I've written a poem for you

I ‘ve written a poem for you. Would ya like to see it? But Its not a regular rhyme Or a cheesy ballad It is only the underdone flickerings within me Yes the ones that I got while talking shit to you You know when I was comfortable just yapping shit. That. Would you be interested at all? Because I have no words of admiration The ones which squeeze themselves inadvertently While mentioning you Like when describing your lips or the high cheek bones Like mentioning the squeak in your voice Like narrating your petit nose Rather, all I wrote was how shitty I am All I spoke was the decisions I made All the fickle that my brain brewed All the holy blunders I executed with panache All the text that I could use to self-loath But didn’t you make all that so worthwhile I mean didn’t you smell like flawless Like when I hugged you on the sidewalk Like when we just yakked in the English pub round the corner With the signature green walls And the erratic paintings on them And orange faces inside guzzling beer And the hard accent but gentlemanly I quoted a Seinfeld joke on cleavage And didn’t you laugh like mad Then I guess you went calm for a bit not the awkward silence mind you, but where you knew you are not obliged to extend the conversation where you could just faff shit yes, and I faffed shit I guess I was funny enough That’s why you came over And after when you stood in my kitchen All high from the merlot And then you poked me With eyes wide and brimming And I shied Like I was a bastardly creation of his I should have held you strong I should have kissed you profusely Instead of writing a poem The words I write for you they do me no good I missed you entirely When you could have been there and in a jiffy I am also not kind of the audacious ones And with little guts and so laidback That I let it go. Now, I shudder when I talk about you I have not shuddered so much As if it were a scary movie I speak of As if I confronted my dead uncle alive Not because you were any horrendous Its because shying from the splendid you Was an ugly act And that is why I meander on Microsoft word Jotting words with quarter confidence. But the words have some affection Would you like give some heed Of course, you would find them cheesy But I found them out for you I give them in your face and unto you Your indifference kind of shoves them right up my ass

Brain Pluckings - Must 'read'

Those of you and the fortunate ones who have held ‘Brain Droppings’ in their bare hands ever, would realize that the title takes from George Carlin’s bestseller, incidentally called ‘Brain Droppings’. To quickly give a flavor, George Carlin is arguably the most revered stand-up comic artist of all times; although we do not have him anymore. But which doesn’t mean we cannot have more of him. I’ll tell you why he would name his book that though. There must have been two reasons for it (crisply laid down) as follows: 1. The book is not a regular style; it does not have any running story or even a theme or chapters interlinked. The only linkage is that all what is written was penned by Georgie. 2. It was essentially his stand up material put together- a mere congregation of pieces that ranged from 3 sentences long to sometimes 2 full pages; but which was usually it. And this was perhaps because what he wrote kind of just ‘dropped’ from his brain or so to say he felt it in such succinct a manner that he could pen it unmindful of the fact that he would ever publish it in the form of a book. He felt no need to tell a story. He just had, perhaps, the urge to blurt. And he did that pretty well. And yes, all of his pieces in themselves had small stories to tell nevertheless, which were also pretty clever. But cut to this text, and why would I stamp it as ‘brain pluckings’. It is because this is not a very fluid natural account of anything like the usual classic novels. In other words, I did not wait for those erratic flashes of brilliance to strike me which I could plainly write about; largely because I wasn’t getting any of them. Also, I must be the most under read guy scribbling away ever. I am also the most screwed up guy ever. Of course neither helps. I don’t inhale much ink through my eyes, therefore whatever I exhale suffers. I have thought about it (the cons of minimalistic reading and consequent writer’s block) and now for a while. Is it something to do with my current professional engagements, or is to do with the fact that I am not smitten yet. I did kind of an introspection of the self, but then I do that all the time. For instance, if I say a word to a colleague or a friend, regarding anything, I find myself taking a self-feedback on what I just said. And, mind you, I also do it right before saying it. I think a thought to massive degrees. For me making a call on anything, calls for over assessment; so much so that I am unable to reach a finding and remain in a flux almost always. In a nutshell, I do little but I think over it (destructively) to insane levels. Had I been reading a lot of good stuff, it may have compensated for my novice approach in dealing with routine situations, but I do not. And that is why I have been writing so little. I don’t have ideas to pen. I don’t suffer from the writer’s block; I suffer from the reader’s block instead. Perhaps I shouldn’t be writing at all. But then, once in a while, and only once in a while it becomes rather tough to keep away from frantically penning when you happen to rendezvous the likes of her. And yes in a narrow sense, when she often manages to smell so good. I don’t think I need to read a lot to be able to accurately depict the contours of a good looking face and the resulting scuffle in my head. All I do is then to jargonize my ramblings and put them on paper.

Open letter to people in general

Dear People You are doing all very well. No qualms there. In whatever you are doing and no qualms about that. Not that I want to say things necessarily to confront. But then the obsession with mere belongings is kind of heart wrenching. Although even that’s not callous. The point is that the liberation, that fuzziness, that nimble sort of existence has been left behind. Living lacklustre seems to be the norm. The mannerisms to live, the do’s and don’ts, all seem itched and stoned. One way to realize could be to walk barefoot on the dawn dew that layers the grass at that time. The misty realisation of the current hazy existence would metamorphosis better then perhaps. When ranting on those lines vanishing to the woods and dwelling there doesn’t sound much out of synch as well. May be the errant hills snow clad so benevolently are again so much of a respite. One could feed on plants or hunt there. And lie down on grass and swill from river water. But apparently we are vying more for concrete jungles and corporatisation. Makes only miniscule sense that. Hum, and play and work and dance and write and act and make jokes and do whatever shit that pleases you. But please do not down tread yourself into capitalistic junk ventures. Do not be party to flawed concepts of happiness just because that allows you to rear two kids and fly your girlfriend to locations perhaps exotic. That should not work in great measure. Or does that? When they tell me to buy stuff because it is on television and social networking, I understand it to be all advertising puke. You do get it too or don’t you? The callous amounts of backbreaking work with unfair amounts of pure stress dangling in your head only to be buffooned into purchasing some god forsaken articles that have colourful imprints on them. We are anything but grazing animals to be lured by brands and ogling over them. Jerry Seinfeld instead or Mirza Ghalib are kind of better engagements for bliss. Why don’t you try and glean the awesome sarcasm out of Calvin and Hobbes or whatever? How could you murder yourself (as in make your life worse enough, obviously not literally) over some metal concrete and rubber tyres? It is fun to ride one of those but for how long, and is the juice worth the squeeze? Please appreciate that ‘pleasure’ and ‘happiness’ and ‘magnificent conversations’ are what we are kind of carved for. Anything else is just so much fluff. Capitalism is far more injurious than smoking up I guess. More than that is your slow wit. Please do not imprison yourself in voluminous and mindless and helter skelter of any whatever tasks. One could start by liking art over and above doing the brilliant work that you do day in and day out. Please indulge, but otherwise. Please get your ass up and smell the pie around. Self-loath a bit, a self-loather

I see me

One of the Royal parks in the middle of the town. smack bang in middle of London. I see a bench. In a park, with leaves that are half orange in colour and clinging to them this cliché rustling sound. Is this bench the ugly chic in a bar? Neglected. Its just another one amongst quite a few. Its just another brick in the wall. Too bad, I get a feeling I shall oblige it. Let me walk over and rest my ass.

Now as I sit on this considerate yet indifferent piece of sitting material, I know I am supposed to do the human 'thinking'’ To look at the rest of the world as if I were a mere spectator, and in a very showbiz style imagine and analyse the mediocrity around me. I have this obligation I feel. I should come to terms with me. I should make myself realize. Well, and guess what..it does dawn on me that we all are actually two people. One guy that ‘does’, and the other that merely watches the other guy doing as things take their course . Yes, there are two separate beings within. I get it I can watch me. Well this other guy who gawks at me is obviously uncomfortable whenever we are in proximity. Grossly. I can make that out. Whenever I bump into him on instances like wining alone on a bench in a a park, its quite awkward. At times he’s shy, but most of the times I am when confronting him.

When I do the math in my mind for all the acts I have put together uptill hence, I can well make out, I have let down this other gentleman big time. But because this other person has a body only in me, people wouldn’t be able to gauge my embarrassments in frequent rendezvous with him. Sometimes he also sits with me while other real people are. Other real people who are decent, or at least, seemingly in the math of life.

Nonetheless, I have this knack of knowingly overlooking him, but still using his feedback for defending the dismal performance of the ‘doer’ guy . It basically boils down to the ‘actions’ that I do. And those actions are inevitably executed by the guy more in synch with the ways of people.

Rationalizing it further, this would sound to be some callous banter, to avoid committing fruitful, yielding actions. Perhaps yes, but I would like to believe the guy who watches and embarrasses me. Also because he has a sense of sarcasm,and is breezily witty. I so want to stick with him. But the thing is the bastard is not very revealing of his own ideas or acts. I mean I could walk with him , but I do not know what would lie like half a mile ahead. Terribly uncertain is he. While the other one is so comfortably almost numb in doing what he does, simply because he’s quite translucent about his ways. I know where about he’s treading. If those paths do not confirm to me, it is a completely separate question. But this one knows his way out, and that is what perhaps makes me biased towards myself. My fellow human beings howsoever close will usually not comprehend this dichotomy. But then not everybody has two people in them. Not everybody is pissed off with themselves.

Gory

So folks in the guise of penning something from muse and drafting out of the box sentences, may I flicker about to jot rotten phrases? In the guise of ingenuity, may I deface the language? Would you allow me to let open the floodgates to buffoonery?
For in the guise of this inappropriate, only can I down tread the lame clock time which has just whizzed passed on me. In the process, though, to you noble soul who has just bestowed his or her eyeballs on this text, I must also be profusely grateful. But am I? Am I already not smeared enough to be expected to be sugary mouthed or any gracious. Each one of you is a star of your own little romantic comedies, and can locate rejoice, regardless of the ugliness that takes shape at times.
Allay those curves of emotions but. I wish it were, so much I do, but this is not some text which would entertain you in leisure, but a careless yet considered account of perennial dismay, of which even I myself am exhausted to speak of. But you see I will keep on with the flutter. Even the pen seems to give me a wry sarcastic expression, and tries to break away, but it does not realize, this shit is not some ink or the nib. It’s the mind that pens, pen pens the brain, so whatever the snob pen ‘feels’, may well take a backseat. Its emotions will certainly be taken account of, be given a thought or two, but would promptly be discarded; for there are more reasons in this world than there is material to write. And this shit is so true even if read back from the ass of the sentence.

Only last night, in the bar right across my hall, did I bump into some pretty females who look better than themselves in that kind of a low roof friendly bar. Symmetry on skin is som rejoice forever.

They also sell the liquor there at subsidized rates. Well beer lets you bear whilst you’re there, but not after a point of intoxication. Hapless and not helpless are the senses for what they see is but seemingly faith. Fine events usually harm more than the grave ones. Just stare back into your life events. The bad ones are bad and you know they are, for they are not robed. And if anything they bring a smile now. But when some assumed seminal event of bliss, caricatures into tons of gruesomeness, the idea settles fairly layered in the head. No moment of pure elation is unadulterated, if not by anything else, by the idea of death of itself.

Some greasiness and some pettiness

Only at times, and very rarely more, do I not repent. In the midst of a life situation (but there really is nothing called a non life situation), when rest homo sapiens of even meagre aptitude would arrive at efficient conjectures, my thinking would ram against me, and dismiss its own potential.

I understand the way out and from seemingly more in synch with life peers is to work purely on 'instincts.' It sounds meaty and sexy but how worthwhile can that be? There’s no reasoning put to use until then. Its only an uncooked piece of a stray thought lying pell mell in some weird alleys of unexploited neurons. Well, in all honesty, I still certainly would cling to 'instincts', but then my brain forgets that it must function but by those suggestions of the mind prompting at first instance. The grey organ then slips, hovers, also craves but never does it yield. And see now when the bastard does, it yields only on paper, on this some form of wood pulp. It is of miniscule utility. It did not when it could. What am I supposed to do from my own ramblings? I am clobbered by my own mesh of wishful thinking which metamorphosises into concentrated repentance so rapidly that it almost feels brilliant, in the event one can gauge this switch of emotions.

I perceive death must relieve me of this cacophony. Much because people who are dead are not seen around, and are ideally expected not to be, but I guess its still only a lame assumption. Who knows if this extends beyond my existence. For these feelings seem too homely to betray me. I use affectionate vocabulary because it is this conflict of sentiments, that urges me to jot, although tremblingly and with quarter confidence; so that I can make my roused negativity conducive to some degree. (The way people belonging to my caste would like to think. Benefit of any nature from any venture would give them solace.)

This world and I have a strange chemistry. It seems to confirm my body, but not my mannerisms! It takes me in, and yet leaves me stranded in bullying life frames, where seeking words from friends would imply diluted masculinity. Its startling how much of a slave is literature of harsh and sour feelings and green eyed jealousy, of bitterness and crudeness, of burnt and exhausted endeavours; of relishing but more of repenting, of memory and gross moments. Soothing literature sometimes also arises out of gross looking cunts, and God’s humour then I must confide, is not at least slapstick.

Enough of bleeding on paper, I shall clot. And then I must also do the regular things in life like sitting in the library and pretending to read.

More from the stinking wound. Later.

Scum

Well, the cheesiness and sappiness of this text is not embarrassing. Neither is its brutality and naked candidness. We are but lesser beings, gasping on but some celestial mess in a hazy congregation of time, and that helps a lot. Yet still, I struggle to gather testosterones enough to commit to my fancies. My fancies of penning in idleness. My fancies of blurting out the heartfelt.

Inaction when not desirable and action when, makes putting up rather an irrational continuum laden with repentance so much, that even weed flounders to get you stoned. Well, the simili is out of place, but not out of context. (and MS word, very slyly puts the sentence to its grammatical scrutiny almost always ignoring the mettle in it). Most of the people one meets are also like that. But I do not, and ideally ought not blame them. For they have not made themselves, it is some person else. Someone who seems to possess supernatural tendencies and yet thinks that majoritarian mediocrity would be a workable way for earth.

I have little profoundness in my writings, not even a wacky turn or a mystic twist. To my mind it looks like linear string of words, which is rather akin to blots of blood than prose on paper. Much of this shit is because of not being in the right kind of an affair, not getting the right break, not doing the right things even in leisure- all for pathetically wrong reasons.

Also, only a different arrangement of words from my previous pieces but the identical implication convinces me that though i can pen but only so much. Some for depression and self loathing, few soft words for the girl, miniscule for the God above who loves mediocrity, and some for writing itself. That is my own fencing which fences my fancies. And that is what I contemplate to rely upon for bread and butter for rest of my life and for recouping this monster of a student loan. But then I must not certainly err repetitiously, in a series, or must I? I cannot go on doing things for consistency in my resume. For coherence I should not smudge with the remaining lifetime or ought I.Since death for sure impends, even doing the conventional seems of little harm. But the fact is that if I want to absorb vanity by watching strangers reading my penmanship, or massage my ego in watching the known people doing that, I should do the unconventional; conventionally.

Boy, I am not sure if this would be but sheer abruptness. However, since what reason has dictated hitherto has not fetched; I may as well befriend the unchartered territory of my instincts and desert the safe harbours of comfortable logic. I may take the plunge. Or must I?

So much for scribbling on paper.

The phenomenon

Lots of grey matter there put to the trash bin. Looks like a girl in ordinary course, like the one next door, like you wouldn’t pick off the multitude, like one who wouldn’t sweep you over your feet, like she’s one of them, inhering all the tact of everyday life.

And then you walk over for you’ve met one of a regular nature. It’s only in the late evening that the deception of how all of it was only a beautiful lie stings. That ordinary lady weaves inroads, and you try to figure how all of it meandered into. With every encounter and the breezy, tiny dates with her, however, you feel those conventional butterflies in your belly. She captures all the frames of your brain, murders rest images, brutally robs your intellect and becomes desirable.
The dusky skin, the likeable nose, the frank eyes, the fake expressions and real ones, the high pitch voice, the clear syllables, the ordinariness, the energy, the care, the subtle sentences caress the thinking chain. When every other moment passes by it influences you to picture her, as if she has bought all of your time.

This all does happen over duration; however, the damage is irreparable. When you realise, like I do, that you have kind of serious one way feeling for her, the brain goes a wee bit blank. That I have a pen and a paper feels good, for her beauty reflects itself even here.

The sublime amalgamation of black and white which surfaces every now and then deepens the affinity. So much more when while talking she looks at you, and the lips only seem to synch what flows from her eyes.
She’s a congregation of feelings, much of it rejoice, and the grey shades making her more human.

Inking the sinking

I was deliberately trying to sink myself down the waters of the hazy realization of the not so accounted for universe that blankets my abode I dwell these days. The utility of this room is still discernible although not necessarily verifiable; yet the gazillion time’s larger universe drastically flounders to spell itself out with any degree of reasonableness, for its tendency of remaining stuck up there. While this trash portion of ponder lurks in my brain, the parallel irksome thought of its eventual inefficacy meddles with the monotony of daily routine. As a consequence, so far as my analysis can describe my mind (when mind says for mind, the assessor and the assessee are the same people ; which is even more vague than the elementary conception of the taken for granted universe), I conclude my bodily gestures are restrained by absent mindedness and by unheeded ramblings. This distorted orientation messes more the putting up and makes life some smudge over the plain white air. (Although the onset of run of the mill examinations do not mandatorily trigger existentialist inquisitiveness, but they must certainly aggravate it. Deficiency of cunts despite being around as many of them baffles the consciousness too) Well, mirth could still justify the rationale of existence but not its terrible mysticism.

Interestingly, this all seems unworthy of even subtle utterance when one can tread up to her place. She is sufficiently equipped to effortlessly overturn this mindless rattle. The virtue of carnal lure and the passing idea of uninhibited love make for some brilliant clock time and trumps the sweeping philosophy stated above. If one happens to freeze eyes and hang in there with her for a while, it is usual course to long for some extended time. Henceforth, the dates, disregarding the weird awareness of being unaware under the Sun, save for the certainties of a grappling material attraction, rarely materialize into smooth conversations. Cheesy blurts and philosophical puke makes for an untidy rendezvous, an erratic interaction, which will understandably not assist up the road.

I am still sticking to my bed at ten something in the morn, with my jeans on from the evening. I need to jump out of it for these thoughts are wearing me out and successfully discouraging me to walk out to see her. In no time it shall be noon when I am required to eat lunch together. As inciting as it would be for the taste buds I know, I harbor sympathy for the chef ahead of time, in that any meal with her sitting next is insipid to the core. Belly yearns for little, and the edible is no more of interest. Expressions of a face, and shrill voice are perhaps inorganic, but I can chew them for a while after picking up the cheque. She does not realize this for she can identify the hint of mint and the body of red wine on her tongue readily.

Narrow mindedness is a vicious slave of the profound perspective. I must also confine myself in those fences, for brutal truths invariably land in unmanned lands. I must fake it to get going. As it is, language is carved to speak and that continually the irrelevant only to budge to the workable. (Although I just realized all the irrelevant flutter just assumes mammoth significance the moment it helps one to get to the meat or reach the relevant. Thereby, inherently, the understanding of ‘relevance’ here is in fact flawed.) And then the natural course takes shape for some good. But if one pauses to rue over the ugly outbursts borne out of the colossal ‘before-thoughts’, nothing remains shortly thereafter but for heaps of lament which breeds more of itself which then stinks and stacks up.

A run through the lousy city (of only little aid to serious travelers)

In this gross weather, bereft with continual droplets scarring the coarse, azzurish air space, one needs some poise to tread, to walk down the stretched sanitized footpaths of this mess of a city. Scantily clad women with hammered heads fumble on these. The akin monotonous chains of greasy eateries makes it ever so gruesome, so much more when amidst the incessant pubs, beer bellies protrude out, and the black smoke from a zillion cigarettes escalates unassumingly towards the blue vacuum higher up.

Not to undermine the profoundness around, largely bearing on the heritage, I like the dry sense of humor of the place, so popular, but have not come across in real time of witty blokes except for this one stand up act, I went over to last Wednesday, where they are supposed to be.

One seems to stink of primitiveness, in this European matrix, at least a guy like me from a different land mass, and when people confront. Weirdly yet I am less wary of their mindsets. Since culture is carved of reflexes and tendencies, there is little mettle in it. For bare thoughts and good humor feed on rather more. And exactly there the stink in me takes leave.

I am scarcely influenced to talk about the bodily traits of the city, for I find a town in conversations with people in places and pubs. There is a jolly lot of trash to sightsee here, but it does not invoke any inhibitions. To rendezvous gentle natured women, or if not to meet high worth sarcasm sufficiently do invoke. Yet I must go around for that’s how humans learn. I am a human so I must cling to this. I realize even in such a narration, crumbs of self loathing have meandered into; guess London is of only timid help. All it does is to harbor it better.

I realize I have not talked about the Theaters, the London Eye, and the White Chapel, British Museum and the other museums, my Asian puerile citizenry in South Hall and the like shit, but I do not intend to venture and even if I do, I do not intend to pen them. Sluggishness and lethargy is so affectionate; I would not let it down.

So much for the bastardly town.

when the inside is at work

Stashed back forcibly I am. It is sickening to not have her in vicinity. I feel smothered beyond reckoning. Jotting incessantly is a decent mate in these wee hours of trash. Yet I do not think it is. I am sure not. Each word here ogles at me, spilling blood and nastiness on my naked face. This is psychologically being inert. For it does happen to many people, but in such breath as to smudge all the ongoing, I bet I am the zeroed one with the ugly fate.

Now, you could hang me for this one. For whenever I pen, I pen but of self loathing. Her non presence is consequential of wiping off of creativity and of hollowness in depth as well, in that I can only narrate the underneath rather than inventing to entertain. So trivial are my tendencies, so jammed is my thinking chain, that if ever I do surface with something like this, it only stinks of a wet wound instead of exhibiting solace of prose. If you can’t see, I am gasping for some oxygen now, I am missing my beats. Is it the fluffiness of love, has mushiness drenched me enough now. Am I soaking in the candy floss, seeking her affection?

I should eat my breakfast first for the transitory tongue pleasures assist quite in shying away from the robbing thought of her. I should gobble some English staple shit. That ought to mend some. (The undercurrent: That tramples miserably too. the cereals, the bread, even the celebrated jasmine tea is insipid to the core. this is not a material world for nothing material can cajole you, when the inside is at work.)

Floss

(It’s about those junctures at times, where I am stranded to look straight into those endearing eyes, and nothing more, about just that.)

I would peek into them and would gaze unto you, but because they seem slaughtering, I am only chicken to make moves. Resting on rue and awkwardness are my gestures then. The tranquility in them pesters and destructs, more than violence ever would even in most vigorous of its forms. With a battered organ and cherry feelings, I may buy you a coffee, but I am afflicted much ahead of any further course.

Formulation of you in the mind requires only an easy imagination and discounted creativity. Much of it gives me an excruciating time between those sentences in my academic readings, and also ruins my food. I gobble without ponder and consideration. I coarsely feel that if there’s ever a guy who genuinely likes you, and the guy is not me, there’s little point in my existence.

You make me like me, from your likeability; while walking on those tiles in around midnight and while sipping some alcohol and so much more while aloof. This new matrix is of course the better world for my living for any contrary mannerisms hereafter would suggest mammoth absurdity. Fragrance of love has in it almost everything. My inhibitions stare at you, and please do not budge. For those eyes are spilling with delight, and for those lips are harmony, for rejoice on your face is beam. Existentialism is grossly accounted for. If I may say your prettiness in a cliché manner directly and with similes like this, I could just blabber indefinitely. However even an ounce of confession would transpire that, whenever done, He seemed to have His ways well in place. To utter the least, He did terribly well. So much of symmetry in you validates a gigantic lot.

Smell you later…chicken.

IS the world designed for Black?

The ugly ways of God, those intermingled in the scheme of this world makes this whole story quite uncalled for. For life exists, and has very many justifications for the way it is, we put up. This consciousness in human beings, however, when looks at itself, finds the concept of creation/ a start/a point so battered and caressed and what is ongoing so indulging that the inquiry, whenever, becomes a redundant venture.
And then when we utter about attainment of truth, even when all of them add up to one big lie, its only an irony . Its mostly love that still makes you feel that earth is perhaps a justified ball, however this all must stop for a while, explain itself and then itch ahead.
In that one can only conjure what is known, and by the logics learnt here, everything is in error, everything unaccounted for. The logic created within is applied outwards, to higher and above, for one who created LOGIC is also recognised by only LOGIC. This absurdity attributes an identity to the creator.
Uncertainty commands mammoth respect for what is incomprehensible is as much unconquerable. So after all what humans do conquer, the residue becomes the lame concept of God. What provokes people to believe and so much into it that God is only good is perhaps, their only anticipation that what shall happen to them should be only good. Ideas for the self carve the concept of God and that he is only likeable; and that all of it is a fight to prevent bad things, when it may be the otherwise, that all happiness is only to invite the black. This becomes rather understandable in light of the ultimate event of death, which is but only a manifestation of black.

Thoughts, all over the place

o Rest of my life is only an attempt to distract myself from you. A part of me travelled into you that day. Rest of me tells that it might not trace its way back ever. That still I take this exercise is only because it brings sweetness of you with it and that is why I don’t complain.


o There’s little that I would do otherwise in those moments. They seem strangely stale from now on. That they’ll pass is the only appreciable trait they have. They are hollow as bubbles and yet heavy.
o Why did God create Human beings? Perhaps He could not think of better stuff. This is His best I guess. Much because He is creating nothing new. This monopoly tells us that He’s done with what He could.

o I am a product of God. His skills come out in me. Flaws of mine are His too.
o Ok I exist. But why do I owe it on Him? This is not done. He too like so much in our case is trying to find His reason of existence.
o Is a secondary thought not natural? I mean if I am not being my obvious self or faking it up, isn’t it natural too? For how on earth, under the Sun any formulation would be unnatural.
o People care more about other’s opinion about themselves rather than one’s own opinion about self. There, right there, unintelligence barges in and the approach is distorted.

o About the Game.
Akin to a situation of a middle order batsman in the game of cricket is life. A score is already there when you are sent in. From here on you got to bat, the difference though is in not knowing who created the Game or the Ground. If you happen to inquire, you will be dismissed as a philosopher until you are good enough to do only that-a job like that of a commentator. People in your team like you only if you play well, however if you outplay them, you’ll only sow the seeds of jealousy. Nonetheless, you have to bat, your coach is looking up to you, for even he does not know who created the Ground or the Game. Perhaps, the inquiry is irrelevant, because it only helps you to justify your dismal performance, whenever it happens. Or as they say philosophy is good, it helps you keep happy during a death breakdown!

A Pondering Detenu

Although, when even this piece might contribute to so much of what King Khan is perhaps endeavoring to cook up, I am influenced to appreciate his ventures. And just when one might think that the other one was God at marketing his films, the duskier proves better and how. The magnitude of stardom determines the ill gotten strategies.
Its alright if the one who might to and fro almost on a daily basis abroad can get stuck up just weeks before his film is about to be floated and years after 9/11 but that the title of the movie is also the 2 hour story that was weaved makes me emotionally filled about our citizenry which is now only feeding on controversies. When all that is faked up is blurted upon most of the news carrying vehicles there are. Are we eating controversies now? And not even spilling out the shit, if we are, on the heinous mannerisms that dictate earning bread and butter for the most coveted in the country?

Lets not talk about the Hrithik affair, neither the kamina affair, this one engulfs whole another country and stretches to racial profiling and the star has off late uttered something about Jews. Perhaps, the movie is not well carved that such far fetched efforts have to be pulled in. It’s a regular story. Ordinariliness still clings to the Indian Film Industry.

When even US officials deny all what is projected and instead of the August 15 celebrations the news channels air all through the deep agony of the star for being security checked and side track the men who secure the borders embarrasses a genuine Indian citizen.

Assuming arguendo, the August 15 detention of the star to be utmost true, there’s still only little reason to make such fuss. There have been instances of top notch stars assuming grey colors and not just on the silver screen. If a citizen lesser known is subjected to all the check, a more influential person might as well be. The good will come out clean. We owe these checks. We owe them big time over entire earth. To each nation and back to us. But it would be better if they squeezed more content into movies than squeezing in cheesy goof ups days before the release.

How is it not human to be not human?

A thing is devilish because most of devils do devislish stuff, 'brave like a lion' is because all lions are, but i do not understand it with the term 'human values', majority in humans do not do what is regarded as 'being human'. It is in fact only the expectation of 'being human' from each other that explains the term; for otherwise humans are most human in being inhuman!

It is the selfish nature of men that wants and makes us assume that the other shall do only good to us and therefore to brand such conduct as 'human'. But 'human' values is usually only contemplation, it does not take from the inherent nature of a human, which is more prone to do sin( ironically those acts are christened as 'inhuman').

Are the dictionaries too ordinary? 

How is it not human to be not human?

A human cannot do what is not human; alternatively, whatever he does is human; an act is so because a human does it, not because he chose to do the act. In the process if there is some unpleasant activity on her/his part it is only erroneous to regard it as inhuman. The creator wants it to exist. When He could have easily dispensed with unpleasant conduct, He chose to retain it.

The idea could have been better

The concept of God has taught me much, perhaps way more than He Himself could. I am always indulged in figuring out all the palpable questions about Earth, people, feelings and the related.
Let us get to the idea. God is supposed to posses the proprietorship over all of the above. Simply because He took initiative. He manufactured each of us in His factory. You, me and each human, all are first hand product of His. Our flaws tell His skill. And obviously the high points too. But it is the flaws that confuse me. They certainly evidence few imperative limitations which must have existed, rendering the manufacturing process to suffer with irregularities making the end product a little undesirable. In the process, however humans were carved out. And it keeps on. The produce is also suffering with monotony in that the similar beings with no effective differences are sent over perennially. But the attribution of “free will” to humans seems to me the most amazing feature of this first hand product of God, which could well be the compensation for not being consulted when sent over to earth. The annexed obligations to the free will, however again negate its benefit. Nevertheless, this free will enables us to put up like everybody else, easily ignoring the manufacturer, and to die overlooking Him. The expiry date of the product always justifies itself. The manufacturer is overcautious of not letting Earth being polluted and battered by expired bastards. So the product decomposes, by a quick automatic self destruction mechanism which reaches zero. And that is how it goes on by going off. The “idea” is interesting, but does not seem to be great. Perhaps, so much labour in materialising the aforementioned discounted some required intelligence on His part and that is where we suffer. And that is where He is elated. If He’s not then it does not make sense. And if that does not matter, then why are we trying to make it?

Ordinary ways of His

The presumption is of sanity. The funniest thing about humans is that their default state is of seriousness. A lumbering premise of rationality, is what a man’s brain is caught with. He likes to be insane, and notorious, the nonsensical stuff is not what will work for him. It is but only serious state of mind. This is the way God likes us. He sits pretty over our compulsive sombre state. Humor is only in a flash, very temporary. That is where His own, very own sense of Humor lies.

nature taking its course within.

I do not know what is it that they mean by love. So I cannot say that I am not in love with you. My mind has started somehow to revolve around you. Brain has forgotten its functioning or probably this is its proper functioning. The thoughts are overpowering the elementary workings of the brain. Biology is contradicting itself, when the heart pumps readily and the brain seemingly halts. Heart is capitalising so effortlessly that it instigates me to design efforts towards you. The intagible of you creeps the inside so easily, the tangible you to achieve is such a task.