finds it all simple and worked out now. Its better to burn out than fade away...
With a discerning clarity of thought, this time Pete makes his move. A move so deadly in its entirety that it leaves no room for survival for the prey. A one shot prophecy. Pete looks on the other end of the alley and finds a trailer approaching. At this time of the night, when the city is grasped in chains of slumber and yet some arise to start their businesses, businesses of savages, the trailer was at a considerable speed, a speed where a target wont survive, once hit, even obliquely, there was finality of languishing, a definitive end was sure. With a confidence that estranged Pete for so long, he stood in the middle of the road, and saw the crusaders flying away, still in their fierce pursuit of their prey, but only this time the equations had differed, where the roles were mockingly interchanged, where they were the hunted. Pete whistled at them, as he was overtaken by a surreal sanity, so sure about himself, his actions. And they swiveled their vehicles, their hearse. When their eyes met, this was the first time Pete had a face-off with them. He was unfettered, at the disgust that fumigated the air around them. Pete did not bother to see their faces, to study his could-be captors. They had to end. Probably, he thought, its no point to ruminate over what is lost. For Pete they were already dead. Already slaughtered, their pertused remains spread on the street, immolated by his patience, eradicated by his tolerance. Their eyes met. And as if leaving a spoor to play around with kids in a park, Pete turned and started running. Just as he had thought, he heard them roaring behind him, shrieking their venomous intents towards him. Pete kept on running, without breathing, he did not need to. Because he was out of his self, an individual stretched beyond sanity's premises. They were catching up fast. As they nimbly made their way towards him. Pete wanted them to be close enough, close enough to their deaths. And then Pete could see what blood bath would ensue in the next few moments. He reached the crossing, on his left was the abiding trailer approaching, which would not even know what it just obliterated. Pete momentarily stopped to turn around, to get a last look of those pitiful creatures, the last time he would see them alive, not chasing him, but in the pursuit of death. Death became Pete.
Pete crossed the cross road, and watched it all fall into place. Those lunatics hurdling their ways towards him, and the trailer from the left, unflappable. And they met.
The moment froze and passed. No more a sound than a burst of a water balloon. No more liquid than the balloon could have. And the chasers were liquidated. Annhilated beyond recognition. Perhaps truth has its own ways of expressing itself, in a voice so forceful that it absorbs all other squeaks in its domain. An event so dramatic, that mere words, however felicitous are an understatement. Perhaps, truth is stranger than fiction.
Pete looked on and the progeny of that noise lay mashed on the cross road. A place which was of a strategic importance to him. A cross road where he left his ghosts behind, his skeletons, where he discards his closet. And moves on, towards a new sunrise. Where he waits, for special people, where the conventional meet. Where he can blend with the same pride with the environment as the people that matter to him. But only this time, Pete would be able enough to oversee ordeals on his own. The more stronger and succinctly intellectual who can be the paterfamilias, who has found his metier.
Pete turns around, shedding the detestable vista that just inhabited his mind. And walked away into the urbane calm of the night. With only his footsteps filling up the atmosphere, a sound of a firm, determined perambulation, possessing a direction. And he walks and walks, till he finds the people on either side of the road he came searching for, waiting for his arrival. And they see the apotheosis of Pete.
*****
Pete opens his eyes, dreary eyed, with the moisture diffusing the view. Slowly, the world around him came into focus. And he saw that everything around him has changed. Or is it his own mind set, his self analysis?
He realized the change that was evident, his spirit was unencumbered, and he was keen, less hung up and jumbled up in his thoughts. For once did an epochal phase came where Pete is what he want to be. Where he is the alpha and the omega. He rubs his eyes, beholden for the battle with his inner demons which just ended.
Sometimes, life gives you what you want, and gives it in a big way. It is our duty to treasure that and emerge as a stronger individual out of all the tumults. Perhaps, there is a hero in all of us. Its just a matter of individuality to perceive its incumbent reign and react conforming to the moment.
Live Strong.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
What the fuck!
I am happy. Satisfied. So devoid of frugality. I find myself backtalking to these guys who are so cautious of grades,C.G.s, projects and all the shit responsible for making life hell.
I have been overtaken by this sedentary state of affairs. Even as I know I am losing, am letting things just worsen, I look on. Not trying, not protesting to make a change. Its surreal. Its almost living a vision from a third person, some alter egoes, someone I don't know, but like I am standing with him, perhaps sipping an espresso and watch as some guy is being bamboozled with feebleness with arcane consistency and daunting scenarios beyond comprehensions. Its like being imbued with a stillness, like suffering a heart attack and have a laugh filled with the same muscle. Perhaps, I am amused with a fools demeanor, like waiting and watching the depth of anguish, falling and getting giddy, tickled with the wind sifting through my clothes, but the composure is still unnerving, knowing I will fall flat on my face, the outcome is so sure, so ominous. Its a drug which intoxicates, which numbs you beyond consceintious awareness. Which makes you break into a giggle, or even laugh hysterically, when you cut yourself, and observe as life drips out, oozing into a bright red stream. This quixoticity is what inhabits my mind. So aware I am losing every minute.But I don't even break into a despair, I am still smiling as I punch these keys, so relaxed, so damn careless. I even have an exam tomorrow, but heck at 2 am I am settling more 'important' issues here. My folks say, "Decide what's important. Think what matters at the moment. Figure out what you have to do. What will go a long way. Realize your purpose." But here I am spendthrift, reckless and nonchalant to all the jazz. The question with the most cartesian logistics arises that, "Why?" I don't know. I don't care. I don't want to know. But I know it should not last long. There are bigger, much more epochal things at stake here, which perhaps lay down the foundations for my life, define my identity in society, in my own eyes. Its not me who says that, social constraints do. Its not like I am not inclined to this profession, I am a cut-out, atleast I believe in that. Even if I am not, I would try as hell to be one. Provided I have a purpose. A purpose to live for, to dedicate myself to it, a purpose to die for. Till then I guess, I shall wait, saunter around this institute which guarantees a job at the end of four years. I have said that before. You guys who are with me when this blog was still nascent know that. But as the paradox of this life goes, proffering you unsavoring choices, taken with a pinch of salt. These very travails on my free spirit are the stairways to my summit. I have to bow, defer to them, yet am scared to show them my eyes. Eyes, which are your unoccluded passages of feelings. For they will meet resent and seditious crater of a hackeneyed life. These random spoonfuls are a consequence of the times when I cant bear, I cant put up. Scared to react in a way the world wouldn't allow, I find respite here. My haven.
I'll end now.
I don't want to.
I want to propose.
To depose.
To be inspired.
To wake up.
Or maybe, this is just a dream...I sincerely do hope that.
ooIIo oIIoo
I have been overtaken by this sedentary state of affairs. Even as I know I am losing, am letting things just worsen, I look on. Not trying, not protesting to make a change. Its surreal. Its almost living a vision from a third person, some alter egoes, someone I don't know, but like I am standing with him, perhaps sipping an espresso and watch as some guy is being bamboozled with feebleness with arcane consistency and daunting scenarios beyond comprehensions. Its like being imbued with a stillness, like suffering a heart attack and have a laugh filled with the same muscle. Perhaps, I am amused with a fools demeanor, like waiting and watching the depth of anguish, falling and getting giddy, tickled with the wind sifting through my clothes, but the composure is still unnerving, knowing I will fall flat on my face, the outcome is so sure, so ominous. Its a drug which intoxicates, which numbs you beyond consceintious awareness. Which makes you break into a giggle, or even laugh hysterically, when you cut yourself, and observe as life drips out, oozing into a bright red stream. This quixoticity is what inhabits my mind. So aware I am losing every minute.But I don't even break into a despair, I am still smiling as I punch these keys, so relaxed, so damn careless. I even have an exam tomorrow, but heck at 2 am I am settling more 'important' issues here. My folks say, "Decide what's important. Think what matters at the moment. Figure out what you have to do. What will go a long way. Realize your purpose." But here I am spendthrift, reckless and nonchalant to all the jazz. The question with the most cartesian logistics arises that, "Why?" I don't know. I don't care. I don't want to know. But I know it should not last long. There are bigger, much more epochal things at stake here, which perhaps lay down the foundations for my life, define my identity in society, in my own eyes. Its not me who says that, social constraints do. Its not like I am not inclined to this profession, I am a cut-out, atleast I believe in that. Even if I am not, I would try as hell to be one. Provided I have a purpose. A purpose to live for, to dedicate myself to it, a purpose to die for. Till then I guess, I shall wait, saunter around this institute which guarantees a job at the end of four years. I have said that before. You guys who are with me when this blog was still nascent know that. But as the paradox of this life goes, proffering you unsavoring choices, taken with a pinch of salt. These very travails on my free spirit are the stairways to my summit. I have to bow, defer to them, yet am scared to show them my eyes. Eyes, which are your unoccluded passages of feelings. For they will meet resent and seditious crater of a hackeneyed life. These random spoonfuls are a consequence of the times when I cant bear, I cant put up. Scared to react in a way the world wouldn't allow, I find respite here. My haven.
I'll end now.
I don't want to.
I want to propose.
To depose.
To be inspired.
To wake up.
Or maybe, this is just a dream...I sincerely do hope that.
ooIIo oIIoo
Pestered Pete
Now Pete is stranded. Pete is flummoxed. Like someone told that Tom Cruise is at the door, Pete doesn't know what to say. Ask him, "Hey Dude, Wassup?" Pete will probably think twice before answering. He may answer in the affirmative, but then questioning his own reply to himself. His schedule is all about the lack of it rather. And he is finding it comforting, has his own reasons to stay like that. But inside he feels someone resenting it. No life around, no interest to keep him busy. Its a National (with a capital 'N') college alright, is the obvious comeback, from some self respecting colleague, the rare souls who find a resonance here. Just like a mass in a simple harmonic motion, period equal to 24 hours, a to and fro motion between college and the room, Pete is looking for answers.
Daily encounters which make your faith lesser and lesser in the existence of god, happen and you are not even explained. Its like some butcher, chopping away poultry. Just grabbing the hen by the neck, and chop it off, with inhuman ferocity. Not listening to the helpless and futile cries of the prey. Just completing a task. Nothing personal, just business. Each pedagogic visage drips with a horrifying diabolique, a don't-mess-with-me look. The so called veterans, the guys who survived the system tell tales of their cruelties, Professors getting down to behaving so moronically, so degrading to their reputations and most of all the title they carry prefixing their names, 'Dr.' The venerated, otherwise, Warden, heading the race to become the most detested guy in the campus. His tales of meanness have spread across rooms, investing a rooted fear in each boarder. Intermittent encounters with articulates like Ravana just make your day even better. Pete is bartered between himself and the 'portion' of him that is offered to them each day. Such bartered are his thoughts. These guys can give Dick Cheney a run for his money on the Who Wants To Be A Moron, whenever it will be filmed. Music finds a confound importance in such scenarios. That corroborates the quirk that all engineering students are 'rock-heads', as humored by people and some magazines named as a three letter acronym. But they haven't even bothered to reason our delusional tendencies. When even guys who haven't heard anything else than songs in their regional languages start humming 'In the End', something very grave must be behind it. Because rock has angst, it touches your feelings in the most simple and inscrutable way. Anyways, that's how Pete is. talking pointlessly, talks going from the client-server stuff to music and then inexorably, girls, which are in such a rarity.
The other day me and Pete and me were conversing.
Pete said, "You know what, I came to a conclusion today. At the same time its not the end. Its just a state. Its..."
I cut in and said, "Pete, come to point dude..."
Pete said, "don't take it otherwise. but I feel that there is an acute lack of inclination I am having in the female population here. I mean I am not attracted to girls. Hell, I am not curious in anyone, about anyone. It wasn't the same way back home. I used to have a nice time checking them out, left, right and centre."
He guffawed. "I mean I am not interested in girls and I am not even gay ! "
I was prompt to have him by his wits. "Gosh! That's one hell of a revelation! Now I know what up with you...the moodswings, the lack of interest etc etc..." But I found that to be true with me too.
I noticed a sudden halt in some activity of my watchful eyes. Pete just put it in a better way. Its nothing lecherous on my part to state something in such candor. Its something we all do, whether we admit it or not, perhaps lying to ourselves and if you really don't, then Dudes, get a psycho done for yourselves.
Pete continued "I feel a leftout. Which side am I on?"
I complained, "Man, now you are talking out of your ass. Don't make me feel its not safe sitting near you..." Pete said, "You know it, C'mon. Its just a passing thought. One of the crap I keep talking all day. Perhaps, I even feel that I am unconsciously offending a lot of guys here. Damn, why is it only about 'guys' here. Some syllables like 'she' and 'her' are so missing in our conversation!"
I got the point. The commonality that we share sprung some conspicuous thickets of our erstwhile social setup, where both the sexes stayed in conjugated harmony. That was put in a more officious manner.
Pete was blunt, "Dude, this makes me miss my place."
Some things, really lacking here is this incoherent antagonism and an contemptuous unfamiliarity that stinks in this abysmal setup. Ignorance breeds contempt. An apt soothsaying, fits the due bill. Some bickering like this is contemplated time and again. At one point of time it seemed like a dystopic latitude, the accomodation contradicts the examiner. So much is happening around. Things which are unmentionable, or perhaps someone is too lazy to say anything.
After the clock struck 3...a.m. Pete finally retreated in the cudgels of slumbers, hoping for a better tomorrow, ensuing an ongoing process, a method which is going to have its effects. Someday.
PS:
But hey, no snickering at Pete. You would never understand. Sitting and just consuming ideas and feelings in front of your screens is as wasteful and inept as it gets. Pete is still straight!!!
Daily encounters which make your faith lesser and lesser in the existence of god, happen and you are not even explained. Its like some butcher, chopping away poultry. Just grabbing the hen by the neck, and chop it off, with inhuman ferocity. Not listening to the helpless and futile cries of the prey. Just completing a task. Nothing personal, just business. Each pedagogic visage drips with a horrifying diabolique, a don't-mess-with-me look. The so called veterans, the guys who survived the system tell tales of their cruelties, Professors getting down to behaving so moronically, so degrading to their reputations and most of all the title they carry prefixing their names, 'Dr.' The venerated, otherwise, Warden, heading the race to become the most detested guy in the campus. His tales of meanness have spread across rooms, investing a rooted fear in each boarder. Intermittent encounters with articulates like Ravana just make your day even better. Pete is bartered between himself and the 'portion' of him that is offered to them each day. Such bartered are his thoughts. These guys can give Dick Cheney a run for his money on the Who Wants To Be A Moron, whenever it will be filmed. Music finds a confound importance in such scenarios. That corroborates the quirk that all engineering students are 'rock-heads', as humored by people and some magazines named as a three letter acronym. But they haven't even bothered to reason our delusional tendencies. When even guys who haven't heard anything else than songs in their regional languages start humming 'In the End', something very grave must be behind it. Because rock has angst, it touches your feelings in the most simple and inscrutable way. Anyways, that's how Pete is. talking pointlessly, talks going from the client-server stuff to music and then inexorably, girls, which are in such a rarity.
The other day me and Pete and me were conversing.
Pete said, "You know what, I came to a conclusion today. At the same time its not the end. Its just a state. Its..."
I cut in and said, "Pete, come to point dude..."
Pete said, "don't take it otherwise. but I feel that there is an acute lack of inclination I am having in the female population here. I mean I am not attracted to girls. Hell, I am not curious in anyone, about anyone. It wasn't the same way back home. I used to have a nice time checking them out, left, right and centre."
He guffawed. "I mean I am not interested in girls and I am not even gay ! "
I was prompt to have him by his wits. "Gosh! That's one hell of a revelation! Now I know what up with you...the moodswings, the lack of interest etc etc..." But I found that to be true with me too.
I noticed a sudden halt in some activity of my watchful eyes. Pete just put it in a better way. Its nothing lecherous on my part to state something in such candor. Its something we all do, whether we admit it or not, perhaps lying to ourselves and if you really don't, then Dudes, get a psycho done for yourselves.
Pete continued "I feel a leftout. Which side am I on?"
I complained, "Man, now you are talking out of your ass. Don't make me feel its not safe sitting near you..." Pete said, "You know it, C'mon. Its just a passing thought. One of the crap I keep talking all day. Perhaps, I even feel that I am unconsciously offending a lot of guys here. Damn, why is it only about 'guys' here. Some syllables like 'she' and 'her' are so missing in our conversation!"
I got the point. The commonality that we share sprung some conspicuous thickets of our erstwhile social setup, where both the sexes stayed in conjugated harmony. That was put in a more officious manner.
Pete was blunt, "Dude, this makes me miss my place."
Some things, really lacking here is this incoherent antagonism and an contemptuous unfamiliarity that stinks in this abysmal setup. Ignorance breeds contempt. An apt soothsaying, fits the due bill. Some bickering like this is contemplated time and again. At one point of time it seemed like a dystopic latitude, the accomodation contradicts the examiner. So much is happening around. Things which are unmentionable, or perhaps someone is too lazy to say anything.
After the clock struck 3...a.m. Pete finally retreated in the cudgels of slumbers, hoping for a better tomorrow, ensuing an ongoing process, a method which is going to have its effects. Someday.
PS:
But hey, no snickering at Pete. You would never understand. Sitting and just consuming ideas and feelings in front of your screens is as wasteful and inept as it gets. Pete is still straight!!!
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Pete of the People
Dudes and dudettes, meet Pete. Pete is a run-of-the-mill fella from Delhi. Pete is 19 years old, going to 20. He often gets pensive when he thinks he's just on the verge of finishing his teens, completing the most radically disillusioned period of his life. More so that he is now stepping into the formative phase of his life, where the proverbial twist in the tale comes, where he would hopefully make something out of all the education he has undergone, until it made him stupid. Pete likes music, rock, soft rock, hard rock, pulp rock, alternative rock, no he is not a Flintstone! He was a reasonable student in his school, performing well and commendably till 8th grade, after that quixoticity took over which took a toll of al those marks, and Pete engaged in "other" excursions, which you know just happen with age. Even then Pete was responsible savoring with a sagacious conscience, his share of fun, and also be still among the brighter of the folk. Pete is now doing his engineering, he always wanted to be one. His college is one place where life and its blunders are wonderfully in tandem with each other, each co-exist and actually flourish, having a mysterious symbiosis between them.
Pete has an eye on the future with misty dreams in his dreamy eyes. Accounting his female engagements, Pete has got his share of failures and successes. Pete got beaten up by a high school bully in 9th grade, for a lass, the reaches of whose affinity knew no bounds of age and senses. She was the captivator, and our poor Pete was a captive, among others... But Pete had a resolve, a confidence in his eyes, which was miserably, though it was quite normal for that age, compromised for looks and money. Yeah, our Pete is a common dude, an inconspicuous face in the crowd but with an innocent smile, and a face which manages some furtive glances! But just the face, alright, below that all the proportionality had a field day. But apart from such silly yet inevitable pursuits, Pete never let go, never let down, a guy with a big heart, to love and be loved. Pete changed his school after he was finished with his 10th grade. This new school was not a smooth sail initially, Pete had a few hiccups with the staff there, Pete with attitude ok! Pete quickly absorbed the vibes, effortlessly get absorbed into a multitude of snobbish, snickering, harebrained and spendthrift teenagers, who held up their middle fingers to the slightest scorn they could gather, bitched around, leg-pulling dunces and nerds, including their 'friends' beyond respects. Pete had always known it, the in-your-face attitude that Pete had inherited from his education, this one was the one which did not come form the books but from the environs of his peers, a metro phenomenon, who 'small town' people find cold, but who cares? Pete did well there, passed out with some collectibles, memoirs and the most regretted, unspoken, unmentioned crushes. Pete had that stomach-butterfly syndrome, more rampant in his case, consternating and shying away from expressing his feelings, though he was a seamless talker and had no such reluctance to go ahead with people, irrespective of their sexes. Pete is a social animal. His mysterious belief in the rationality and wholesomeness of Human emotions, Pete is driven by philanthropy. Pete is a thinker, a guy who is average but who not only feels, but does justice to those feelings, except when those special somethings stop him in his tracks, ohoh! Pete has grown. As he takes his toothing steps into this world of haste and competiton. Pete surmises all that he has known, and is sometimes beaten by the callousnes of the ways of this life. And Pete questions all the humanity that is being so cheaply compromised. At crossroads, Pete recalculates his knowledge of the way the world goes around, much more than candy bars and video games. Pete is ridden by that simplicity that once spread over the feilds of his mind, the cool hue that made all so simple and lively. Pete feels lost between all these who are so busy for themslves, overtaken by their ownsleves.
Everyday, I see Pete, just round the corner. And we talk, he tells me about his observations, the subconscious and aware notes he makes about his people, his country. There are things that unnerve him, that titivate him and yet others after which we both dream and awe at the glory of the future. Pete tells me, what he feels, in the high corridoors of power, in the dingy offices where a crapulous Babu cribs about his life, on the signals, in the eyes of a beggar who is no older than 10, in the revelry of friends, throwing their heads back without a care in the world, so oblivious of what goes around them, which is in turn a seedling of a revolution, the primary prologue in the great things each one of us has the potential to accomplish. The common people, the public, the masses... Gullible, thinking, intelligent, gluttonous, meagre. The voices, the ramblings, the rumbunctions we all have to lament on the blunders and the prudence we all observe around us. Our interest, often overruled, cry out from each of ours minds. Speaking the truth, the sense which is so overshadowed by the fecklessness which survives on money and power, The cowards of the culverts who reagard us a whore, and consider it to their luxury to fondle with our lives. Who exploit rather than explore the power they have to change it. The public which is raped on crossroads, the crowd who cries and smiles with the same pitch in a cricket match, the mass which shares its anguishes and aspirations, but the pace of this metropolitan life had obfuscated the inter personal care and a appreciating nod of acknoledgement that we all deserve... Pete connects all of us. Pete is the apple pie each one of us is a part of, our share, gives its lurid yet phenomenal color.
Pete is average dude from the dungeons where our youth comes from, All in all he is just another Brick in the Wall! He is where each student, each guy, each gal, each young spirit is present, watching through their eyes, feeling for them, like them, thinking, observing, having his share of hurdles, his chase of the rooster this life is, the barn in which everyone is made to run around their lives, to catch their dreams. The amusing metaphoric correlation tells the nature and the stupor we all have, necks craned, backs bent, to seize opportunities...to catch the rooster! All in all, we all are in a rooster chase! Pete lives in our hearts, we all in someways have been like him, have some special interests, dreamt. Like Pete is special, like we all are. We all are exceptions, Exceptions from our drudgery. Yet some who are at the right place at the right are the stories that live to tell their tales, in their lives and forever. But, the plebian feature of not getting our share, poor lives, not even knowing their forte, the things that would give them nirvana, the remorse they would relish their entire lives, or perhaps things for which they could give their lives for. Pete is the commonness we all share, the congruity that transcends our masses. Pete is facile, Pete is stubborn. Pete is hopeless, Pete is vehement. Pete is confident and precise, Pete is anguished and vague. Pete is a question. Pete is a statement. Pete is a barrier. Pete is a potential. Pete is you.
Pete, whose sake is accounted for, though so casually in the english language. His affectations are a group of words which form an conceptual unit, a concept which explains pragamtism, a call for the truist intentions. Devoid of any materialistic concupiscence or malevolence, he represents the general strata, a name which is deeply confounded with the masses, Pete's sake is the sake of the populace.
So for Pete's sake...
Pete has an eye on the future with misty dreams in his dreamy eyes. Accounting his female engagements, Pete has got his share of failures and successes. Pete got beaten up by a high school bully in 9th grade, for a lass, the reaches of whose affinity knew no bounds of age and senses. She was the captivator, and our poor Pete was a captive, among others... But Pete had a resolve, a confidence in his eyes, which was miserably, though it was quite normal for that age, compromised for looks and money. Yeah, our Pete is a common dude, an inconspicuous face in the crowd but with an innocent smile, and a face which manages some furtive glances! But just the face, alright, below that all the proportionality had a field day. But apart from such silly yet inevitable pursuits, Pete never let go, never let down, a guy with a big heart, to love and be loved. Pete changed his school after he was finished with his 10th grade. This new school was not a smooth sail initially, Pete had a few hiccups with the staff there, Pete with attitude ok! Pete quickly absorbed the vibes, effortlessly get absorbed into a multitude of snobbish, snickering, harebrained and spendthrift teenagers, who held up their middle fingers to the slightest scorn they could gather, bitched around, leg-pulling dunces and nerds, including their 'friends' beyond respects. Pete had always known it, the in-your-face attitude that Pete had inherited from his education, this one was the one which did not come form the books but from the environs of his peers, a metro phenomenon, who 'small town' people find cold, but who cares? Pete did well there, passed out with some collectibles, memoirs and the most regretted, unspoken, unmentioned crushes. Pete had that stomach-butterfly syndrome, more rampant in his case, consternating and shying away from expressing his feelings, though he was a seamless talker and had no such reluctance to go ahead with people, irrespective of their sexes. Pete is a social animal. His mysterious belief in the rationality and wholesomeness of Human emotions, Pete is driven by philanthropy. Pete is a thinker, a guy who is average but who not only feels, but does justice to those feelings, except when those special somethings stop him in his tracks, ohoh! Pete has grown. As he takes his toothing steps into this world of haste and competiton. Pete surmises all that he has known, and is sometimes beaten by the callousnes of the ways of this life. And Pete questions all the humanity that is being so cheaply compromised. At crossroads, Pete recalculates his knowledge of the way the world goes around, much more than candy bars and video games. Pete is ridden by that simplicity that once spread over the feilds of his mind, the cool hue that made all so simple and lively. Pete feels lost between all these who are so busy for themslves, overtaken by their ownsleves.
Everyday, I see Pete, just round the corner. And we talk, he tells me about his observations, the subconscious and aware notes he makes about his people, his country. There are things that unnerve him, that titivate him and yet others after which we both dream and awe at the glory of the future. Pete tells me, what he feels, in the high corridoors of power, in the dingy offices where a crapulous Babu cribs about his life, on the signals, in the eyes of a beggar who is no older than 10, in the revelry of friends, throwing their heads back without a care in the world, so oblivious of what goes around them, which is in turn a seedling of a revolution, the primary prologue in the great things each one of us has the potential to accomplish. The common people, the public, the masses... Gullible, thinking, intelligent, gluttonous, meagre. The voices, the ramblings, the rumbunctions we all have to lament on the blunders and the prudence we all observe around us. Our interest, often overruled, cry out from each of ours minds. Speaking the truth, the sense which is so overshadowed by the fecklessness which survives on money and power, The cowards of the culverts who reagard us a whore, and consider it to their luxury to fondle with our lives. Who exploit rather than explore the power they have to change it. The public which is raped on crossroads, the crowd who cries and smiles with the same pitch in a cricket match, the mass which shares its anguishes and aspirations, but the pace of this metropolitan life had obfuscated the inter personal care and a appreciating nod of acknoledgement that we all deserve... Pete connects all of us. Pete is the apple pie each one of us is a part of, our share, gives its lurid yet phenomenal color.
Pete is average dude from the dungeons where our youth comes from, All in all he is just another Brick in the Wall! He is where each student, each guy, each gal, each young spirit is present, watching through their eyes, feeling for them, like them, thinking, observing, having his share of hurdles, his chase of the rooster this life is, the barn in which everyone is made to run around their lives, to catch their dreams. The amusing metaphoric correlation tells the nature and the stupor we all have, necks craned, backs bent, to seize opportunities...to catch the rooster! All in all, we all are in a rooster chase! Pete lives in our hearts, we all in someways have been like him, have some special interests, dreamt. Like Pete is special, like we all are. We all are exceptions, Exceptions from our drudgery. Yet some who are at the right place at the right are the stories that live to tell their tales, in their lives and forever. But, the plebian feature of not getting our share, poor lives, not even knowing their forte, the things that would give them nirvana, the remorse they would relish their entire lives, or perhaps things for which they could give their lives for. Pete is the commonness we all share, the congruity that transcends our masses. Pete is facile, Pete is stubborn. Pete is hopeless, Pete is vehement. Pete is confident and precise, Pete is anguished and vague. Pete is a question. Pete is a statement. Pete is a barrier. Pete is a potential. Pete is you.
Pete, whose sake is accounted for, though so casually in the english language. His affectations are a group of words which form an conceptual unit, a concept which explains pragamtism, a call for the truist intentions. Devoid of any materialistic concupiscence or malevolence, he represents the general strata, a name which is deeply confounded with the masses, Pete's sake is the sake of the populace.
So for Pete's sake...
Friday, March 24, 2006
Alone...or is it?
Several perspectives of my guilt have pushed me thus far, to ponder on what the meaning of this sedation is. The abstemious feelings, the scanty regard, all conspiring to hold something which blocks the light out, the obtuse calm that I carry, the tranquility that keeps with me now. And this very state is a pain for them, a restless scrambling that unsettles me, is the pursuit that keeps them busy. Such animosity and an profound antagonism from what used to be my company, my solace untill they fell, and still are.
As I sit on this promontory of my thoughts, with a deportment of Atlas, who rests with an eerie passiveness, the silence of his entity is deafening. I look down to see simpletons with shamefully diverse needs that don't have an origin within themselves, driving them to heights of insanity and desperation. Their vehement but inconsequential efforts makes them throw stones, their own volley of insults which heightens their already feverish pitch. They are pushing themselves relentlessly, pushing themselves beyond pragmatism, just to iron out any creases in their regimen, which is quivering with self-doubt. As the stones and rocks breeze past my biological incarnation, some bruising, some fleeting, some flailing wildly, thereby missing and some which strike, make a contact, and is greeted by a simultaneous cheer and satisfaction among them. As I bleed, my blood is the ice on their injuries, numbing their uneasiness, making their egos inflated , chest beating like a ritual to banish all the outcastes. Their carbuncles are self inflicted, as a motif more to the others than to themselves, to show other gullible men and women the solemnity of their aspirations. As I bleed, I find them smiling, whining in pleasure, throwing their limbs in air, in an unabashed reverie.
But I sit unmoved, in a stoic, unflappable demeanor, wonder where will we end up, thinking about the chaos theory which makes the drop in this ocean of anguish into tsunami of rebellion, into a wave of awakening. I get up, shaken back to the present, and walk away, leaving a trail of bloody outlines, a trail of my feet, while they scorn me off as a coward of the culvert, that I show my back to them, that I just cant take anymore. This gives them a otiose premise to beckon me, explaining me my ostracised state. I am not concerned, mysteriously, I am contended if I find the paucity of my peers. Even as I am apathetically aware of my surroundings, the derision which is often as escape for themselves, I am unshackled, but pull myself tighter and harder, not to let their futility find a way into my head, the frugality that their lives have become.
Some people decide which side they are on, some people explain to other, often selfishly, which side to be on, yet some others don't bother, follow others, simply disregarding such elementary and seminal choices which shape their destinies. And then their are others who make their own sides, who walk out of bounds, the trespassers, the consumers of the apple, the curious convalescents, recovering from what they have understood as the blasphemy in this living. These 'dudes' push, they burst the bubble, often do things out of reason, they streamline mankinds approach, often to show the way, to call their brethen and abandon their unfruitful trysts, but also to justify our means, to provide the anti-thesis of all things bright and beautiful, to make us realize the worth of what we have, and to capitalize on that. My mere realisations of such seemingly illusional definitions, relates that longing to break free, to run naked like a child, to laugh for hours at nothing, to walk in the rains. I usually still do, just to hide my tears.
"I know you're out there. I can feel you now. I know that you're afraid... afraid of us. You're afraid of change. I don't know the future. I didn't come here to tell you how this is going to end. I came here to tell how it's going to begin..."
As I sit on this promontory of my thoughts, with a deportment of Atlas, who rests with an eerie passiveness, the silence of his entity is deafening. I look down to see simpletons with shamefully diverse needs that don't have an origin within themselves, driving them to heights of insanity and desperation. Their vehement but inconsequential efforts makes them throw stones, their own volley of insults which heightens their already feverish pitch. They are pushing themselves relentlessly, pushing themselves beyond pragmatism, just to iron out any creases in their regimen, which is quivering with self-doubt. As the stones and rocks breeze past my biological incarnation, some bruising, some fleeting, some flailing wildly, thereby missing and some which strike, make a contact, and is greeted by a simultaneous cheer and satisfaction among them. As I bleed, my blood is the ice on their injuries, numbing their uneasiness, making their egos inflated , chest beating like a ritual to banish all the outcastes. Their carbuncles are self inflicted, as a motif more to the others than to themselves, to show other gullible men and women the solemnity of their aspirations. As I bleed, I find them smiling, whining in pleasure, throwing their limbs in air, in an unabashed reverie.
But I sit unmoved, in a stoic, unflappable demeanor, wonder where will we end up, thinking about the chaos theory which makes the drop in this ocean of anguish into tsunami of rebellion, into a wave of awakening. I get up, shaken back to the present, and walk away, leaving a trail of bloody outlines, a trail of my feet, while they scorn me off as a coward of the culvert, that I show my back to them, that I just cant take anymore. This gives them a otiose premise to beckon me, explaining me my ostracised state. I am not concerned, mysteriously, I am contended if I find the paucity of my peers. Even as I am apathetically aware of my surroundings, the derision which is often as escape for themselves, I am unshackled, but pull myself tighter and harder, not to let their futility find a way into my head, the frugality that their lives have become.
Some people decide which side they are on, some people explain to other, often selfishly, which side to be on, yet some others don't bother, follow others, simply disregarding such elementary and seminal choices which shape their destinies. And then their are others who make their own sides, who walk out of bounds, the trespassers, the consumers of the apple, the curious convalescents, recovering from what they have understood as the blasphemy in this living. These 'dudes' push, they burst the bubble, often do things out of reason, they streamline mankinds approach, often to show the way, to call their brethen and abandon their unfruitful trysts, but also to justify our means, to provide the anti-thesis of all things bright and beautiful, to make us realize the worth of what we have, and to capitalize on that. My mere realisations of such seemingly illusional definitions, relates that longing to break free, to run naked like a child, to laugh for hours at nothing, to walk in the rains. I usually still do, just to hide my tears.
"I know you're out there. I can feel you now. I know that you're afraid... afraid of us. You're afraid of change. I don't know the future. I didn't come here to tell you how this is going to end. I came here to tell how it's going to begin..."
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Du Hast, Du Hast Mich...Don't You????
Me and my equally delinquent friend in Chennai had a long and costly(he was on the dialed end)gibberish over the phone. There were waffles on everything except how both of us are doing. He and me share the most wackiest and disoriented confluence of brains, but dude, love our instinctivity and off handedness.
Tell you what, three bottles of vodka, Brittany Murphy in bed and one hour of crap exchanged between us, all have the same effects over a psyche. But hell it depends on who's at the receiving end. Barring what it is to us, this conversation can be an almost nauseating, can cause acute malaise...Statutory Warning! The sense of accomplishment at still being good at that innate absurdity that is almost primal to us, once drove us to another blunder that "Why don't all these Agencies hire us as using smoke screens to misguide any spies any double agents" Surely we would make a great lunatic dissolutes who give the impression that either the country is feeding its people on stale food or they are simply not being fed! In some 900 seconds, this topic of German came up, and I lamented that, the best way to learn a language is to start with its abuses. This way the boresome tint is defogged, and you find the language interesting, imagine you try to learn simple scentences and always finish them with some swearing word! It is all the more productive, actually! Why doesn't our education minister think about that! The curriculum can be best left to the students then! I have this German Club near my college premises, called the Max Mueller library. I was taunted by one of the more literary people in my batch (you know who you are, girl!) the other day, that I wouldn't even know it exists. This sparks off another epiphany, which is perfectly congruous with my condition here. Because I was...no 'am'...not that bad. So this blog title is a progeny of all that stupidity that is alive online and cramming the speech 'decoders'(a necessity in our case) of perhaps CIA or the Mossad, which will eventually spark off and smoulder (we owe to Uncle Sam!, Uncle Sam needs us!) because if they really do keep a watch on any senseless talk over the phone networks across the world, which may not be that senseless afterall, may be the planning of bombing their own PM's bathroom, ours is an open and shut case!
Now ask yourself, what you just did after you manage to keep yourself interested to reach the end of this 'shit' (Darling, if you are reading this, tell me your phone number, I'll personally give off the Survivor's Trophy to you!), you would gather absolutely nothing except you wasted some of your could-be-better-spent time
Anyways, thanks for bearing.
Du Hast, Du Hast Mich...Dont You???
Tell you what, three bottles of vodka, Brittany Murphy in bed and one hour of crap exchanged between us, all have the same effects over a psyche. But hell it depends on who's at the receiving end. Barring what it is to us, this conversation can be an almost nauseating, can cause acute malaise...Statutory Warning! The sense of accomplishment at still being good at that innate absurdity that is almost primal to us, once drove us to another blunder that "Why don't all these Agencies hire us as using smoke screens to misguide any spies any double agents" Surely we would make a great lunatic dissolutes who give the impression that either the country is feeding its people on stale food or they are simply not being fed! In some 900 seconds, this topic of German came up, and I lamented that, the best way to learn a language is to start with its abuses. This way the boresome tint is defogged, and you find the language interesting, imagine you try to learn simple scentences and always finish them with some swearing word! It is all the more productive, actually! Why doesn't our education minister think about that! The curriculum can be best left to the students then! I have this German Club near my college premises, called the Max Mueller library. I was taunted by one of the more literary people in my batch (you know who you are, girl!) the other day, that I wouldn't even know it exists. This sparks off another epiphany, which is perfectly congruous with my condition here. Because I was...no 'am'...not that bad. So this blog title is a progeny of all that stupidity that is alive online and cramming the speech 'decoders'(a necessity in our case) of perhaps CIA or the Mossad, which will eventually spark off and smoulder (we owe to Uncle Sam!, Uncle Sam needs us!) because if they really do keep a watch on any senseless talk over the phone networks across the world, which may not be that senseless afterall, may be the planning of bombing their own PM's bathroom, ours is an open and shut case!
Now ask yourself, what you just did after you manage to keep yourself interested to reach the end of this 'shit' (Darling, if you are reading this, tell me your phone number, I'll personally give off the Survivor's Trophy to you!), you would gather absolutely nothing except you wasted some of your could-be-better-spent time
Anyways, thanks for bearing.
Du Hast, Du Hast Mich...Dont You???
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Bolt without a Clue!
Holla people, after that gauche revelation, things are still as they were and no, I haven't yet been caught by those lunatic asylum guys who have masqueraded into my college's premises in the guises of my professors. Hmmm....reports of abductions of senile men have been doing the rounds....Elementary my dear Watson! Ok Ok! I swear no more of these futile mouthfuls in this post...
With some 12 minutes left before a sinister demon who goes about with the lovable coined nickname of "Ravana" begins plundering the hapless people of this Lanka, (atleast for an hour) I have an inscrutable urge to rush back home.... went yesterday for having my reservation done on the quintessential Utkal Express, the very mention of which is the catalysis of our nostalgia, albeit (some punk commenting on my blog writes that as 'albit', people these days you know!!!) all the abomination that Indian Railways are for there always... Sitting at the counter at the station with a few of my mates, the reticent announcer's deadpan voice filled the space every now and then after that inconspicuous railway-ish jingle, wasn't just any perfunctory employee's apathetic burble, it was the rainfall on the parched earth of our hearts... My home, my place, my people and most of all the mess which I would be away from, in more sanitized and anti-'septic' environs. God! Are we all in a time wrap? Wonder if god had a blog! I would be the first and last guy to post comments on it.
Anyways, after all the ado, where it is locked safely in the safe in the attic where Ravana cant reach it, the mathematics of the moment result in a hectic time ahead. For all once in a while I have decided, I repeat, I have decided to study...No, I do mean it....to study in this 'year' and bid goodbye with less piqued memoirs of my momentous stay so far in this abbatoir. Lucky to be alive, eh? So adios to all the ruminations about 'breaking the code', about 'to finally get down to it' and for once Act! You must have heard about that joke that goes around, like in my case, where my 'curriculum' is just like a filthy pig, the more you ignore it the more devious it becomes, which is like wrestling with it in the mud, and it enjoys more and more... Guess I have to get my hands dirty... wrestle with the pig, who is a simulacrum of all the professors I have got, who just love it, anytime of the day, nothing more satisfying is to them when they bleep with the same contentment and glee as that kid (or is he...) in that McDonalds jingle...Ta ra ta ra raa, "I'm Loving it!"
And now I'll run with have myself gathering whatever I can of my books and pants..and today I will not forget to close my zipper, which to my utter shame when I was pointed out by one of my classmates after I had so conviniently breezed past the whole gathering with the most oblivious demeanor! Yes, I always have to get myself into such breakneck situations, and the susceptibility is inexplicable, often leding to abject conseqences. This quality which is more of a pain to others, especially my mom, is such a constant that its been one of my primal character traits. Hope I make it on time, and come back...Alive. Its Ravana, you know!
With some 12 minutes left before a sinister demon who goes about with the lovable coined nickname of "Ravana" begins plundering the hapless people of this Lanka, (atleast for an hour) I have an inscrutable urge to rush back home.... went yesterday for having my reservation done on the quintessential Utkal Express, the very mention of which is the catalysis of our nostalgia, albeit (some punk commenting on my blog writes that as 'albit', people these days you know!!!) all the abomination that Indian Railways are for there always... Sitting at the counter at the station with a few of my mates, the reticent announcer's deadpan voice filled the space every now and then after that inconspicuous railway-ish jingle, wasn't just any perfunctory employee's apathetic burble, it was the rainfall on the parched earth of our hearts... My home, my place, my people and most of all the mess which I would be away from, in more sanitized and anti-'septic' environs. God! Are we all in a time wrap? Wonder if god had a blog! I would be the first and last guy to post comments on it.
Anyways, after all the ado, where it is locked safely in the safe in the attic where Ravana cant reach it, the mathematics of the moment result in a hectic time ahead. For all once in a while I have decided, I repeat, I have decided to study...No, I do mean it....to study in this 'year' and bid goodbye with less piqued memoirs of my momentous stay so far in this abbatoir. Lucky to be alive, eh? So adios to all the ruminations about 'breaking the code', about 'to finally get down to it' and for once Act! You must have heard about that joke that goes around, like in my case, where my 'curriculum' is just like a filthy pig, the more you ignore it the more devious it becomes, which is like wrestling with it in the mud, and it enjoys more and more... Guess I have to get my hands dirty... wrestle with the pig, who is a simulacrum of all the professors I have got, who just love it, anytime of the day, nothing more satisfying is to them when they bleep with the same contentment and glee as that kid (or is he...) in that McDonalds jingle...Ta ra ta ra raa, "I'm Loving it!"
And now I'll run with have myself gathering whatever I can of my books and pants..and today I will not forget to close my zipper, which to my utter shame when I was pointed out by one of my classmates after I had so conviniently breezed past the whole gathering with the most oblivious demeanor! Yes, I always have to get myself into such breakneck situations, and the susceptibility is inexplicable, often leding to abject conseqences. This quality which is more of a pain to others, especially my mom, is such a constant that its been one of my primal character traits. Hope I make it on time, and come back...Alive. Its Ravana, you know!
Monday, March 20, 2006
I Walk Alone...
Have you ever got the feeling, that you are an apparition among these people around you, that when you look behind you and find a hazy and blurred space which in its entirety niches you, and a small window on the far end siphons whatever social conformity you are managing, the other world, everyone's world, the sanctuary... Wierd relations. Wierder feelings. The pall of exclusivity, not out of ignorance, self evasion or worst of all, condescension. Just the retreatment of yourself in yourself, that you feel at home. Nothing to care about, no barriers, no answers, no questions, no explanations. If its parochialism, then I am one, a racist. A Nazi whose state is self, the Jews are the scorned and hated sophists, who would be Bachau-ed on any obtrusion. Not a megalomaniac, not a recluse, I am, neither am averse of anyone around me. But sometimes feel that the world simply isn't worth it. Bastards evasive to reality, evasive to pragmatic stupor, of their worth, speaking out of turn, out of hierarchy...out of narcissism. Those mindless self assuming bigshots who don't have an ear for sensibility, who plunder humans for undeserving attention and importance, and those 'humans' lacking every bit of empathy and honor are tempted to manufacture a camaderie of stupidity, a congregation of fools, a conglomerate of the miserables. Worthless.
Not that I overlook all the good in the world, not that I am not at the askance of sanity, but the seperateness which is existent is something I revel in, its my fortress. This eternal phase is the love that I have for someone, some story waiting for its characters, where only I am the audience, not that I have any pretentions, any paucity of tolerance in me, that I want the best, I don't even deserve the mundanity... but I am what makes me one, what I am. I am not stating it, not proving a point. Its my world. I would rather be locked in myself than be a part of something, someone, I am a part of me. Just lay bare on the floor where I am one with the nature, the rawness that I am born with. I have tried, literally made myself upto people, made them feel better, made myself a agreement to some hypocrite's definition of a man, a "social animal". A loner, is assumed to be imbued with self doubt and complexities, but people who read this and have known me know the way I am, I defy the defintion. Those people, who have been so falsifying with their worth, with their capabilities, that they flabbergasted me with my efforts, its not sad, its not shameful, its disappointing. People who still stand unto their mirthful lives, which is totally devoid of anything worhwhile. But what has kept me deferring to this social activity is the presence of some very special people who are there not to talk to, not to reflect, not to spend time with they are there to marvel, to appreciate. I learn from them. Which ever path that I may tread, I have the emboldening gifts of their company. But then is the teacher teaching that to learn is to die, that it is something done by dead minds. Yes. my teachers in life taught me to think. I have been considerate to mingle with people's harebrained jingles, and that was not intended to rhyme....anyways. I have got my basics. Basics of purpose, where I am the hunter, the overlord. I do not intend to control anyone. I don't have an agenda, no commitments. I would rather watch this widespread realm of the rat race, stake dimes on those creatures working thier wits out in lust for mere ephemeral comforts and in the process are squandering their swarthy fates. I will commit. I will fight. I will love. I will be hated. But I will say my mind. I wont be there to please people, to squander their senses of their dispositions, to pamper my motives out of them.
Each event shakes my hope, my desperations, to be a desperate, to be the average conformist, the sluggish guy who langurously lives through challenges, I have made an honest effort to behave like an average, mundane being who has his cup of worries, often self inflicted. In my near past, I have been a captive to problems which are second nature to the disposition that I posses. I was a wannabe destitute. I don't loathe people, I am not one frustrated person who has had enough with his spells of success and is now just awaiting death, wasting away in the process. But in this city of the mindless where we all have our goddamned baggages to wad around with. Flummoxed with the simplicities of life, when people scrutinize the eternal, express their ineptitude for a higher living, I chose myself, no group, no organizations. I cry for deliverance. The shackles to which I had the key are stripped, which were to pacify the depressed to revel in finding another excuse for their upsets. And they now adorn those same dilutes as they haste in securing the key with the ferocities comapritive of the devoring hunger for meat ina pond of piranhas, which I toss in their multitudes, and dont even look back at them in their delirium. My pointless quest to unearth the cartographers to this world just ended, or rather given up. There is no one,no one who walks along, no one to look at no one to share with. I walk alone. far away from the madding crowd, of which I was such a involved part of, or so it seemed...
Just a while ago...
I dont know if I should post this, this musing may be a stark interpretaion of any sadism or high dudgeons or whatever that may be in your mind, or may just doom me. But what the hell, is this world worth any concern. I am being myself. I rest assured.
Not that I overlook all the good in the world, not that I am not at the askance of sanity, but the seperateness which is existent is something I revel in, its my fortress. This eternal phase is the love that I have for someone, some story waiting for its characters, where only I am the audience, not that I have any pretentions, any paucity of tolerance in me, that I want the best, I don't even deserve the mundanity... but I am what makes me one, what I am. I am not stating it, not proving a point. Its my world. I would rather be locked in myself than be a part of something, someone, I am a part of me. Just lay bare on the floor where I am one with the nature, the rawness that I am born with. I have tried, literally made myself upto people, made them feel better, made myself a agreement to some hypocrite's definition of a man, a "social animal". A loner, is assumed to be imbued with self doubt and complexities, but people who read this and have known me know the way I am, I defy the defintion. Those people, who have been so falsifying with their worth, with their capabilities, that they flabbergasted me with my efforts, its not sad, its not shameful, its disappointing. People who still stand unto their mirthful lives, which is totally devoid of anything worhwhile. But what has kept me deferring to this social activity is the presence of some very special people who are there not to talk to, not to reflect, not to spend time with they are there to marvel, to appreciate. I learn from them. Which ever path that I may tread, I have the emboldening gifts of their company. But then is the teacher teaching that to learn is to die, that it is something done by dead minds. Yes. my teachers in life taught me to think. I have been considerate to mingle with people's harebrained jingles, and that was not intended to rhyme....anyways. I have got my basics. Basics of purpose, where I am the hunter, the overlord. I do not intend to control anyone. I don't have an agenda, no commitments. I would rather watch this widespread realm of the rat race, stake dimes on those creatures working thier wits out in lust for mere ephemeral comforts and in the process are squandering their swarthy fates. I will commit. I will fight. I will love. I will be hated. But I will say my mind. I wont be there to please people, to squander their senses of their dispositions, to pamper my motives out of them.
Each event shakes my hope, my desperations, to be a desperate, to be the average conformist, the sluggish guy who langurously lives through challenges, I have made an honest effort to behave like an average, mundane being who has his cup of worries, often self inflicted. In my near past, I have been a captive to problems which are second nature to the disposition that I posses. I was a wannabe destitute. I don't loathe people, I am not one frustrated person who has had enough with his spells of success and is now just awaiting death, wasting away in the process. But in this city of the mindless where we all have our goddamned baggages to wad around with. Flummoxed with the simplicities of life, when people scrutinize the eternal, express their ineptitude for a higher living, I chose myself, no group, no organizations. I cry for deliverance. The shackles to which I had the key are stripped, which were to pacify the depressed to revel in finding another excuse for their upsets. And they now adorn those same dilutes as they haste in securing the key with the ferocities comapritive of the devoring hunger for meat ina pond of piranhas, which I toss in their multitudes, and dont even look back at them in their delirium. My pointless quest to unearth the cartographers to this world just ended, or rather given up. There is no one,no one who walks along, no one to look at no one to share with. I walk alone. far away from the madding crowd, of which I was such a involved part of, or so it seemed...
Just a while ago...
I dont know if I should post this, this musing may be a stark interpretaion of any sadism or high dudgeons or whatever that may be in your mind, or may just doom me. But what the hell, is this world worth any concern. I am being myself. I rest assured.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
On a Song!
Here is something that I was done with in 10 minutes and was the first thing I wrote when I got up this "afternoon", mornings are strictly on weekdays (those damned classes...). Its supposed to find a melody from my friend back in Delhi who has this seemingly perpetual urge of composing songs, mainly hip-hop or rock, this however suits the latter genre. Ankit Malik, my dear readers, my favorite artist, who has got more multi-platinums up than U2 or Floyd put together. And don't be smart enough to point out the obvious people. Our time in high school was more about "which artist" rather than "which assignment". Ask him what's he doing even after months when you call him up, this "art form" is sure to find a mention. But hope this long furnished conviction materializes and we get to hear it finally this time, because man, I don't even have a copy of those million copies you sold from Pyongyang to Pyrenees...
,....................................................................................................,
Like a Firefly
I need to breathe, I need to stare
At what's this canvas of my life,
Which was so bare.
Has been trampled under feet.
Footprints on it.
Mud and Shit.
Feels like I'm falling into a deep dark pit
Where there's no end, I am still holding on
There is no limit, no feet for me to lie on
And yet I have set my eyes on the sky
Its limits, where I have set my sights on.
Chorus:
Like a firefly.
Seven mere seconds left in my life
One for the struggle, one for the fight
One for the determination, one for my will
One for the resolve that brought me so far,
One for the action, and the last for the kill.
Memories are morning dew fresh
Of the betrayal, when you are put through the test
No more doubts no more regrets
No more ghosts that haunt me in my head
Its all too sure sure now, its as worse as it gets.
I will bid all farewells to the ones my heart belongs
I am done with myself, my roses and their thorns
Now I have the motive that binds all my thoughts
That crosses all barriers, all hills and the rocks
No more worries now, no passing thoughts
Go make hay, as my life goes for a toss...
Chorus:
Like a firefly.
Seven mere seconds left in my life
One for the struggle, one for the fight
One for the determination, one for my will
One for the resolve that brought me so far,
One for the action, and the last for the kill.
,....................................................................................................,
Authors Comments: (Was that necessary anyways, well then let the fool carry on!)
Open to illusions, closed to wisecrack.
This in all possible criticizing analyses (If any crapulous soul happens to wad his way here and blesses me with his or her precious time) could be bludgeoned as a waffle, or may end up as a gag or a satire footnoted by some ghastly columnist oh-so-concerned "God! where has all the talent gone?", I would like to "snatch" to say in master euphemism that its a puerile yet perceptibly grave piece of poetry from someone who has just learnt to rhyme...
I cant promise the moon ok! (any self respecting blogger's corny way out from sneers)
Ask for a Lamborghini, you get a Hot Wheels....of a troika!
And by the (overbearing) way, to make matters worse , I love Clark Gable when he said "Frankly dear, I don't give a damn!"
,....................................................................................................,
Like a Firefly
I need to breathe, I need to stare
At what's this canvas of my life,
Which was so bare.
Has been trampled under feet.
Footprints on it.
Mud and Shit.
Feels like I'm falling into a deep dark pit
Where there's no end, I am still holding on
There is no limit, no feet for me to lie on
And yet I have set my eyes on the sky
Its limits, where I have set my sights on.
Chorus:
Like a firefly.
Seven mere seconds left in my life
One for the struggle, one for the fight
One for the determination, one for my will
One for the resolve that brought me so far,
One for the action, and the last for the kill.
Memories are morning dew fresh
Of the betrayal, when you are put through the test
No more doubts no more regrets
No more ghosts that haunt me in my head
Its all too sure sure now, its as worse as it gets.
I will bid all farewells to the ones my heart belongs
I am done with myself, my roses and their thorns
Now I have the motive that binds all my thoughts
That crosses all barriers, all hills and the rocks
No more worries now, no passing thoughts
Go make hay, as my life goes for a toss...
Chorus:
Like a firefly.
Seven mere seconds left in my life
One for the struggle, one for the fight
One for the determination, one for my will
One for the resolve that brought me so far,
One for the action, and the last for the kill.
,....................................................................................................,
Authors Comments: (Was that necessary anyways, well then let the fool carry on!)
Open to illusions, closed to wisecrack.
This in all possible criticizing analyses (If any crapulous soul happens to wad his way here and blesses me with his or her precious time) could be bludgeoned as a waffle, or may end up as a gag or a satire footnoted by some ghastly columnist oh-so-concerned "God! where has all the talent gone?", I would like to "snatch" to say in master euphemism that its a puerile yet perceptibly grave piece of poetry from someone who has just learnt to rhyme...
I cant promise the moon ok! (any self respecting blogger's corny way out from sneers)
Ask for a Lamborghini, you get a Hot Wheels....of a troika!
And by the (overbearing) way, to make matters worse , I love Clark Gable when he said "Frankly dear, I don't give a damn!"
Friday, March 17, 2006
Strings...
Strings Rules.
The simplicity of a kindergarten kid in their lyrics, and the philosophy of Plato that seeps through their songs. To compliment, they are fixture on any of my blogging bouts! I have them in the background, and their music provides the oil which lubricates my mental machinery.
This band you know, there is this unheard and by far unnoticed verdance of thoughts and expression in their songs. After Dhaani, they have simply ruined and annihilated the Indian Pop scene, maybe brought about the negative catalysis which in its high time to occur, the industry that once used to be has ceased to exist. With Pakistani bands being "parasitic", according to the frustrated ones, to our market and countering their presence by ranting about the lack of reciprocation from the Pakistani side as well, where our artists are not even allowed to take on a stage. Its even heard that Lata Mangeshkar is not played on their radio, or whatever they have up in the air, perhaps their ATCs double up as RJs due to lack of aircrafts of maybe pilots. But we have hour long dedicated programs on Ghulam Ali, Mehdi Hassan etc etc... But ask yourselves one elementary question, "Does it really matter?" Please people, step out of that sadistic state, so cheaply defended in the name of patriotism. Does it really matter? Is it that Lataji is not a household name there, would not Ghulam Ali be known if that radio program be there? Its nothing but a situation which can be pitied and left. It does pica you when there is such one sidedness to affairs. But lets say they don't deserve good music, atleast they present themselves like that. Screw Them. Short and Sweet cursing, the art of pissing off! I am getting good at it each day.
Music knows no boundaries, the cliched statement deserves a mention. Yes, art is what binds, what relates, elates and belates human emotions. The fervor is carried across natural and manmade boundaries. And as far as Pakistani bands making moolah, every note of their creations deserves it. They are here because people want them to be. Jal, Strings among others are ubiquitous names. And on the part of Pakistani government, they just need to wake up to the 'real word", and that is highly unlikely because Musharraf (hope don't get an ISI agent behind my ass if I messed up with that spelling...) is no Neo, No Mr. Anderson. That's another matter that I would love to play Smith in this case. And the only pill he can take is the antidote to the bio weapons he has in his backyard! Or maybe the loose digestion he has been having after eating too much aboard Indian Airlines!
Ciao.
And the rant shall carry on.
The simplicity of a kindergarten kid in their lyrics, and the philosophy of Plato that seeps through their songs. To compliment, they are fixture on any of my blogging bouts! I have them in the background, and their music provides the oil which lubricates my mental machinery.
This band you know, there is this unheard and by far unnoticed verdance of thoughts and expression in their songs. After Dhaani, they have simply ruined and annihilated the Indian Pop scene, maybe brought about the negative catalysis which in its high time to occur, the industry that once used to be has ceased to exist. With Pakistani bands being "parasitic", according to the frustrated ones, to our market and countering their presence by ranting about the lack of reciprocation from the Pakistani side as well, where our artists are not even allowed to take on a stage. Its even heard that Lata Mangeshkar is not played on their radio, or whatever they have up in the air, perhaps their ATCs double up as RJs due to lack of aircrafts of maybe pilots. But we have hour long dedicated programs on Ghulam Ali, Mehdi Hassan etc etc... But ask yourselves one elementary question, "Does it really matter?" Please people, step out of that sadistic state, so cheaply defended in the name of patriotism. Does it really matter? Is it that Lataji is not a household name there, would not Ghulam Ali be known if that radio program be there? Its nothing but a situation which can be pitied and left. It does pica you when there is such one sidedness to affairs. But lets say they don't deserve good music, atleast they present themselves like that. Screw Them. Short and Sweet cursing, the art of pissing off! I am getting good at it each day.
Music knows no boundaries, the cliched statement deserves a mention. Yes, art is what binds, what relates, elates and belates human emotions. The fervor is carried across natural and manmade boundaries. And as far as Pakistani bands making moolah, every note of their creations deserves it. They are here because people want them to be. Jal, Strings among others are ubiquitous names. And on the part of Pakistani government, they just need to wake up to the 'real word", and that is highly unlikely because Musharraf (hope don't get an ISI agent behind my ass if I messed up with that spelling...) is no Neo, No Mr. Anderson. That's another matter that I would love to play Smith in this case. And the only pill he can take is the antidote to the bio weapons he has in his backyard! Or maybe the loose digestion he has been having after eating too much aboard Indian Airlines!
Ciao.
And the rant shall carry on.
And the twain shall meet...
Wait you all people, yeah I am still here to blast my academic misdemeanors happening, mainly self triggered idiocities :P (Damn the blogger doesn't have emoticons...) but just passing thoughts, you will see more of these now and then... God! Am I infatuated with piano these days, being a self respecting instrument player, I played the tabla not so long ago, yes even I can play that, and you guessed it right, you are a waste! My college belong to a group of colleges who go around the place with the name of NIT, and this acronym has been blasted, translated, disfigured out of proportions! Now you know which kinds of engagements do we guys have, worthless... huh. anyways, its no point to fathom perfection, so I was saying, we had this inter NIT football meet, in our college. The news was itself scorned off as an administrative blunder which eventually came out to be true, there was no, yes NO, audience at all, regardless of the fact that we have a "relatively" good team, people were more happy off in their hostels doing things which either don't deserve a mention and even more worthless things, checking mails...
Anyways, there was this guy from VNIT Nagpur, Shantanu something, we talked and shared common interests. Same branches, and he played the tabla too, if may I dare delve deeper, we were of the same gharanas (thank god, atleast I remembered that), to the cause of my uninitiated readers, there are gharanas which represent different styles of hand movements on the instrument. And then the most natural question, common lexicon stuff between 'us' guys, he asked my teacher, and then the lights went off... I could'nt remember his name... I was ashamed, as if stripped barenaked in public. I shied away. Procrastinated the answer and to add insult to the injury, I admitted that I don't damn remember it... The art of which I was so proud to be a patron of, its a big word to a person of my caliber, probably if any patron would read this, he may hit a virtual shoe on my head! One of the benefits of blogging guys, say what you say and get away with it :P (damn I miss those emoticons...) I had one venerated time at that place, that veritable temple for me. Even today, when I sit down to play, its not hours and some boils on my fingers before I stop. It still hold that solemnity for me. And yet, this was another testimony of the rottening of myself. the rusting that knows no barriers, no cures.
But I'll put on those black sunglasses, its night right now, but anyways, to go with the mood, and give you a long hard stare, and say, "I'll be back!"
PS: Arnie you still rock and please man! I want any lawsuits against defamatory charges....hell I cant even afford to feed a pigeon to carry my messages, a lawyer is quantum stuff!
And that Nagpur team lost, to my utter pleasure, that's what you get when you get someone holed up! But in retrospect thanks to that Shantanu whatever, he inadvertently gave me a reality check. Something which is the prized possession I have, on a sheer personal level. No flaunting. And dude, you still cant beat us...!
Better luck next time.
Anyways, there was this guy from VNIT Nagpur, Shantanu something, we talked and shared common interests. Same branches, and he played the tabla too, if may I dare delve deeper, we were of the same gharanas (thank god, atleast I remembered that), to the cause of my uninitiated readers, there are gharanas which represent different styles of hand movements on the instrument. And then the most natural question, common lexicon stuff between 'us' guys, he asked my teacher, and then the lights went off... I could'nt remember his name... I was ashamed, as if stripped barenaked in public. I shied away. Procrastinated the answer and to add insult to the injury, I admitted that I don't damn remember it... The art of which I was so proud to be a patron of, its a big word to a person of my caliber, probably if any patron would read this, he may hit a virtual shoe on my head! One of the benefits of blogging guys, say what you say and get away with it :P (damn I miss those emoticons...) I had one venerated time at that place, that veritable temple for me. Even today, when I sit down to play, its not hours and some boils on my fingers before I stop. It still hold that solemnity for me. And yet, this was another testimony of the rottening of myself. the rusting that knows no barriers, no cures.
But I'll put on those black sunglasses, its night right now, but anyways, to go with the mood, and give you a long hard stare, and say, "I'll be back!"
PS: Arnie you still rock and please man! I want any lawsuits against defamatory charges....hell I cant even afford to feed a pigeon to carry my messages, a lawyer is quantum stuff!
And that Nagpur team lost, to my utter pleasure, that's what you get when you get someone holed up! But in retrospect thanks to that Shantanu whatever, he inadvertently gave me a reality check. Something which is the prized possession I have, on a sheer personal level. No flaunting. And dude, you still cant beat us...!
Better luck next time.
Here I Am...
We are Engineers.Engineers who imagine, inspire, react and oh yes! respirate. We sweat (Only humans perspire), we strain our analytical capabilities to their limit, we shroud our desires , worldly aspirations by the burden opf the human kind, the primitive predicaments that infest mankind's wheels of progress on the road to excellence. We push the human race forward, struggle against nature, conquer pragmatically impossible phenomenon. In other words, the nature is unto us, we are not unto her. For us, a solution delayed is a solution bettered. If we dont have an answer today, wait until tomorrow. Welcome to our realm of knowledge, where application is awakening, where the "impossible" is just another word, a question, a potential, its temporary, and not a barrier, a statement or a fixture respectively. This is our sight, where every daunting challenge is dismantled into variables, which can be "operated upon". But I am ashamed of the legacy I am living through...
I am an average, drab, short of sleep ( taken care of its quota in the class), anti Bath-ist, back-scratching, mentally perambulating on all things other than whats going on engineering student, studying in one of the premier institutes of the country. And I am made to feel this. No, it was not me who came up with such slander about this noble profession. And I am not alone. I possibly voice the thoughts of many of my fraternity, here and beyond. I was not introduced this way. I am a proselyte, the things that have dissuaded me in lauding my responsibilities and pride I would have in fullfilling them are rooted to this "System", the ubiquitious reference to the administration, the curriculum and all the jazz that goes around the college. For all those who have already christened me as a "loser", who sees all the world unto himself, this is what I get to feel when I am in the ominous presence of this system of ours. I think I was brought upon this earth to inherit the lucrative posterity of this ectoplasmic school of thought, the engineeering school of thought. I would cease to exist if I denied to shoulder this burden of mankind, if I shamelessly shrug this pursuit of benign authority of humans over nature. Yes, I still believe this is my forte, my alma mater. But what the heck! Was it meant to be this way?
My room's wall, whose most of the whitewash is flaking off (you still dont have an idea!), has one of my own concocted quotations, "Here I am, This is me, And there's everywhere except this place I wanna be...". I am susprised how a mind of appreciable fecundity has been wasting away to a seminally dense creature made to be so redundant and careless. I admit that something about this place has encumbered the proficient me. And the brevity of this phase is amusingly specefic to the confines of the classes. Outside, or rather away from them, I am back to myself, ideas pirouetting like planets in my mind. I am not being a sacrilegeous, self praising moron. I know what I am and god bless me to have such salubrious surroundings where I amanged to branch out into a thinking individual. But am I really thinking? Or am I really let to think? Ok what am I thinking... Nothing!
This "nothing" is the riddle I am trying to make sense of. the crossroad with a signpost with a million signs and directions, the destination unclear. What will ensue will be a reflection of my life and times at this "wonderful" place, where I am reportedly "destined" ( a beggar child on the signal told me that yesterday afternoon when I was blankly looking even after the light turned green.... Does god have reporters? I wonder. ), more reasonably according to be is the fact that I cant get a way out, thats why. So each day brings forth stupendous propositions and situations, new people sauntering in or in other cases stomping their way through my life, trampling my sanities under their cruel feet. Another "feature" of this place is the lack of female professors. Sad. Being from a more balanced academic and social brought-up, where such things are not even worth a mention, lack of it is even more so a lurid thing. This kind of makes things quite rough and suffocated, for me atleast. But then the male species gives what cant be substtuted, Idiosyncrasies people! Profs and colleagues, my own wierd, crazy visions, dreams and yes, objects of musings, i mean "Muses" who get my attention now and then, I mean every now and then, huh I am hopeless....about whom I keep thinking, time and again... Geeeeez.
"There is this girl, you see..." Ok cut it, leave it, C'mon. I can start anytime you say. So damn aloof to sensibility! (that was intended to be a monologue by the way).
Till I get done with this girl who's playing hide and seek with me all day, dont worry you will get to know about it soon, I'll sign off!
I am an average, drab, short of sleep ( taken care of its quota in the class), anti Bath-ist, back-scratching, mentally perambulating on all things other than whats going on engineering student, studying in one of the premier institutes of the country. And I am made to feel this. No, it was not me who came up with such slander about this noble profession. And I am not alone. I possibly voice the thoughts of many of my fraternity, here and beyond. I was not introduced this way. I am a proselyte, the things that have dissuaded me in lauding my responsibilities and pride I would have in fullfilling them are rooted to this "System", the ubiquitious reference to the administration, the curriculum and all the jazz that goes around the college. For all those who have already christened me as a "loser", who sees all the world unto himself, this is what I get to feel when I am in the ominous presence of this system of ours. I think I was brought upon this earth to inherit the lucrative posterity of this ectoplasmic school of thought, the engineeering school of thought. I would cease to exist if I denied to shoulder this burden of mankind, if I shamelessly shrug this pursuit of benign authority of humans over nature. Yes, I still believe this is my forte, my alma mater. But what the heck! Was it meant to be this way?
My room's wall, whose most of the whitewash is flaking off (you still dont have an idea!), has one of my own concocted quotations, "Here I am, This is me, And there's everywhere except this place I wanna be...". I am susprised how a mind of appreciable fecundity has been wasting away to a seminally dense creature made to be so redundant and careless. I admit that something about this place has encumbered the proficient me. And the brevity of this phase is amusingly specefic to the confines of the classes. Outside, or rather away from them, I am back to myself, ideas pirouetting like planets in my mind. I am not being a sacrilegeous, self praising moron. I know what I am and god bless me to have such salubrious surroundings where I amanged to branch out into a thinking individual. But am I really thinking? Or am I really let to think? Ok what am I thinking... Nothing!
This "nothing" is the riddle I am trying to make sense of. the crossroad with a signpost with a million signs and directions, the destination unclear. What will ensue will be a reflection of my life and times at this "wonderful" place, where I am reportedly "destined" ( a beggar child on the signal told me that yesterday afternoon when I was blankly looking even after the light turned green.... Does god have reporters? I wonder. ), more reasonably according to be is the fact that I cant get a way out, thats why. So each day brings forth stupendous propositions and situations, new people sauntering in or in other cases stomping their way through my life, trampling my sanities under their cruel feet. Another "feature" of this place is the lack of female professors. Sad. Being from a more balanced academic and social brought-up, where such things are not even worth a mention, lack of it is even more so a lurid thing. This kind of makes things quite rough and suffocated, for me atleast. But then the male species gives what cant be substtuted, Idiosyncrasies people! Profs and colleagues, my own wierd, crazy visions, dreams and yes, objects of musings, i mean "Muses" who get my attention now and then, I mean every now and then, huh I am hopeless....about whom I keep thinking, time and again... Geeeeez.
"There is this girl, you see..." Ok cut it, leave it, C'mon. I can start anytime you say. So damn aloof to sensibility! (that was intended to be a monologue by the way).
Till I get done with this girl who's playing hide and seek with me all day, dont worry you will get to know about it soon, I'll sign off!
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Me Myself and Irony
Hey everyone... huhuhuhuhuhiiiiii..... (one of those innane stupid smiles, lost look on the face, when you are sort of pushed on the stage to just "deliver" damnit).... After much procastrination...on my part that is. Not many know of this, but this page is being ogled at blankly for almost 15 dyas now...The impetus, was it? Anyways, I am here and now I am going to recite a poem by....(with puerile stupidity...) ok cut the drumroll...This is my space people, my refuge, my haven, the space where I can curl up, hide myself, just shoot without afterthoughts, no plagues, no ghosts, what I say, is what I say.... Pretty definitive... Whatever! I have got this "whatever" responses to not so whatever things that go around me, fortunately I keep the company and am graced by the presence of such really "special" people, you know, and you might be one of them, if you are reading this, and of course I have to know you... And yes, what I look forward to through this regresisve attempt ... Nothing. Period.
My persiflage may go around the world or die down at this moment, its there when I have a proverbial pain-in-the-ass... It happens people, it just happens, I know I should have turned to it long ago, instead of those scripts that are locked away in some 200 something floor of some multinational bank within the secure confines of a laser sheilded locker double locked with simultaneous key activation.... Thats one part of me...which can rant endlessly, the other part holds me back and says that stupidity travels faster than light, you may look wise unless you provide vestiges of your illustrous mind.
And then I got to know my third part. This part doesnt do anything. It stayes silent, but expresses. It doesnt suggest, it surmises. It observes. Progmostically laugh off the other two parts of mine. Probably, provide me with the third party, the pragmatic bastard in me, which aides gives me unemotional decisiveness... Its the most undershadowed when on a high of any emotion, its something that is with accompanies, yet not beside me, which makes me one, an entity, in a crowd of millions. Its that face in the mirror that makes faces at you, its that lawyer who answers the answers you want to hear and then smirk on your haughty chivalry. Its a cylinder, hard walled with brute sensebilty and cornered by stark sarcasm and canny criticism, and I am that motorcyclist ( I dont know how to ride motorcycles, and to those who I have bluffed, can... well go to hell!) that is drearily circling its walls, and that thing that stings, the sting is that a cylinder has got infinite corners, the edge of the circle, is my treadmill... the path which I am finding an end to, but this third part is there which makes me realise... "Go man! increase yor speed, this is not a road, its a satanical loop, a viscious cycle, go faster, climb the vertical walls of self doubt, and once u flail in the air, get to see the sun... ( Right now I am making faces like Trinity did in Matrix Revolutions when her spaceship tears the clouds into the clear sky...her sky, screw Neo, yeah i love Carrie Anne Moss !)
Each day, there is a confabulation, a fervent endavour, to get 'it' right, and the endavor is to find the 'it', the 'it' is a destination, or maybe the jouney itself. I dont car to know... I dont even want to beleive, Hell, I want to Live. Live Alive.
Sounding like a Gautanamo Bay inmate... Well not really, i wear a smile on my face through the day, constantly in argument with this third part of mine. Am i looking 'real'? Well sometimes I am really happy, I mean momentary, an ephemeral shower of satisfaction. It may be sparked off by just about anything...
Till it sparks...
Till moment lasts...
Till u start... To get bored...
I'll take your leave.... and perhaps mine too, for the day...
My persiflage may go around the world or die down at this moment, its there when I have a proverbial pain-in-the-ass... It happens people, it just happens, I know I should have turned to it long ago, instead of those scripts that are locked away in some 200 something floor of some multinational bank within the secure confines of a laser sheilded locker double locked with simultaneous key activation.... Thats one part of me...which can rant endlessly, the other part holds me back and says that stupidity travels faster than light, you may look wise unless you provide vestiges of your illustrous mind.
And then I got to know my third part. This part doesnt do anything. It stayes silent, but expresses. It doesnt suggest, it surmises. It observes. Progmostically laugh off the other two parts of mine. Probably, provide me with the third party, the pragmatic bastard in me, which aides gives me unemotional decisiveness... Its the most undershadowed when on a high of any emotion, its something that is with accompanies, yet not beside me, which makes me one, an entity, in a crowd of millions. Its that face in the mirror that makes faces at you, its that lawyer who answers the answers you want to hear and then smirk on your haughty chivalry. Its a cylinder, hard walled with brute sensebilty and cornered by stark sarcasm and canny criticism, and I am that motorcyclist ( I dont know how to ride motorcycles, and to those who I have bluffed, can... well go to hell!) that is drearily circling its walls, and that thing that stings, the sting is that a cylinder has got infinite corners, the edge of the circle, is my treadmill... the path which I am finding an end to, but this third part is there which makes me realise... "Go man! increase yor speed, this is not a road, its a satanical loop, a viscious cycle, go faster, climb the vertical walls of self doubt, and once u flail in the air, get to see the sun... ( Right now I am making faces like Trinity did in Matrix Revolutions when her spaceship tears the clouds into the clear sky...her sky, screw Neo, yeah i love Carrie Anne Moss !)
Each day, there is a confabulation, a fervent endavour, to get 'it' right, and the endavor is to find the 'it', the 'it' is a destination, or maybe the jouney itself. I dont car to know... I dont even want to beleive, Hell, I want to Live. Live Alive.
Sounding like a Gautanamo Bay inmate... Well not really, i wear a smile on my face through the day, constantly in argument with this third part of mine. Am i looking 'real'? Well sometimes I am really happy, I mean momentary, an ephemeral shower of satisfaction. It may be sparked off by just about anything...
Till it sparks...
Till moment lasts...
Till u start... To get bored...
I'll take your leave.... and perhaps mine too, for the day...
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