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surreal life

What dreams may come, when a mind descends into mayhem and anarchy in the cover of sleep? I have not the answer but something to tell. I was stranded in a barren garden on a table under a tree. Alone, but happy, with a plate full of my favorite dishes that I have not tasted in almost four years. In my happiness I reiterated the hassle I went through to get my hands on it.
I was standing there and ordering it to my taste, and then, I remember, I ordered a taco instead. I gave the chef entire ingredients for a taco. I dont like tacos. I hate tacos. My source of joy, suddenly revolted against me, the reality swept, or crept in on me. I was on the same table but the food infront of me was not my favorite.
A frame changed; I may have turned in bed. I was so thirsty in the sleep that I woke up, and grabbed a glass from my bedside table. I drank till fill, so sweet and cold water. "But wait I am still thirsty", I thought. "Oh, so it was a dream", I realized. Giving into the thirst I woke up and found that there is no glass on the bedside table. "There is no bedside table". It was not even my room. It was not home, but this place that I am living in for a past few years. A feeling of grief crept in, "like a silent spring creeps in a barren garden", I whispered to that taco infront of me on that table in that barren garden.
"Just a dream", I thought. The sun was setting, I could see. "This sunlight makes it so hard to drive on this road". "I have not been on this road; wait I have to turn right". I turn the steering of the car but it slips. I brake, but invain. Its going backwards now, even though its in the first gear. "What the hell is happening??" I yell in panic.
I am glad I made it to school. What, I have a test today? I have this test on my table but I dont know why I am not solving it. Its irritating, but I am not solving it. Its almost dusk, but I am not solving it. I know I will fail it. It is that fucking taco, isnt it? No one has come to pick me up from school. Its been 15 minutes over. I should panic, thats what I always do, but I think I wont today. I feel I've grown up, so instead I start playing cricket with the other kids with a plastic bat. I have not finished the test, and the taco is still on the table. Did I make that right turn? Did my car stopped slipping backwards?
I am not sure I know.

This is a very informative web site I found out regarding Scientology. I insist that you visit it. Furthermore, this is a real video of Tom Cruise electricuting Oprah - who could have thought that it will come to this.

A veil in the night

A veil in the night, like a visage of the horizon, far and yet so certain; a distant vision of uniting scape, hides a white secret. The moon shines silver in the center of horizon. The secret is the moon. It shines a crescent to fill the night with nostalgic romance and then glows a full to deprive rest from the oceans' waters. The high untamed tides pounce on the shores, to silently descend back upon confrontation by the concrete sea walls. The guilt recedes back to thoughts, and in darkness another shadow vanishes. The moon sets in the wake of dawn; the star dust settles in the silence before the storm. The storm will blow away the veil, the reality of certainty will be revealed, and there will be a horizon where nothing will meet.

anger and faith

Today I have decided to write on a very critical issue governing the relationship between linguistics and the awards offered by various religons in the after life.
Abrasive, expressive and aggressive sentences are often uttered in rage. The beauty of raging anger is the sublimity of expression. The true expression of human nature is attained during the climaxing oral-vengence. The spontaneousness of such an expression is in perfect accord with the second law of thermodynamics or the law of entropy. Since the expression fulfills the natrual laws of physics, hence it is redeemed true.

The point hence, an anger stricken expression is often close to reality, and has all qualities of a traditional mythology.

An instance of example can be a person confessing the extra-marital relations with the opponent's mother. His claims are never verifiable even with the most advanced DNA searching techniques, but he still insists on the universalness of the truth. If we juxtapose the adultrous argument with the argument of an idol who is determined to beat the hell out of people, then the similarities between the two cases are often mindboggling. There exists no scientific evidence for each case.

The relationship of anger and faith is a cascading hegamony revealing itself on close examination. Consider the following two true (true, as already proved) sentences yelled in heart pounding anger:

1) I'll beat the hell out of ya.
2) I'll beat the shit out of ya.

The lexical structure of the sentences is similar, except for "hell" and "shit". The perfect equivalence in the sentences, other than the exceptions, lead to the derivation of a strange conclusion based on the mathematical principle of A = B. These sentences of rage are a foreshadow to a discovery that we will be reading in the next few lines.
The "shit" mathematically equals "hell" (from 1 and 2). Now this reference is not metaphoricalat all, and proves that hell is indeed feces. So, if your neighborhood priest tells you about hell, the various details of that pestilent place, do not listen to him. Instead go upto the podium and yell it out that hell will be a semi-solid stinking matter of excretion.

Whose excretion, is left onto you to guess.

I've got something in my front pocket for you
Why don't you reach down in my pocket and see what it is.
Then grab onto it, it's just for you
Give a little squeeze and say, "How do you do?"
There's something in my front pocket, There's something in my front pocket,
There's something in my front pocket
for you.

People, if you are alive then you will be glad to know that I am alive as well. Not only that I am alive buy I am sprouting with life. The first primise of a busy college life's clause is the sacrifice of all other activities. I had been hell'a busy [sic].The past few weeks had nothing new to offer: I flew to Anaheim, CA, attended a technology conference, recived an award on live T.V. telecast, came back flunked in a test etc. etc.

tear stained eyes

A pakistani girl in the aftermath of the earthquake in south asia.

paradox

On the sublime level the theoratical constructs of any strife for writing is not more than a struggle for communication. Communication on any level is a confession of the summation of incomplete thoughts striving for profoundness. Be this, if , the hypothesis for communication then the process is plagued by a leprous and an apparent paradox:
If communication is a strife for completeness, and profundness then why the stationary intertia, and resistance to a change is an epitome of human cultures?
Cultures, when examined are most effectively propogated by seemless communication between individual humans. Human is not a homo sapien but a growing, and learning individual. Then why the resulting culture is stagnant as a gutter infested by reproducing maggots.

an advice

deepning thoughts weakens determination.

countlessness and trust

Taken I have pen tonight to express myself on an issue so haunting. I have written, but nothing important in recent days, even months; successfully wasting the not so scarce bits of information for nothing meaningfull.
The only reason in sight is my over indulgence in technology field. I could write about practical issues of 7th degree polynomials, but restrain myself, I did. Why would anyone wanna read about polynomials on a blog named etherized upon a table?
Sometimes I feel this struggle between science and arts is a foreshadow to a deeper conflict yet to be revealed.

etherized upon a table

How could I explain it to you? How could I tear open the bosom of this tale, and let the agony flow. You suppose its hard? I concur no more than I have been through. Perhaps, I could symbolize it. Yeah, thats what they do - thats what they do when they fail to express themself to their commarades, and friends. Thats exactly what they do when they are past the barriers of common comprehension, they opt for slow poisoning. People do not want to hear about it, but are rendered ineptly helpless against the spearing metaphors. Metaphor is like a snake that creeps up to their throats while they sleep.

There is a chair in that corner. Nobody has sat on it for months. There hangs a jacket on it. The seat is covered with a thin film of dust. Its been beset to disposing when some time is available to clean up. A wasted chair.

This man sits there by the mailboxes on his wheel chair. He has an expression of emptiness. I cant help but wonder about his life each time I drive by. There is this solitude in his eyes, this vacum which has sucked all expression from his face. There is never a smile to be seen. His wrinkled face is a time line of events of stagnancy. Time has this pernicious capacity of inertia. It halts, sort of brakes, when life is taking turns on the corners of hardships; and sometimes there are only turns and no straight roads in the puzzle of life. He will die one day, on the same wheel chair with the same blank face of pain - same face of no complains. There may not be a tear in his eye.

This lies a hair brush on the dressing table. It is tangled with the hair I have lost - spawned webs of hair. I do not use it anymore. Why? Perhaps, its too dirty, and old. Perhaps, it reminds me when I had a full scalp of hair. Whatever the reason, it will just lay there till someone just throw it away, and I will not even notice.

Dostoevsky's Idiot is next to my bed side table. I read it till almost the end, but never finished it. I am too afraid to discover formyself Prince Myshkin's doom. I will put it in my library of books, so it always reminds me of this guilt.

Sorry folks!

Thanks to those spamming comments, I have turned on the word verification feature. So, now posting a comment is real easy. When you click submit, it will show you a picture and ask you what you read over there. You'll have to type that in a box, and hit send again.
P.S:
It really pisses me off that people like me have put in our blood to nourish the internet. We have always been the ones who have spent long hours, cold nights, and god knows what infront of the monitors. And now, every asshole: tom, dick, harry, john thommas, is trying to make money off it. Those bastards! they dont even know binary number system from a pop tart! What really pisses me off is the online fuckin dating trend. Only, geeks have a legitimate right to use those sites. FUCK YOU spammers, and tom, dick, harries! Fuck you in your ears.

medical history

I recieved a call from my doctor's clinic today. Apparently, my reports of all those tests came back. I was fortunate enough to see him on the same day, this evening.
He was euphoric since he thinks he has finally diagnosed why I suddenly start hearing that hissing/whizzing sound in my head with a blurring vision. Not only that, he says the exact source of this problem is responsible for my decreased attention span, and increased randomness (creativity, I like to call it, since it lets me think out of the box, and probably, out of the blue too).
The blood tests, and the x-rays show that there is a small imaginary formation next to the pituatry gland, on the underside of the brain. It interferes with the entire endocrine system, releasing stuff that is orthognal to the hemoglobin in the blood cells, and would receed to the absoloute value of the partial differential if using determinants. He even showed fears of tripple scalar products.
However, he assured me that I have nothing, whatsoever, to be afraid of - at the most I will die. And anyone living has to die one day. He estimated that I have only a few decades left of my life. So basically, I have lived less than a quarter of my projected life span, already.
He wants to put me on a strict medication schedule. I will have to have atleast 3 meals a day; constituting a balanced diet. ...
Screw it, I am tired of this frustrating life.

senseless decisions out of fear

In the scorching chill of the night, in the restless shadow of a shimmering light, in the mist of ambiguity, in search of the self, fluttering like hungry voulters; flying over those half-alive bodies; the beating drums in the viel of civility, whizzing in some remote jungle; they are proud on man's nature, today again they are proud of victory, those senseless decisions out of fear!