Desire for dinner

This is how it is with us. We desire. Even though none of our desires can ever be fulfilled. Be it for a thing, a person, a quality or an experience. In between the inception of the desire and its eventual fulfillment, the nature of our desire assumes unpredictable variations of theme and form, and so does the object of desire itself. To no end. What we end up with, is almost never what we started out to get. And even i we if do, it doesn't somehow feel like we thought it would. And even if it does, its is surprisingly fleeting, before the thought starts gnawing at the back of our mind: What Now? The only way for us to conclusively fulfill any desire is to completely posses the object of our desire. To consume it. To swallow and assimilate it into our very being. EAT IT. Decimate it in the fire of our bellies. And belch and burp and churn to break it down to it's very substance, till no boundaries remain between us and the object of our desire. And when that has happened, we then look at what we have done. We reminisce about the things we ate, and about how whole they were before we ate them. We wonder whether the aftertaste was worth the destruction. We lament, we cry and we curse the duality within our nature, for the fecal matter that remains. The aftermath of lunch. And then we call up our friends to go out for a change of scenery. And dinner.

Unconcluded Continuance

what is it about yesterday
that makes me
more of who i am
than who i am today

it wasn't today that i went to sleep
when i wake up it won't be yesterday
just the unconcluded continuance
of a living dream that i call my self

everything around me is happening
for the first time, the only time, and the last time
being born, being and dying
to become the dream

someplace, sometime in my dreams
the reality that i live through
becomes a dream in my reality
without my knowing

why do i even wide awake
return to places i have already been
making choices that i already regret
to remain who i was yesterday

as if unable to wake up from a dream
parts which i can remember
and parts of which
can only be dreamt about

Laboratory of the Universal Particular

philosophy + spacetime. quality + tea. push + boundaries. containers + emotions. meticulous + neon. introduction + sleep. hindsight + semiotics. foreground + needs. scratch + thermocol. needs + windshield. 73 + alien. spine + instead. etc.

If you ask me

Am i being lived ? This is a playground.
Do we really create ? Objects. Images. or Thoughts.
Do i choose to think what i think ? They have a life of their own.
What is really important ? Everything is because nothing is.
Is there a pattern out there ? Purpose is meaning.
Can there be a theory of everything ? What has no opposites doesn't exist.
Lonely planet ? Third rock. In circles.
What is peripheral vision ? Similarly directionless and mundane.
Where is my mind ? Pixies. Fight Club.
Is language enough ? Try otherwise.
Detour ? Welcome.

Breathe

its my attention span, i think.
the reason i cant seem to get by things in peace.
and i never arrive at some tranquil palace with rock gardens.
but i need that baroque room with heavy oak doors,
that wont let in, or let out, even a whisper.
i need curtains, thick as tar.
at least for the next few hours. i need space to breathe.
or time maybe.

slam the door. be the lotus. white elephant.
close both the eyes. open the third.
the lake in Lumbini.
red-brown bricks. a site of excavation.
freeze. try not to let things associate with memories.
quick, try and find an object to focus on.
MDR-P180 Stereo Headphones.
Oh no. not wired for sound again.
the the the the the, the spoon! will do.
focus on the spoon.

the passage of time.

after a while its darkness. the spoon. it alighted.
first blue. then orange. then a semi ochre yellow and then green.
a pulsating shape. pulsating without strain.
then a monochromatic black. but blurred.

the passage of time.

flashes. of thought without movement. and a lot of speed.
sudden landing. opening. light. day.
fade in. a paved brick road.
noise. fish market in thailand. its drizzling.
and at the end of the road, an ice cream shop.
ice cream cones carved in elaborate persian motifs.

fade out. evening. almost amsterdam. by the sea.
i am reflected in a tall tilted structure of steel and glass.
reflecting the setting sun. tilting towards me. a building thats a bridge.
crossing over to some island town.
car wheels screaching above my head.

the passage of time.

this road goes nowhere. never been on a road that goes nowhere.
but this is how it would probably seem.
its the trees that give it away. those tall shiny swaying trees.
those trees by the road with green leather leaves.
i keep walking but nothing changes. nothing moves.
not in any direction. i keep on till i can see no more.

the passage of time.
i feel raw power. to move earth wind and water into charted territories.
the kind of power that is a real boiling potential of destruction.
the feeling doesn't last. it goes as soon as it comes.
all orifices duct-taped, leaving no room to converse.

cannot feel the passage of time. i look up.
blocks of lead falling from up? above? sky?
they just come to being whenever i look at them.
movable type. letterpress blocks.
they might be saying something.
they are definitely alpha-numeric roman alphabets.
but i cant relate to them in sequence.
even though they make perfect sense, each on its own.
dissolve.

senseless. a large auditorium. a large aquarium.
no fishes. everbody is waiting for the play to begin.
eventually it does. doesnt seem like much drama.
neither much costume. but its intense.
fishes swimming in the aquarium.
in a packed auditorium. curtains.

passage of time.
passage of an unknown amount of time.

my attention span is shrinking.
or maybe the scarcity of it coming back into being.

it doesnt seem too unreal. all of this.
i could spend a lifetime, not knowing where i am.
only if i didnt try to find out where i am.
but the thought itself, ripples up the darkness,
shattering the silence. pause.
where am i? i ask. i think. whichever.

eyes jerk open.
silence shuts down.
i look around.
i look at my self.
my bio-chemical casing.
my teeth are clenched.
my vertebra stiff.
all my limbs are numb.
i realise i should be breathing, properly.

About a Box

the box is blue, jaded azure blue, with rust marks left behind,
graciously by the 52 seasons that it has seen.
the box is my home, the best one i have ever had and probably ever will.
i sleep in the box after dark, whose roof during the day is a busy table.
a riot of givings and takings that is the the business of the world.
i am the receptionist in this riot, to a few hundred passers by.
the blue box is the center of my world, a perfect semblance of 6 walls.
if i were a lizard, i would change the ceiling everyday.
and sleep on the opposite side, and move everything else around,
so that it looked the same,
from the abritarily chosen vantage position of wherever i lied.
a sleep experiment in varying gravity.
lizards are lucky. i cant afford vantage points.
lit by a bulb, with electricity borrowed from
the high voltage power lines passing overhead, this box is also my school.
i think so, from what i know about schools.
its a place where you learn things about the world, things about things.
where you learn how to live better, and about right and wrong,
about who we are and where we come from.
and learn to dream about where we could be going.
i learnt everything i know about the world i live in, right here.
and i know where i am going.
every night for thirteen years, after the day was done,
and the box was rubbed clean of all the day's excrements,
i have looked at the sky, and in brighter nights, the moon,
reflected in the glazed surface of washed dishes. and i have wondered.
i have heard from the elders, that the sky is not a thing,
it is just a blanket of air, a huge fluffy blanket.
that thought is a nice one, before going to sleep.
it reminds me of back home when i was a kid,
the feeling of sharing the blanket with my brothers and sister.
it makes me feel small, all over again.
after i left home, for years i could feel nothing but rage,
but now there are so many colours to it,
that i don't know the difference. i feel i don't feel anything anymore.
sometimes i am so automatic, like the movements of the sun,
the movement of my hands, serving one body after another,
leaves an emptiness in my heart that is pure bliss,
almost happiness.
if only i had something to compare it with, i could be sure.
i am like the box, boxes feel nothing. they just stay, inches above the ground.
they are home to things that you can't see from the outside.
now i hear the sharp ugly sound again, someone outside is kicking the box.
in the biting early morning cold, it is the watchman trying to wake me up.
i'll pretend i am sleeping, for just a little longer.
no one can see what's inside, from outside.
the walls are warmer. the blue is black.
shivering, i hug my folded blanket tighter. its nice to feel the cold.
to feel. for many more years to come, and through changing colours,
i know the box will keep me alive. and free.

MatchMaking

i can forgive
not because it feels good
not because it is written
in the commandments
but because not everything
can be learned
from others mistakes
and in time i am going to
make some of my own
and i would want you
to forgive me

i can love
because i assume
i am loving a human being
a fragile container
in search of
something warm to hold
and not some
piece of perfection
i saw on the
late night tv show

A Sense of Pride

it hurts my pride. i can't deny. to accept. that i am nothing. without you.
without you. my life has a wandering purpose. no meaning.

what pride. what purpose. you were the one who gave it to me. first.
its quite difficult. to lay it down. this sense of i.

i am someone. worthy of something. i have a plan for i.
i know whats good for i. i know what i stands for.

i knows. i is needed. i is loved. i resolves emptiness.
how does it know. needed by who. loved for what.
filling up whose space.

We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned,
so as to have the life that is waiting for us.
~ E. M. Forster

Shared Shared

If we are together.
This moment is precious to me.
It may not be for you,
but if it is,
then this is a shared moment.
And it is doubly precious to me.
It may not be for you,
but if it is,
then this is a shared moment,
shared.
And it is terribly precious to me.
And it means that we can be
together for some more.

Ask Any One

i dont know what to ask for anymore. how can i.
can i ask for your love. because. i love you.
it would make me happy. because. it is good to love.
good for you. good for me. but why me.

can you. because. i have given so much to you.
and in time am willing to give my life.
love me. because. we have been together for so long.
in time. so much of me has started to become so much of you.

can i ask. because we can be together. for your love.
when there is nothing that means something anymore.
when the sun is about to set forever. it wont set. for our love.

i ask for you. because. there is nothing else that i can care for.
for. its the spirit that animates this body of mine. in suspension.

i ask you for your love. can i. because you are the only one who can.
make a prince out of this frog. can you.

can i ask you for your love. because i cant ask me.
or someone else. because i cant ask you.

can i ask me. for your love. because.
it is me that is to be loved.

i dont know what to ask for anymore.

Ceased to Be

It seems that
my only mistake was
that at some point in time
i could not justify what i was doing

I stopped, and wondered
what i was doing it for
and i tried to find
an honest answer

And for better or worse
the person who asked the question
ceased to be
the person who answered it

Sunday Driving

a car makes a sound
familiar
i rush to confirm
its not the car
i have been waiting for
and it is not sunday

the telephone rings
i rush out
out of breath
to reaffirm
there can't be anyone
missing me

then there is mail
a hundred logins everyday
to receive messages
from automated robots
maybe they understand
i need vitamins

i am trying so hard
to forget all these signs
and all those sounds
i squeeze out toothpaste
and forget what its for
where are my teeth

every other object
designed to bond emotionally
has served their purpose well
healing wounds
wounded again to reveal
how fine i could be without them

everywhere i go is
taking me further
less human more alien
everytime i go nowhere
i am in a hurry to believe
its not me driving

as the Beatles sing
in their insect voice
you and me sunday driving
not arriving
on our way back home
we're on our way home

we're going home

Orion Rising

Its that time of the year now, when early in the morning,
just a little South of East, the Orion becomes visible.

I look at it, and understand, that it need not have been this way.
But there it is. An eternal hunter clothed in stars.

And in some rare moments when all the motions cease,
i forget for a while, my need to understand.

A thousand years ago, someone looked at it, and asked,
will you still be there, when all my journeys have come to naught?

I was born to this day, to be a witness to that unchanging answer.

A thousand years from now, i might look at it again,
through someone else's eyes, and feel the same.

With no words, no judgement, no intent and no assurance,
it says, I Am Here. Some things remain.

And it always does. For all who ask. This time of the year.
A little to the South of East. Early in the morning.

Dry Storm

can i stand in the rain, waiting to get dry

can i stop feeling the cold, wet earth,
as it soaks my bones

can i remember good times, while the storm of bodies
washes lives away

can i keep still in this cold, while dreaming of a warm cup of tea
in trembling hands

can i sleep while these random words
close every open sentence

can i think of thoughts at this time
while they are fighting on their own

can i build a dam of perseverance
around kindness and songs of love

can i compare black with white
when the dry storm appoaching from the edge keeps reminding me
they are grey

Ascension

have heard of the fables
of reconstruction
of time's virginity
woken up
repeated hearings
of consumers of faith

have gone in many a times
into the abyss of light
into the womb of termination
realised patterns
of defining beauty
in conversations
without meaning

have scratched porcelain sinks
when all the fables
of reconstruction
come alive

Solaris

00. 00:00  The Solaris torrent is not responding
01. 02:49  Is That What Everybody Wants
02. 02:53  First Sleep
03. 01:45  Can I Sit Next To You
04. 05:01  Will She Come Back
05. 02:10  Death Shall Have No Dominion
06. 03:50  Maybe You're My Puppet
07. 03:34  Don't Blow It
08. 10:51  Hi Energy Proton Accelerator
09. 03:10  Wear Your Seat Belt
10. 04:33  Wormhole
11. 03:01  We Don't Have To Think Like That Anymore

Point of No Return

in between tuesdays and wednesdays
there is a time
when its neither tuesday nor wednesday

in between saturdays and mondays
there is hardly any time

Notes to Myself

what if i could write notes to myself
i would probably still be deaf and blind to them

what if i could believe that my life has nothing to do with me
i would probably still be living just the same

what if i could fly
over the clouds
over peoples lives
i would probably still prefer to walk

what if i could name all my feelings
and catalogue them
in alphabetical order
i would probably still not talk about them to anyone

what if i could try the impossible
i would probably still not believe in its possibility

what if i could paint my insignificance
i would probably still start with a large canvas

what if i could wash away all those ugly sins
scrub hard and thorough
till no patches remained
i would probably still not be innocent

what if i could shout
loud enough to be heard
sure enough to be clear
i would probably still want to be pleasant

what if i could decide between right and wrong
i would probably still be writing notes to myself

Memory of the Future

everyday is strange
living with a memory of the future
while the past keeps up
with all the choices i have made

the flowers are a living memory
of the strangers i have been
i have been flowers and
i have been memories

Going to Believe

when nothing seemed to be going my way
something was going my way
i just needed to believe