Pure.

The trail had left him dry,
his memory of her smile
which, never a rarity lent
an intense sign of right

She brushed the roses bought ages ago
the scent reminding of his will
which, wavered a bit
when her head turned and senses lost
tossed his mind across.

The Unbearable Heaviness of Being

Heaviness: my freedom to be is now a bane.

He looks up at the sky and smiles, with his eye full of questions he presses the button and his jet pack starts working. Within a few minutes he is off earth, into the stars of enigma.

Back down at his house, she is forlorn and miserable. She kills him and buries self and him as deep as possible.

There is nothing like a nightmare come true. 

Random.

The vast ocean of waves are calling, the sea gulls seem to be whispering to each other of a new arrival.
A broken man then walks from the shore to the depths of nothingness from which he came.

Mr.Sock - Which Leg Do You Want?

He holds on to empathy, like it is a part of his body. But it is! The confusion created by a group of people trying hard to socialize is too overbearing for him. Such was the character of Mr. Sock. 

Once Mr. Sock had gone to a house-warming ceremony. Do you know what he got for his friends who had invited him? A shoe cleaner. So with his ideas either being too stupid or too abstract for people to make a mental note and notice, he suffered in private in his own agony of irrationality of people around him.

This was one such another great get together, in which he had forcefully put forth is creativity ( all for nothing). But he had lied to himself, he loved creativity too much to even compare it to the reality of feelings toward any human being. He often wondered whether the girl he liked actually believed he existed or that he existed himself.

When he pointed this observation to her in his mind, she then had said  "That is not possible".

He had just replied back with a wide smile, a grin reaching to the edges of his eyes, those edges which had never seen the light of day. He was done for. All it took often to believe in the woman he loved, was a smile. That simplest and the most difficult of expressions to fake. The lightest twitch, the twisted look and the elegant truth of the lie.

Then his mind reeled, his memory of the present faded, but his past came swooping on to him.

At a cabin near the shore, the cat had once said to him that he would live on forever.

"So you inspire people? I heard that Mr. Katk - the king of all cats was totally taken by you. I personally, do not see much in humans. They are all stupid, a bunch of caricatures of God himself. Although I do oversimplify my beliefs for the ease of certainty, my God is a four letter thing - Milk!"

"Eh" I had said.

"There you go, you just proved my point. Don't you every learn grammar and language structure back in the human world? I mean, come on. I meow because I should meow. It has evolutionary reasons. Now, why would you go on and say things like - Eh, Meh, Heh. What the fuck in milk's name does it mean?!"

"You digress from your story telling" I said.

" Yes yes, I just love doing that to people, it is all the more funnier from my side" said Mr. Cling.

On Travel.

Tale #1

He put on his best black suit and wig. Caught a flight to Goa and watched her float.

After hours of travel he was back, and he wet his floor.

Tale #2

He was in a cage, part of a troupe. During its travel, a masked man stopped the truck.

Bang. Last Meow. Whimper.

The King never got to choose.

They Slit, I Riled

They did not talk, instead slit my throat
and I lay their muddy
dead
and irate.

They did not say, instead slit my throat
and I lay their
without a host
riled up
and waiting to shoot.

Obscurity Slow.

Slow death of joy brings a peace like no other
Ignorance fills his mind and I rumble.

I go up on to the throne
and I play slow.

No attention. Invisibility. Despair. It all comes back like
it never went for a hike
and I wish to lie alone in
my creative lair.

A New Dawn

To this day I salute:

A new word is forged,
as I lite my lighter
with strength forgotten
the ideas come collide

Dreams ride along the River of
Resurrect, soon shall minds
be torn

The hearts of wonder
rise asunder
as I talk words of blunder,

To this night I arrive:

As a new sandman
rises, amidst the picture
it survives

A length of idea
is prolonged, as a story so
foretold. 

The Simple Things

My old friends, they made me smile

It was a gradual rise as the day whiled.

She brought some news, a shocker

of change, whether it was a boon or 

a bane I didn't ask her.

Another had a new talent,

one which I wished I hadn't

not pursued.

Hiding in the Head

My head hurts and I begin to write.

When Time Was Zero

The crispness of the fatal
arrival of my
natal thought of people's
daily betrayal
stung hard and soft
on my brain's tissue skin
fresh and lean.

Dream Scene :1

She came near me, her eyes hovering over mine, sensing my eyes on her. I could feel the environment becoming a dream, black and white dissolving into colors and colors becoming her. I could feel my own deep breath, only to realize it was her who was breathing deeply. I knew for sure my heart was pumping blood, but into her, frantically and rapidly. And then, I found myself floating away from the thought of freedom, I was freed from the necessity of being free.

Is a dream unreal because it is a lie or is a dream real because it is the absolute truth?

There is no such thing as the absolute truth, a dream is nothing less than life. A dream is simply a dream.  

West

I walked up to her. I was trembling when she raised her hand
But she had raised for someone beside her
I wondered if I would wither

As I started talking, my eyes only followed her
craving crater in the skin
I couldn't understand
as it shook me from heart to bones

Then she took out a
paper and a pen
and pointing to the lines
said in the most innocence
I had yet seen

"I like them with lines".
And then it was over.

Moment of Myoclonus

At the end of the day,
he tries to push sleep, into the deep
places of nothing, giving way
to his numbness surcease

A myoclonus visits
him just when sleep arrives
a snap, a harsh tap
to his bright brain
tightening his nerves with malign

Tedium

My sleep deprived
lungs blackened, and
the brains decayed
destroyed

I awake from a deep
slumber: to sleep
again to death ,
for to exist is the
greatest absurd blunder.

Sense of an Ending

He walked past the pavement
and knocked on the store, its door
where he kept all his lament
once,long ago, long gone past
when he was sad, an alone lad

Reaching down to his waistcoat,
he pulled a surprise:
a knife was the key
sharp at the edges, but blunt on the top
and along with the knife he discovered
an ancient form of a twisted tourniquet

His thoughts exploded, reason died
or rather the rational part of reason,
yes I believe there is such: why I do not know
but that it always made me think slow

"I had hidden this today morning,
to torture myself to an unending 
a despair of pain and un-mending
but now I am oblivious: has happiness suddenly invaded me
after I witnessed an old discovery?

Maybe my past is where my present "lies"
and lies it does, as it deceives often my 
broken ties"

After this line of, thought of ambiguity
he entered his lament lair
with the weird knife
not knowing the waiting
vague happy that was hiding
and which was dread
by his present , past sinful soul.

Frost of The Unheard

The alone man walked in the north
conceiving ideas, which he deceived
himself that only he could put a thought

The wind was ice cold, so he wrapped
around a shell of leather and black
layer upon layers, layers upon a layer

One day as he was talking
to a frozen mirror,
along walked a stranger, a warmth bearer

He was stunned, his isolation
was broken and ruined
a dream shattered and tortured

He lost his voice, forever to be
unheard.

A Beauty Gone Irate

She served with a sense of purpose
but her irate smile gave way
to a pain inherent

A tune to make here day
he sang lines of console
then she came around
to talk and  believe
in her smile self

A Musing

She touched him, whispered wild
words at the right bell of time
when art of revolution
could evolve and survive
for years to come, a classical puzzling dome

He said: " When will I be at my peak?"
She lied: " When I do my work on you"
He realized he had words to win and wed
instead of whiling time away

Just when he thought she was no more than a muse
and it was all a clever ruse of providence
a moment of chaos ensued
the room that they were in started to shake
things fell apart, the old crashed and died
and the earth cracked

Possessed by an insane urge, he started art to see,
sense and inspire fate to turn.


The Muse walked into the pit of creation
she had laid birth to and wasn't
surprised to find the novelty that was around
woven intricate she had lent

And she thought: "This is just the beginning, I am craving to get inside your head
and plunge my hand to unravel the rare breed."

The Cafe Incident of The Great Menjuggno

In this present competitive world, some people want to be known to be assertive, some decisive and some merely pensive. I prefer the last, as it behooves my lack of consistent values and fits my iota of creative skills. This he thought, and wrote down the following in his diary entry-

An Epistolary of a Dying Breed - The Super-Self Aware Man and His Clumsy Drinking Habits July 11, 1984 - Prague

A sense of impending doom and depression envelopes me because of the presumptuousness of judgement that people dare to do. It is not that the victim is me, but the fact is that they say and act upon things without even giving a thought what it could mean and imply. The fools do not even know what they are uttering, but by then the sense of doom is replaced by an immense sense of pity for them. They say things to fill empty spaces and silence, I on the other hand can only say such things when I want to retaliate. I am quite well off being silent and having nothing to say, but everything to think and observe. This fuels my life, the only reason why I can carry on and want to carry on.

Kafka had said "I must write or die". I say "I will write because I do not want to die". The only sense of satisfaction at the end of a humiliating day I had, when the cafe manager told me off for spilling  coffee on his most admired client, who happened to sit behind me is the sense of overwhelming feeling of comical respite in control which is brought out by writing. Writing gives a startling sense of clarity of height of self-awareness even when you are lying to yourself that you feel victorious even when you have failed.

One of Pessoa's entry was " I carry my awareness of defeat like a sense of victory". I laughed when I read this, it has had a tremendous impact on how I think of my own self-esteem. Yes, I think on my "own" self-esteem and I used the word own which seems redundant on a first read, read it again attentive readers. What you think you own is only your choice of how much you can attribute ownership, by self-deceit or by the crude nature of judgement on which the entire people of the world think that they thrive upon.

So this is how the incident unraveled itself in the noon:When I had just finished catching up on the Prime Minister's slip of the tongue (on paper that is, I prefer to read rather than watch people on tv)that the reason July 11th was one of the hottest days in some time was, that the failed ideology of his recent proposition as the head of the government, was trying to be victorious by an intricate connection to the weather gods and providence only by torturing the public. Now why would any sane man say such a thing? I had to laugh, and in that hilarious way such that my entire body had to revolt,shake,dance and sing in laughter. So you see my avid readers, I knocked myself out on this one, and my elbow involuntarily hit the person who was sitting behind me and then a series of loud sounds echoed in the closed cafe: SCHINNNN, DUDDDD.

That was the end of a pleasant read I was experiencing in the cafe. The manager rushed to the donor's aid and I was kicked out immediately. He said-

" You fool, how can you be so careless and irresponsible?"

I then replied " But sir-" ( I was cut off rather rudely here, as he grabbed the same elbow by which I had knocked the nice gentleman's coffee)

" Get out, GET OUT, NOW!

 Immediately my friends! Can you now believe that? I was treated as a minuscule of a human being without even being asked for an explanation! Hah, if only they could understand the rational behind my laughter. They would not have, I can say this as surely as they acted upon their impulse, so I can rather conclude that I was satisfied by the overall outcome of events that unfolded. 

The end is here, it is near and fear not, you are already a part of it as you even pretend not to be a part of it. 

In Dire Need

Then and there,
I lack of skills to rise with might
but my damaged limbic and
temporal
rises with an idea to
free me from this  inertia.

Days Numb And Erred

Fool.

You fool, people think
aware of I when they get only a glimpse
of a fleeting sigh
Knight in shining armour,
wear your death of the dead
having left behind a legacy of
deceit and hex.

The Compulsive Ink's Hand

As the day ends, you reflect deeply on how it went and realize that you lead a compulsive existence, when you do not know what is existence. It was wasted and you were dead.

High happiness is to be sought after by creation, maybe poverty of ideas will begin with an idea to eradicate poverty of ideas in the most unlikeliest of times and places.

Denial of the day should be done in the night, in dreams, they then automatically manifest as denial of the night too.

Engage yourself in acts involving works which hurt you, be it art, science or business: death respects you before you begin to understand it.

Fortuitous Becoming of A Slave

Intoxication and recklessness
Whispered madness into the night,
a horseman with his wild
slave unchained and a woman of rave
he witnessed, or he thought he witnessed
they brought him to a still poignant arrest

of tomorrow's mundane petty happenings
he could not stand
the stronger he thought he was,
his slave, she made him all the weaker she willed

The whip of will she took out, to kill the spirit of
yesterday and bring peace which was denied for today.

Distrust In Sleep

A thought blew across
a famine brought from far
lead him deprived and empty

Sleep and dreams that ran
away had come to haunt
and stay, poking rants to his mind
while he stayed awake.

Hazari's Sacrifice - A Sherpa's Strength of Will - Part 1

A long day on the top of a mountain of dizzying heights is exhausting.I pack up my 15 liter backpack which contained a pen, a bunch of papers and typewriter and a pack of Marlboro Black among other necessary paraphernalia and start to head back to the base. I invent necessity as I go along, it may not be rationally justifiable to the external world, but to me they exist as much as I do. 

Just three days ago, I decided that I would climb the 5000m high Mt.Clan, here I was returning back already. Sometimes spontaneous goals are the best way to estimate one's abilities. Spontaneous goals? A goal can never be spontaneous,however it can be dynamically evolving.

 When I lit my cigarette, a few hours back and watched the sun sink into the horizon of mystery and elegance I realized I had nothing to look forward to once the moment I was in ended. That is one of the worst situations one could possibly be. Saying things like "I am bored", " I have nothing to do" are redundant phrases of the clinical pessimist who does not stray past his principles of applying pessimism. And I applied it to everything, everywhere and all the time. Mind you, this only made me a sensitive thinker to optimism, sometimes a false hope is all you need to generate true faith in yourself. 

 I have no hope, because I do not care to. I do not need it, as it fatigues me to the point of desperation. 

 " Sir, this is not the right time for you to go up there, it is chilly and windy, the wind could sweep you away any time it arrives", the local Sherpa Mr. Hazari Cucko had said before I started the climb. 

Thinking back to the conversation I had with him- 

  " Maybe I am willing to take that risk, because I have nothing to do. I am not doing it because I know I can, or I hope I can but only because I have nothing else to do. It does matter that I end up doing this, for the simple reason that I intend to do this aside from the consequences" I said.

 "If you wait for a couple of days I could come along with you and guide you to the fastest possible path to the top" Hazari said.

 "I intend to do this now Hazari, If I do not do it now I will lose the sincerity of this moment of purpose and the intent is lost to the abyss of my ever increasing failures, I need to go up there and write of what I see and what I imagine. Only that would give me some sort of respite from the recent loss that I suffered." I said this with a sense of despair that only I could feel and not put in the apt form of expression.

Hazari realized that it was important to me that I go on ahead without him, I was surprised at his astute judgment of my stubbornness. 

" Allright, go on" declared Hazari.

I had only stopped by his beautifully thatched house, to let him know that I was going to do it, as he had often told me about the treacherousness of the path up to the peak. I was not aware exactly why I needed to tell him. Like all my actions, I usually reflect and deeply introspect only after I have performed the action. I accept this and move on, climb on.

So I started my journey up, there was a narrow path leading up, which broadened after 1000ft into a vast platform of rocks covered with snow, except that this area was known for bears. Yes, bears. A cave could be seen to the North-East corner of this part, where sounds of pain were often heard in the middle of the night.

And then..