Word-Ache.

I: "The world is fraught with useless words."
- So many each day, so much.

You: "It is a horror that has to be lived by force."
- A wicked euphoric win for meaning's course as such.

Triggers.

The dead are never
truly dead.

You look around
see and observe

Then melancholy
rises with just a look
from a stranger

Who bears a striking
resemblance to
someone who was dead.

Now alive. Ah, the memory of family. It is so spotless. 

A Musical Fall

It was a musical fall.

The green turned red,
he and she gazed
together with curious eyes
and searching for answers
If you look close,
there are only more questions

It was a musical fall.

The red turned yellow,
they touched
together with sensitive skin
and allured with each other
If you look for love,
will you find more love?

It was a musical fall.

They walked together toward winter
not knowing if they would see spring
to live

When the note of the last song played
they stirred, connected and laughed.
This was their last laugh,
for the coming had everything flawed.

Kindness to Death and Time.

A boy had walked in to a scene of murder. The murder was between himself and his soul. The boy was too young to be this man.

The soul was defending it's necessity in sustaining the man's faith in the world. The soul was shaped very meagerly, triangular at it's tail ends and was blowing like a baloon every minute it showed itself. A triangle, a square and a circle. It was encircled in a dodecahedron which was a transparent geometric shape. 

The mad man was well built, a muscular appearance. His head was ironically, funnily small. It was almost bean-like and was charred on the back sides.The man had no more conviction left in him. An ounce of a effort required a canyon of hope. A gram of happiness required an ocean of optimism. He had neither of the two. There was no abundance left in him. Nothing good perhaps. 

But then -

The axe had risen quickly, and it was sharp. The man was about to axe himself at which moment he saw the gleaming reflection of his own eyes in the side of the blade. The eye was golden and had been reduced to just a speck. The eyes had nothing left in them except the eye itself. It symbolized nothing but it's own existence. Why should there be a reason for something to exist? This he pondered and stopped just before the edge of the axe was a centimeter from his eye.

The soul now smiled in all it's geometric awkardness. In all its eccentric appearance, in all the soul's conviction was a tiny part of the man himself.

The boy triumphantly smiled and jumped ecstatically. The soul and his future self turned and piercingly stared at their past, almost as if they were transferring a necessary piece of wisdom to him. A piece of themselves in time, before time to someone that was and that should not will to be. 

The three now smiled exactly the same way and merged to one. 

The old man was happy that he was able to recall such a surreal dream from his depths. He opened his eyes in the ICU, just a blink. He closed it as soon as he saw his mother smiling, and passed away to another glorious world waiting for him. 

The young boy was on the ground, fallen from a height, a long pillar from which he had dived to the ground. He was too energetic to have this fall stop him. He went around and started to climb again, an arduous task in itself.

The soul was silent in both, confused in time. But then, it belonged to both and none. It just was. He just always was.

Self-Kill.

Maybe self-torment is a process that should be inflicted upon oneself to achieve tranquility and apathy. Failure gives one clarity to see through sentences and words. In most cases failure to understand maybe a window to hope.

My head hurts 

this comprehension

that never comes

is a pain that stays

within and plants

roots of apathy.

With no meter

nor poignancy

a poem is born

without a meaning

to it's name.

Hours of Need

From so far away,

you descend your ways

and that is for now

enough

in a lost sea, to find those

few moments to be.

Your eyes

speak of the glint

in your soul

once lit

would never be diminished.

The envelope of the desire to write envelopes me entirely, covering my existence and making it perfunctory. I wish to seek aid in writing, but my mind is distracted due to the layers of waste that exists inside the envelope. 

I must write and I must live and live according to a set of rules that are unwritten. This bothers my soul and tears it apart. Does this enable me to write? Yes, as I am doing now, but not sufficient for the resurrection that I am looking for. To be born out of your own creation is to assign a purpose to your own creation. To commit hours of writing is what I need, but hours I do not have right now. I need them. I need them. I have to make them, to manufacture time out of time. As you read through this, it seems like a ranting of a broken and lost man. But a broken and lost man will come to be a man through the circumstances unseen to him. Unpredictability to achieve a goal lends a kind of beauty to life which cannot be seen without a set purpose.

So my goal is to write, but that isn't something I do enough. Hence my existence becomes beautiful in a disorderly manner. I exalt the nature of who I am right now because I haven't come to be. But I know for sure that I will be.

Fear and Meaning.

The fear clutches your
throat by default,
but will you too fail by your
fault?

The fear twists your
eye by sight
but will you too be blind by
your lack of right?

The fear exists to question your
existence
but how can you be dubious of
your presence?

Maybe the two are not the same,
just because they have a meaning by
their names.

Jaws.

And hence he comes
bidding his time in shadows
in plain sight, nails the heart
with sharp and might.

A long blink and it is over.
Ninety-two times and over.

Death.Peace. Not-Understanding.

A Fatigued Sky.

My eyes ache.
Everything else even more.
I almost forget what pain is.

Sensations.

Is all rational?

In the pit he was weeping in a pool of his own blood, alive until he could feel every ounce of life lost from him. He thought his brain was being dissected, every neuron, every past connection established between reality, knowledge and truth was in a pain unbearable to him. The feeling was at the epitome of tragedy and yet there was a beauty found in this despair, the sole reason being he could feel it.

He was beyond human. He was more human than any human ever was.

All he could muster for now was the memory of what he was thinking a day back. That in itself, could fill a book. In his study, while he had a smoke last night, this was his line of thought. He firmly believed everything that happens to a person, the sensations, why and how of it should be understood. If, in a situation, one is not clearly aware of what is happening, the window of hopelessness begins to appear. Hope is needed when one cannot understand, and when one cannot understand, one cannot act accordingly. Since there is no universal truth, hope is universal. It is a property of the universe which arose from the void created by rationality. 

Often times, it is merely speculation that gets us through the day. A combination of blind belief with a tinge of reason. It is like a dish incompletely cooked, but serves the purpose of providing us with sufficient nutrients to salvage our stomach. And this, ONLY this is enough for someone so sensitive to over analyze things, people,memories,events to its grave and carry a weight which is almost unbearable in it's nature to even exist.
What is the purpose of living if not to understand living itself? Give me a hundred lifetimes, with the nature of our consciousness, the result will still be the same. That we are trapped in our own minds, so convoluted that self deception becomes synonymous with redemption itself.

There is no way out except death. Death is the purest form of escape, even though cowardly. But to choose being a coward requires a certain amount of courage and stupidity which has to co-exist in the right amount to just self-immolate. Nothing is never what it seems.


Is all rational?

Being.

He got back from his work and collapsed on to his couch. The way he fell on the couch seemed like he thought it was the entrance to the pit of freedom after all. The pit of non-existence. A death so severe and painful that no living object, place,animal or person can make him feel that way. 

As he gathered his thoughts, and balancing on his ass for that matter, he realized he did not have them in plural except for the thought counting as his realization.

"Being Human. Stop."

This collective metaphysical phrase repeated throughout his brain, body and soul and was making him to want to stop it all. The noise. The conflict. The despair. The impermanence.The freedom to choose. What is ever defined appropriately in life? Except for the fact that you will one day die. Your mortality has been chosen for you, the one thing you cannot chose and have no control over. Or is it? Is control ever possible on anything?

The question that remains to be answered is this : Is dying worth trying your life on? Some people have a filter, a processing unit called "Intellectual Deception" in their minds. The instant I realize I want to deceive, or when I am in the process of deceiving, I can easily stop it. But, what if the only way you want to think is self-deception? Then where is truth, lies, good or bad? Where does that leave any room for something to be understood?

Once, a creative teacher had said "The questions remain the same, only the answers keep changing". The problem is questions remain. The answers come and go.

The only real answer is to this question-

Question: Will you one day die?

Answer: Yes.

From this singular concept of death, there arises a billion questions about life and its premises, context, meaning and structure. But life is not a mathematical problem, it only has a metamathematical solution.