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)

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

a shiraz tree

Numerous tries, countless struggles, and the infinite scope of fears is what defines this old tree. The tree wanted to grow when it was a tender young plant. Unsure of the destiny, and the inflictions of what may come it branched out. It branched out into many branches each having the spirit of a complete tree. They all grew, and prospered - the tree prospered. Here it stands firm, and tall, reaching for the skies, and yet at the same time spanning horizontally across the horizon. Here it is as a symbol of struggle for life, beautifully and erect with its ugly rough skin. It is what it had feared all its life.

your face [skip this] //incomplete

heart,
in the bazar of heart,
wealth is not a consideration.
If fallen in love,
face is not a consideration.
On your face let me spend
my eternal life,
for price is not a consideration
for wanted goods.
Gave my heart,
I gave my heart;
there was a boundary to love.
Gave life; there was a boundary.
I died, with eyes closed,
this was a boundary to my heart.
[chorus] your face
let me imagine you,
I paint you periodically.
[chorus] your face, your face, your face
O, who saw in;
your black eyes,
there's a magic, died!
[chorus] your face, your face, your face
Theie hair and my hand,
like a snake charmer playing with the sanke,
dark shadows on the face,
on the verge of dawn: the diminishing dusk.
[chorus] your face, your face, your face
to you sir,
to you sir, there is one thign i wanna say,
"forget it there is nothing i wanan say".
[chorus] your face, your face, your face
Its so heartfelt scene,
how heartfelt nights
when her thought and the talks with the moon.
Its me, and them, and the talks with the moon.
[chorus] your face, your face, your face
[chorus] in our eyes, your love hurtsm, then what should we do.
beauty, and love, ther eis a differnce,
wghat can i do, i believe in both.
if god is angry i bow,
what must i do if the lover is mad?
some thoughts with no patterbb,
must pislish it.
moooooooooohaaaaaaaaaaaahahhhhaaa
making a nest was my job,
if someone hits with lightining
then what must i do
I am rick james bitch.
[chorus] your face, your face, your face
[chorus] I am a drunkard, drunkard drunakahdr

My best verses are composed, ironically,
when senses lay far away from me.
My verses are prophecies,
of the stones unturned;
of the things unheared;
and yet,
and yet!
I spoketh of the lands untouched.
of the trembles unfelt;
of the warmth never felt;
and the sand
of you and me;
the ashes of you and me
layeth beyond our reach.
Hence,
we must burn,
through this life to eternity.