Necessities and emotions

So why did Cordillia die? Why did imogen die? Why did Lear die? Why did Romeo die?
Perhaps they missunderstood love or Damn Shakespeare and literature?

those among us who know

Those among us who know what it is
that really seperates the soul from the body,
and what breaths courage into the hearts
of those who stand stout and witness
the afflictions of their ambitions;
How words come to life
as they are taken of the paper
and into the flames of fractured humanity
to yeild the notions of new a ideology.

Those among us who know how it is
the billegerent pain of the night,
the contemplating lonliness,
striking on the wooden walls,
and beating into the chest
without a glass of carmine.

Those among us who know what it is
that keeps a phantom awake till dawn,
lets him past the barriers of muse,
unemerge through the sees of thought,
and then lets him stand lost staring
the human sentiments blossom
under the iron bridges of civilisation.

Those among us who know what it is
know for sure it is not the necessity,
its not the reaction of chemicals in self,
and not just a raga of rationality.
They will never name it so
the bridges of iron civilisation
would not collapse.


Wow I really dont know how to write!!

Of Roses, rainbows and death

Roses blossom and clouds fade
Rain falls and rainbows stay
Till the sun goes down,
Or the winds sets it apart.
I was a sole jasmine
In the desert of you and I,
Ever waiting for a rain;
For a drop of water,
That would relieve my thirst
Of you and I.
I wilted, and waited
for the moisture of your lips;
like an ocean 's embrace
of an island 's shore.
I dried and waited
For a drizzle
from the corner of your eye.
Now, I am dying like a camellia in a vase;
Now I fade like a rose on a stage;
A bird in a cage.
A sea in a rage
Will greet the island,
And I will be the trees who welcome
Those high tides of flowing death.

Milky Way

I saw you and forgot
Myself; to be reminded again
In a way that I never dreamed of.
I saw the rain drops
Falling from the sky;
Unconcerned of their destiny
Ignorant that they will strike the ground;
Perhaps aware that they will become one
With what they once flowed from.
I was as a wind
Over the burning sand
In the desert of
Burning desire hoping
To witness for once,
Before the earth cracks apart,
Before ashes and dust:
The reality of breath;
The truth of my flesh;
the vapours of my soul.
And I did realize
in the messages
etched on the stones.
In you I found
Myself, and I.
In you I saw,
You and I
Merging together,
As two galaxies collide
To become one,
And exist together
For what may come,
As one Milky Way.

riddles

Spring has arrived and the questions shall be answered by the subtle changes in the direction of the winds. The rain drops while falling from the sky are worrying about if they are pre-destied or will they become victimes to mere coincidences; soon to be forgotten as the earth is near. (to be continued)

Hawa*

Hope is supposedly a good thing. Hope broadens the horizons and blah blah blah. Eversince I have been hopeful; ever since my horizons have been broadened; ever since the fog of ambiguity has lifted from my life: I cannot write anymore! There is some kind of barrier that has formed, and it stops the flow of the words; flow of the thoughts, who are trying to reach my hands and onto the screen. It is not so that I cannot think any more. I think, I still think, but the melancholic thoughts have undergone a metamorphosis. The thoughts now are of gratitude, ambition, and willingness to change. I feel my old self is back!

Ever since that epiphany, my rennisance, a certain part of my brain has been dedicated to think about that messiah. The person who triggered this chain reaction in myself. The person cannot be blamed (if thats the right word) for this change in me. The sole purpose of the fire is to burn and set ablaze, and similarly, the wood catches fire; one must not attach stigma to the naturally defined roles of the two; they are inevitable. Hence, I burn!

Like an old oak skin, the accumalated toll of stagnancy is wearing off me. When I breathe now I can, again, smell the jasmines in the air; the bud that has just blossomed into a flower. Taking a walk in the park, I felt the wind caress, through my hair, my temples. I closed my eyes, and opened them to see the dance of sand on the flutes, and then trumpets of the wind. As I drove by, I saw a handicapped, homeless, man on a wheel chair rejuvinated when he was able to tune a channel on his old radio.

A desert has come to life after an astray rain cloud made its way over the dry sands. Invain my attempts are to justify what has happened. It was like a magic. It was Hawa*.






*Hawa is Eve in arabic. Hawa means magic.

a bate for every season

I was going through my blog and noticed a pattern in recent posts. Due to some unknown reason, the posts are absurdly melanchollic in tone.
Well lets change it; the next 5 posts will be created with the purest intentions of the embodiment of the soul-chuckling-humor.
This post may be counted in, if one tries to find the relationship of the heading with the post. I certainly cant.

just thought of it

My tears are no morning dew;
If I cry they'll carry the Noah's arc.

Anima?

I sat there on the floor with my head in between my knees, watching in the void in the dim light of the computer screen; weeping my sorrows. A shadow appeared next to me; her face was covered in darkness. I stood up to her, and lighted the space with the sparks of my curiosity. The shadow took form of an image in the looking glass. I glanced through the silverish material and my eyes met those hazel eyes. A breeze blew behind me, and her dark hair fluttered lightly, like a pendulum swinging, by the lobe of her ear. A time went by, as we stared at each other.

The image through the looking-glass spoke to me; her lips moving, and eyes gesturing, as I responded exactly to the actions. The voice I heared came from a nearer source than from the glass. I rose my hand to touch the perfection - the imperfection of myself met the perfection of the image; the hands touched but the feeling was empty -- the glass insulated our heats on each side.

Confused, and disapointed perhaps, I watched her leaning towards me, with her blazing hazel eyes focused on mine. A force pushed me in the same gesture towards her. Her lips were so close to mine, when she let out a sweet breath; like a whisper, which I understood. There arose a mist in between us. My heart broke. As her image blurred, I smelled the fragrance of her breath. She had, as if, broken the spell of the mirror, and had crossed the boundaries. I felt her breath, and that fog started running through my veins. We somehow became one. The imperfections of myself vanished into her perfections, as she vanished into me. I found myself standing infront of the mirror, as a better man, than I were before.

Primordial Instinct

Horror has a face; it can be seen in the memmory, rewinded and repeated over and over again. Whearas Fear does not. Fear refers to the speculations of the unknown. A glimpse towards the dark, which may be in the form of one's own imagination. Fear is one's own discrepencies, which are projected onto the screen, as they are filtered through the lens of one's observation. Hence, we sterotype!

Animals communicate; so do humans. Earlier relying solely on the subtle gestures, and body language. Where every move is translated onto a slate of meaning, which is hardcoded in the animal's own instinct. The naturally derived hypothesis being that the other animal has the exact replica set of instincts, actions, and perhaps emotions. Then, sterotyping is not a human instinct, consequently.

Humans, when following animals in their footsteps, try to find meaning in the non-intentional or perhaps very diverse gestures of the opposite person. It does seem bruitish, however, that humans neglect and fail to trust their most accomplished achievement in the history: Language. The psudo-scholarly spins the nature of the brutish action under the label of "diverse human interaction", and sometimes "Wisdom" (,which they define as pre-judging the future before happening on the basis of what has happened before. A cruel form of sterotyping). But they know it too. They know that bypassing the language is from fear. A fear of clarity, that may be unleashed over the matter, if they communicate in words. A fear that it may lead to Horror.

Lead it may to horror, but never will to the horror of existance. Life in its purest and innocent most form is the set of events. One must experience these events to find meaning to their existance, and consequently realization. Horror has a face, but fear does not: the fear actually destroys any face like acid on skin.

and it never seized to beat.

There exist axioms on which life tries its test round the diurnal on us meeks. The wise are those who are aware of them. A fool is not the one who doesn’t see, but he fails to act on them. Gratification is the reward pursued by the fool and the wise alike. The prize lies within delaying it. The fool must fail to the virtue of his actions, hence.

I be the fool this day, and sacrifice gratification again for the sake of it; forsaken every time just for the sake of being marred, and let lose to repeat it. Faux pas! I must quit dreaming, and end this lapse. I must abandon my search for the nirvana which haunts me, and ignore the paradoxes that dog me. I have seen what must have been shown to the prophets, but this very fact separ1ates me from them. I wanted it for myself, and I wanted it then. A mortal flaw! A wretched fact!

My wit beings to turn, and a Tempest is yet to come. I give up – Heavens, Apollo, Mars, or Neptune, be my witness to this day: I give up. My hope lied in thee (not the deities), and thee shall I never have. Adieu, rationality; I fare you well. I look forward to the day I'll die the death of a bourgeois.

anticipation contd.

So, if to wait is to understand the nature, then to be excited is to harmonize with the epestemology of the creation. However, these words I say drop like sticks on hollow drums. Wait can be the most agonizing experience a person can undergo. Both of the arguments, i guess, hold valid; it only depends on whom's sound you lay your ears waiting.

anticipation

To wait for someone is to witness the marvel of nature's beauty on the scale that defines her very essence: the time. (to be continued)

Nirvana

Through the depths of personal hell and onto the band wagon of social fallacies, I have looked everywhere. I have searched for this idea in its purest form. Never have I been surprised the way I was today, and then still my search continues.
The fate is most ironic of all creatures. One must come across a nirvana and then find it unsuitable and part from her, thinking "well, it may be myself to blame, for I have chosen this path myself".
I have thought that, "I will burn all my books and will receede into the darkness of ignorance and away from where i can be touched by a single ray of enlightened humans". But the struggle still continues, and none of it is definitive.

catastrophe

The frames, as they may appear of time, seem to be frozen. The moments span the depths of my perception. I feel the world revolving around me. The sound of music, in thick smoke of cigars, makes the air more viscous to breath. The viscousity only adding to the pleasure of serene breathing. I love this serenity of the moment. The moment which lasts forever, but will never span to eternity.
The dark shadow that creeps up and then receeds to rest under the ridges of the lamp, portrays my diminished ambitions against this time. The wind that blows outside, as a stranger to me, when asks me the cause of my pain, I write down on the abyss of my void the answer to the question ,"lonliness".
An hundred faces hidden behind the masks, like a 17th century masquerade, each face with my own face on it, when I notice and then pose the question to myself, "lonliness?" Then forget to answer it, as if ignoring it for the culmination of bliss. A serene bliss to which I lose myself, asking questions I will never have the answers to, and would not ask them, if otherwise.