Posts Tagged ‘Life’
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Stuck between what works and what might
Resolved to crumble at the whim of dice
‘Know all I need to know
just don’t have the will to go
Am I done here?
Or they got more sand to throw
They say, it’s hard to steer into the wild-
life ain’t no cake slice.
Who likes it sweet anyway?
In my coffer, I keep flowers and thorns
‘Make my story with quills and scorns
Who cares who is hero and who not
every man is a dead man,
everything’s to rot.
I’m holding on to my truth, my lies,
dreams of dreams, fancy disguise.
I sit down
to pen you
But the scribbles
and in you
Like a story
A fag never held,
A fire never sparked,
my words – O those word –
had never had anything up and stirred.
I look up to the skies
why do we have to walk together
when we have nothing common to nurture?
Me and the Gods.
They look me down, discarding my bleats:
Life has no redundant pleats.
They why do you digress,
without thinking twice,
of you progress?
Progress? They conceit.
What do they know of it?
Does one fight tossed out
make you decrepit?
My question to you, milord:
Is a story unwritten,
not worthy of recognition?
A cigarette unlit,
not desirable of strong hold?
They answer not.
Too busy to entertain
a stray commen’.
My ink is dried away
My pen is cast aside
A pound or two of flesh,
Through which I sneer,
Upon the potent
Whose every utter
beheads me further.
Why not then
should I hate him,
since he seems to hate me in return.
I got to find the fire
to burn my desire,
but the Gods,
– damn! so jealous of men –
would let loose none of the spark
for at stake is, their very kiosk.
accusing me of cowardice.
Ever – ever in my eternal life –
didn’t get a slice
Never – never in my fleeting life –
I was found
Worthy of apprise.
Life proved to be a pun
made and unmade and made,
for their coy fun.
A word can never write itself down
A God can never be turned into a clown.
Life is grey,
a half way between white and brown.
I am one, you are many,
You are cold, I shiny.
I fight back,
I am pleasant, you are clammy.
Only from my will,
Your existence sprang on-hill.
Dare you not challenge my mettle,
I only willed your prophet
And his settle.
Let me have no words,
Yet my voice will rise
For my will is vowel,
Yours’ only surds.
Vishnu Talkies stands lost, like a piece from ancient times, among the crowd of towering buildings that have mushroomed in past few years when the world of India’s Capital chose to move upwards. There stands a curved metal hoarding upon a narrow opening which reaches to its narrow entrance gate. We walk into the street, past a pirated video store, a beauty parlor, a cheap restaurant where a huge potbellied man sat frying samosas at its door in a huge black pan bubbling with overused overheated dark oil. I take her hands in mine when we reach the Cinema’s iron grilled gate. On our left there is the ticket window, closed. On right, however, they are selling tickets, in black.
Inside, a grimly thin man waits at the balcony door, an Eveready Steel torch sewed around with frayed cotton dangles around his neck. With a haunting screech he pulls the door open, and ushers us in the dimly lit hall and focuses his torch upon our seats. I walk behind her, holding her by elbows, between the rows of aged wooden pushback chairs with coconut cushions, striped covers.
“Why were you staring at her?” She asks, when on the screen a young lady – her Vaseline-lacquered skin shines incredibly against her frazzled clothes – has just escaped her perpetrators, and has taken refugee in this similarly frazzled backyard of a temple. I strain my eyes. Pitch-dark, popcorn-punching-dark hall bars my vision. Time for rape.
“Who,” I ask groping for her face.
“That whore. Outside the video store.”
The scene has moved on, like life always does, to a brighter frame where an old man is holidaying with his family in an exotic country, Switzerland, or Ireland, or may be Holland, whatever… they all seem to have snowsnow and more snow, and castles and castles and more castles, and grass green until the eyes go, and people, all very good, always helping, ever tolerating you knocking at their doors in the middle of the night for shelter and happily granting the same, fuckers, where do such people exist? But then, a movie is not a movie if it’s all about what you see in your real life. It must be larger than life. Villains more villainous. Heroes more heroic. Beauties more beautiful. Life more peaceful. People more generous. And blah blah.
Well in this scene, the old man throws flakes of snow at the kids, they return-fire at him at once, and they all laugh in their heavy jackets and long hoods. Heartily. A little far away, this old man’s daughter skis with her husband, taking turns to skid ahead of the other, coltish rivalry, both laughing their hearts, eyes. Happiness it seems – as they sell it – to be a gift package of return tickets to these snowy hills and laughter and more laughter.
We should buy it once, “Let’s go to some place like this,” I stroke her palm, and on them plant an unusually soggy kiss. She blushes. I know. When she does, she lets her hands loose, almost like giving in. “And what would I tell to my folks?” One curt touch of reality and here goes all the dreams rolling down the hill. Large Reality skiing on even larger fantastic snow. What is large can not be made fit in what is small.
Sometimes, in life, you confront a moment wherein you find yourself unable to stand your battle and you flee; the moment wherein you give up everything that you could ever have owned; the moment where nothing seems to be of importance. Your values, principles, ethics, morals, the pillars of your existence wilt away and suddenly you are left alone, fogged by a stark loneliness you realize that the battle you were fighting wasn’t meant for you.
How do you cope up with it? How do you rekindle your ‘soul’?
I have always said that you are not supposed to fight every battle, some you got to leave, some forget. But how to decide which one to pick, which to leave? I never knew the answer. Perhaps, that’s why I could never finish my own battles.
Every time, I find myself amid the fierceness, I tend to doubt my own reasons and succumb to sideways, and few moments later, the battle gets over, and then I repent that only, if only for a moment more, had I endured I could have won.
I, then, resign and wink at my life, nonchalantly, indifferently, and lay sideways, meanwhile people stroll ahead past me. I don’t curse them, I don’t blame them, I just lay there, on the sideways, indifferently, apathetically.
I have been so cruel to myself, all these years, how can I now ask for anything from my life…ask it to not to be cruel to me…how can I…ask it to bestow me with possibilities, with chances, with battles, with life, with love…oh…how can I?
Let my life go the way I have shaped it. Let it treat me the way I have treated it. Indifferently. Irresponsibly.
I would not ask for love, I would not ask for life.
I had left my life dreaded, lone, in the darkest of hours, now it has abandoned me of the lightest of pleasures of the moments.
Do I have any right to complain?
No. I guess, no.
Not sure! As always.
Don’t read it. This verbiage of mine is verbose and profoundly sinuous.
Abstract. But so is life. Isn’t it? Correct.
Isn’t it strange? You hardly know the person; you have hardly spent time with her; and now you are sad that perhaps you would never see her again? Yeah, that’s strange. What causes you miss someone, or something. Is it some kind of emotion, or something else? Is it some kind of camaraderie, bonhomie, or just a flimsy stupor? What do you actually feel when you go smitten and the object of interest is not around?
It tore me apart as if I were a frail, brittle, fragile piece of silk. And I stood there condoning to the beguilement of the destined situations. Amazing. I tolerated that. With all my conscience, heart, brain, with my every nerve and notion, I tolerated that. And now, I feel confused: did I tolerate or did I actually survive the forecasted barrage. To hell with it.
Why am I writing all this? Who am I trying to fool? Myself or the world? This world has no interest in whatsoever matter I deal with, or I am in with; it’s always indifferent, disinterested, always…then what is this I am into? Perhaps I am playing with myself. Ah! That’s not new. I have done it all my life.
Whatever…sometimes you can’t find a reason to do something because there is no reason, at least not any valid, society-accepted, moral, ethical and all those bullshit kind of reason…and you do it precisely because there is no reason for doing it…sometimes reasons go backstage, you have to come forward, because if you won’t, never again would you be able to stand for anything else…sometimes you need to stand straight, firm, in spite of the knowledge that the fight is over, the winner is announced, the crown is gone; because if you won’t, you would never be able to stand up again…sometimes you got to lose yourself in order to find yourself back…sometimes life puts you in such complexity that you need to believe that ‘everything here is essentially very simple’…sometimes it happens like this…there is no one, absolutely nothing, but you want to see something, you want to believe that there is something, you want to hear voices, you want to hear your name, you want to hear strange words, strange silence, and there life goes all strange. Strange. Isn’t it? So whatever was the reason, I don’t give a damn to it, I am going to write it.
But who am I writing this for? Who would read this crap of mine? Can’t say. Does everyone write for others? Do everything you do, think, imagine are meant for others? Is it like that you live for others, you die for others? What is then your life, my life, huh… – a kind of vicarious life? I will be happy by seeing others happy; I will be sad by their sadness. What am I doing – it’s dangerous. Good god! It’s perniciously dangerous. Why can’t I live for myself? Why must I be selfless, why not selfish? They say: ‘if everyone make every other man happy, the whole world will become happy eventually’. It’s crap, I say. An easier way would have been to make yourself happy and if everyone is happy, the world would become happy someday. I should make myself happy; you should make yourself happy. Why should I bother for you? Why…? It’s my life after all and it is for me, why can’t I write something that’s storming inside me only for my sake, my own bloody sake. No…I will. I will become selfish. I will become self-centered – an egotist. I will write if for myself.
Hell… yes…I will write it because later I would read it.
Because later I will see my pain; because later I will see how I conquered it; how did I traverse that impasse; I will see everything in hindsight and will laugh over my own decision to write it.
I am not sure what but there is something in this man, Paulo Coelho that makes him think out of the blue. Read his books, I mean any of them, and you will confront your own secret demons who were always there lurking inside you but you could never have them such vocal. His writing has the power to inspire and sometimes to conspire. This time, he has come up all along the universe to conspire in helping a young, beautiful and gritty but yet sensitive woman from the interiors of Brazil as she takes on with her own destiny only to concede later.
The title is “Eleven Minutes”. In case you are wondering what the title could hint for, let me tell you more about the story to help you out: Once upon a time, there was a girl in a small town in Brazil. She wanted to become famous and different and rich and happy and content – all at the same time. There entered a show-man from the Swiss-glamour-industry and she went with him following her dreams of money and fame.
But what did she find? A confusion – if violence is a way to reach one’s limit? If one can know oneself only at the edge? If violence can help in reaching hallowed? Whether sex is divine or curse?
What happened next was a pool of misery, confusion, confrontation and love and of course sex. This book is a journey – a journey through a woman’s heart touching her soul. And this is special because never before any one had ever tried seeing the immortal soul passing through the boundaries of the mortal body. Because, it is a reverse journey. The duration allowed is of only eleven minutes, but the destination demands more. How would she cope with it? Would she concede or fight?
Paulo has the same ‘The Alchemist’ style magic all ready to rekindle you and your thoughts. But, instead of framing it like an allegory, he prefers it saying like fairy tales though he claims that the story is a true.
This book has History – tracing the lost lacuna of love, Psychology – threading the human confusion and Love – speaking for itself. But beware, this is a daring step and would try to break many of your prejudices that you inured to while growing in a society like ours.
If it succeeds it’s good; and it not then the entailing debate would make it worse for you to believe that Love is not different from Sex.
A world is there, beyond stars
Another era awaits, miles afar
no laments, no paeans
That world is all above par.
Only if my wishes could come true,
I would have taken there you.
Only if my prayers could be answered,
I would have taken there you.
all of them floats in gloom, for cursed,
as I am!
as u are!
wishes whispered for you
hopes ventured for you
furtively in my heart.
May God prevail your innocence,
May God guide you to solace.
All I wish now,
is twinkle in your eyes!
All I pray now,
is joy in your ways!
May god help,
my wishes to come near
to the distant land,