This anxiety is killing me. I am counting days, and only 34 are left before I graduate.
I am afraid.

"Etherized upon a table"

There is no darkside of the moon really.As a matter of fact, its all dark.

V for Vendetta

"[...]Disdaining fortune, with his brandished steel
Which smoked with bloody execution,
Like valour's minion
Carved out his passage till he faced the slave,
Which ne'er shook hands nor bade farewell to him
Till he unseamed him from the nave to th' chops,
And fixed his head upon our battlements. - from Macbeth

Entropy and whores

You are what you chose to look like. People are fools, and you have every right not to enlighten them. People are happiest when they are manipulated without their will. Try it, if you do not believe. You will be dissapointed.
Each human will confess of his strife for betterment. Improvement, they will emphasize, is a characteristic of homo sapien. Why then, if a being lives for improvement, the society always heads towards destruction. The time changes, but never for good. What is this strange oxymoronic relationship between a man and his group.
We are creatures bounded to the physical world and the platonic relationships of the resultant co-existance. Entropy effects us on the same scale as it effects a falling glass.
Passing moments, days, weeks, months, years are the units of increasing entropy in our life. How then we validate our claim of gaining wisdom with the age? Infact, Alzhimer is our disease; the plague of the rationals.
The search for realization is a faint try to avoid a combustive increase in entropy of our concious mind. The knowledge and education are a hoax. The god is a balancing digit in a still unbalanced equation. With all these variables there is only one constant. There is only one truth. The death. Everybody dies, from our society to a mongring whore.

Nostalgia and pain

The novel is strange and yet so familiar. The theme is the same old of pain and despair. I even think that the author is overly influenced from Hermann Hesse, but I do not blame him for it. I skim through the pages as the story brings back the memories of my home town. My neck is still hurting and I have not been able to find a comfortable reading position, as I lay on the bed now.
It is a strange feeling to be able to identify with the protagonist of such a depressing story, and then first handedly feel a facet of that pain: an over powering muscle ache in the neck. I try to turn my head towards the left side but the pain is devastatingly unbelievable. I do not quit on the tries to move the head, as I find the intensity of pain hard to believe. The pain for a moment feels sweet too.
So I give up on the reading as I haven’t eaten in many hours, and the pain in the neck is well, pain in the neck. I think of going out and getting something to eat, but do otherwise as my mind portrays some elaborate pessimistic scenarios of going out at this late hour - Besides, nothing good can be expected of the ill fated.
I turn on the computer but there is no internet. I wonder “if Wordsworth’s lonely wanderings as a cloud were as lonelier as mine without the Internet”. I think of the Daffodils for a second and then change the thought as if I have embarrassed myself with just a vision of a happy thought; it feels unethical even to think of a colorful thought.
With these unclear thoughts I find it a bit hard to sleep, so I conclude that nostalgia and pain are related. I could question my conclusion, and in the back of my head I know that my premise is not rational, but I am too tired to be questioning anything, and I will settle on any convictions that will help me descend into a sweet sleep.

globalization, my ass!

Man is a social animal. Hence one has to befriend with cats and dogs in the abscence of real friends. Curse these distances - I miss my old pals.

Fredrich Chopin - Nocturne in E minor

A vision from the life past. A touch of breeze on my cheeks under the summer sun, as I stare at those snow covered mountains far away. The falling leaves crumble under my trembling thoughts. It is not summer yet. The deep breath reminds of the peace and the years spent unnoticed.
The exhaled breath; the days; the nights; the walks; the sleep; the touch of breeze - gone. Gone they are gone. Thoughts, tinted thougts; the mountains; the snow - Gone.

Donkey

I was skimming through an old diary and found this thing that I wrote a long long a while ago:

Endless hair,
stranded on your tail
Reaches your trunk,
Pulsating with current.
How can I bare -
the kick so supple,
on my balls;
not so rugged.
Run away with me,
be my ride.
Show me some teeth,
my beloved donkey.

rose nectar

There is a strong scientific evidence supporting the fact that rose-nectar is good for eyes, and eye sight. Therefore, gentle readers, it is highly recomended that you wash your ass with rose-nectar everyday.

Light,
sparkling, shimmering,
scintillating light.
Seven rays of distinct colors;
bright!
Far across the horizon,
a visage of shinning silver
Dreams.
Each one of them awaits you,
my Nightingale.

A Crazy Girl

Mundane is the shelter when doubts hail from the skies of life. She sits and watch us as we are absorbed into the mundane pleasures. A curious mind ask questions; she doubts her own intentions as meloncholy spreads through her existance. Her eyes darken, as my eyes dilate.
I notice and offer her some too, but her nay is strong and sounds to be out of place. She sounds as I am responsible for bringing her back to this earth from the boundless lands of her thoughts. She yells, no!
I forget her anguish in the shadows of mine own. I think about Demian's mark of distinction but see her face instead of my own.
I laugh - she will soon find out. She will find out that her misery stems from not becoming one with what she abhores. One has no option but to become one with what one hates.

Still Etherized upon a table

A year has past, Hooray; My blog is one year old. My thoughts are a year more mature; my wit a year more wise; my death a year nearer, and I am pulsating with life.
Let there be a celebration! I have written a chapter from my life.

Nothing [ a play ]

Act I Scene I
A. What is that thing?
B. Where?
A. There (pointing towards it).
B. Its nothing.
A. Nothing? What do you mean nothing?
B. Do you want me to look it up on the dictionary.com for you? Nothing means nothing.
.... Its nothing.
A. You are a freak, I am talking about that tree.
B. Oh, so you are asking me what is that tree?
..... But you already know that its a tree. It has leaves full of tasty cholorophyl, and it even makes its own food and ...

A. you are crazy.
B. What? I am crazy? How am I crazy? Are you accusing me of being irrational?
A. Well no, I dont think if you are irrational, but you simply come across as a crazy person.
B. You should take your comments back. I am not crazy, I just observe more than you do.
This world is more colorful to me than your average rainbow.
A. yeah, it may very well be ...
B. Why you dont believe me?
A. I didnt say that.
B. Ok, let me ask you a question.
Why is "I" (reference to onself) is written in capital letters in english ...?

A. Because it implies a noun.
B. let me finish .. where as "you" is not capitalized?

[pause]

A. I am not sure. I think its just a convention.
B. Oh! so its just a convetion now, and when I told you about the conventional cholorophyll you thought I was crazy.
You are a hypocrite, thats what you are.

A. This was a lame question. What would make a person notice such a silly technicality? Ask me another one.

B. Ok.
[thinks for a sec]

B. Why do people fall in love?
A. wait a minute! No, no no no. Its not a leagal question!

B. What do you mean "its not a legal question"?
A. I mean we are acting in a stupid play about nothing, and we are not supposed to make any sense at all. We are fools but not Shakespeare's Fools. Do not even try to be Shakespeare's Fool because he had ADHD, and you are just ... constipated.

B. What do you mean by "not supposed to make any sense at all".
A. Think about it. It does not matter what you and I say or think. We are expendable.
B. Is the author an economist?
A. No! thats not what I imply by "expendable".
B. Then what do you mean?

A. Well, Let me explain.
What is your name?

[B thinks and hesitently] ... B.
and you are A!

B. So you see, he didnt even care to give us proper names. That asshole!
A. [yells] You bastard!!
... But then what is this play all about. It doesnt even have a plot. We as characters are not evolving, and there is not even a moral to this play.
Its not even a fucking tragedy: there is no girl in this play!!

B. Well, this play is about what I responded to your first question earlier: nothing.
A. Nothing?
B. Yes, its nothing.
A. I get it now. Its an ode to nothing!

[B sings]
O nothing so formidable,
so arrogant, so vile, and so pathetic,
you are where no one is,
you will be when there will be no one.
I am B and you are A,
in this play we be,
and we mean collectively nothing.

A. Suck my balls.
B. Amen!

The End.

nailed em!

Mourning. No, its 6th sense

Success is like the taste of blood, once you experience it, it comes back and haunts you wanting for more. Wait, I cant write about success for there is a lingering thought that just wont go away:
Shattered pieces of my ragged body once more color the pathways to success; Futile struggle of finding love plagues like vicious dreams. Faith, trust, sureity, security are just the words made for fools, and the optimistic is always slained. Life's lessons are conjuror's tricks and the truth is never revealed.
The thought just died there, and my mind has gone blank. (Back to the prepration for Cal III exam)