sigh ..

I read it. The wind had brought that whisper to me. A sigh, an utterance - a breath of rememberance that has travelled through this space, crept this web of cosmos; flown through time and then sat behind the bars in the window pane.
It is the rose that has bloomed somwhere outside my prison, which I cannot see, but somtimes in the night its fragrance makes me restless. I have read it again and again. The words are simple, and the message is short. There is a storm in me however, that has brewed since forever, and now your words have blown away my shelter from this storm in me. Soon it will start hailing and I have no where to take refuge.

"The day I died" or "The day I died?"

It was a warm summer day when I was shot. I was shot to death by loud bang of an unseen gun. I had never heared that sound before. The loud roar was as strange to me as an english muffin in Timbuktu. The bang heared was loud and perhaps was heared late. I felt my temples sweat - temples, forehead, and the back side of the neck. It was reminiscent of the nap that I took just after lunch. So now you know I was shot after lunch. I was shot with a full stomach. I know you are thinking that I am not a rebel then, perhaps. I was definitely not protesting poverty, or prison, or I wasnt even on a hunger strike. I was shot in summer. I was shot when tulips were in full bloom, somewhere. If you know me enough, you know that I have no interest in gardening, and I definitly do not know the seasonal flowers. The moving tragedy of me being shot is powerful enough to make me Quixotic. My death reminded of Tulips, so. I could have thought of roses, but roses are too alive to be thought of after being shot. I was shot and I was running out of time. I had a little time left to reflect on my life ; the things that I did - good and bad.
I was shot and it was the first time I was ever shot. My dear readers, I assume you are active members of the society and you know the moral dilema of doing something the first time. There is a huge pressure on your shoulders to do it right. I hadnt had a chance to witness a shooting before, but I had seen deaths on stage. As you may well imagine my dilema. I was supposed to say something before I die. Something meaningful. But I couldnt think of anything that would make a sense. It was like my reality was covered with a layer of white noise. Yes the exact noise that you see on the television when the antena is not plugged in. In order to say something, I had to focus to come articulate, which I couldnt do. Just imagine the dilema - a person shot with a bang by an unseen gun, who doesnt know how to die. So instead of reflecting on my life, I started searching for a mortal flaw in myself which had led to such a tragic ending. I thought, if I'd find one, I'll die like Lear. Alas, it is true that death confiscates any sense of rational reasoning.
I was about to faint when I realized that now I know the answers to all the questions about life and the unknown questions in the life. I found out why I felt the infringes of love, and the tickles of haterd for somebody, and I found out why I never ever liked Oakra, and why I walked away that day after I said what I said, which I never figured out why I said. I even found out the meaning of those tears that fell from those eyes, and those other eyes and the aligator's grudge against fish and the tears of aligator, and the apple that fell on the head while I sat under the tree, and I never sat under that tree - wait a minute! Is it that I now had the answers to all the questions ever asked by any person ever? Or was it my failing senses and now only sporadically firing neurons in the brain? I opened my eyes with a jerk that I felt but my body never felt.
I was shot by a loud bang, by a gun I have never seen. Was it the gun or the bang that killed me? I wish I could figure out its always the bullet that kills, and not the bang. It was too late already.

Je sais que, comme les autres, tu ne resteras pas
Je sais que, toi aussi, tu partiras
Mais quand même cette fois
J’espère
C’est pourquoi j’ai gardé au fond de mon cœur une lueur d’espoir
En ton honneur
Car il y a déjà longtemps que je monte
Vers le haut des murs du malheur
Que je tombe, je tombe en essayant d’aspirer le bonheur
Celui que j’ai laissé trop souvent
Celui que j’ai brûlé de mes 20 ans
En me disant, comme un pauvre imbécile :
« Demain, je serai bien plus heureux demain »

Et je donne des noms au Soleil, à la Lune
En espérant que demain plaisirs dénudés,
Regards frissonnants reviendront pour m’habiter
Pour alléger la lourdeur des jours à traîner
Et je danse, je danse sur les mêmes rythmes barbares
Et je pleure, je pleure en m’assurant qu’il est déjà trop tard
Trop tard pour le bonheur éternel
Trop tard pour le grand pays des merveilles
En me répétant, comme un pauvre imbécile :
« Demain, je serai bien plus heureux ».

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.