Hello

Hello

Vincent watched her shuffling through the pages of her notebook trying to find an empty page to note down the symbols that the professor had just drawn on the whiteboard. She was sitting on the same row — a couple of seats away — and Vincent had a clear view of everything she was doing. Her eye shade was light blue and the color seemed to merge well with the light blue t-shirt she was wearing.

It was a semiotics class and Vincent usually had the habit of trying to interpret his classmates like they were each a unique symbol with tremendous hidden meaning. The girl wore black jeans and plain white sneakers and resembled a malnourished athlete.

A bit too masculine, Vincent thought. I wonder if she wears a bra. Her tits are too small. That eye shade just doesn’t go with the sneakers. Her hair seems long and lovely though. I wonder if she regularly washes it. It seems straight enough for my liking. But she’s too much of a tomboy. Fuck. If she just wore something more pink, or a good feminine top instead of that polo shirt.

When she took a quick glance toward him, Vincent quickly shifted his head upward and moved his fingers across his hair pretending to cure an itch that had mystically grabbed his attention. When she turned back toward the whiteboard, his attention seemed to just divert itself back to her like he had no control over it.

Why am I even looking at her? She seems so ordinary. Wait, fuck! That’s a Valentino t-shirt. She must be rich. A rich girl with a bad taste for clothes. Fuck.

It was after a long trail of thought that Vincent realized he was now thinking of what life would be like if he married the girl.

If we have kids, it needs to be a son. I can’t imagine a daughter with this girl. She’d be too distasteful and probably a geek virgin till 30. No, fuck it! I can’t marry her. Imagine having sex with this girl. She’d never wear what I ask her to wear. And after I’m bored of her body, it’d be hell trying to convince her to do what I want.

“Professor, I have a question,” the girl was raising her hand. Vincent’s thoughts were too loud in his head to understand what she was saying and his thoughts continued.

Fuck, she’s paying attention. She might know more of semiotics than I do. She might go to graduate school. I don’t think I want to go to graduate school. I love being intelligent in bed after sex. I like saying witty things with intervals in between. But what if she talks too much? I wouldn’t be able to be me. I should stop looking at her.

The girl took a quick glance again toward Vincent’s direction and this time he continued to look at her, but in a way that indicated that he was looking through her at the wall. The girl seemed not to notice Vincent staring right at her.

She’s dull. Fuck, I’m sure she sucks in bed. I think I should start paying attention to the class. But I can’t stop looking at her. She’s not even attractive. Stupid rich bitch with a bad taste for fashion. I wonder if she’s on Facebook. I’ll look her up later. Fuck, but what’s her name? There’s no name card in front of her. Maybe I’ll wait till the professor calls her out sometime. Wait, why do I want to stalk this ugly rich bitch? Her sneakers are so white. Does she play tennis? At least she could’ve played football. There’d be something interesting about her. But wait, tennis players have terrific bodies! Maybe she has a nice body. But that face, there’s nothing sharp about it. There are no proper curves and turns; the kind that a proper pretty girl should have. I don’t think she’s pretty. I should have just jerked off this morning. That’s why this is happening. Fuck it. Let’s pay attention to the class.

The class was dismissed and Vincent raced toward the elevator. As he waited for it to arrive at the second floor, he saw the t-shirt girl walking toward him. He felt the usual currents of discomfort that everybody feels when they become aware of who their elevator companions will be for the next few seconds. Everybody feels it with strangers, and Vincent was no exception.

Fuck, this bitch again! I hope she’s going up.

The elevator arrived and the girl entered before Vincent did.

Fuck, she’s going down.

As the elevator began to move, Vincent’s eye caught the girl who broke into a gentle and pleasant smile.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hey,” Vincent replied smiling. It was a whisper that came out in an awkward choking manner.

She’s sweet, Vincent thought. He suddenly became aware of an overwhelming scent of green apple laced with small amounts of lavender.

She’s ovulating. She has to be ovulating! Fuck, what a scent that is. Is that how she smells? Is she wearing something? Whatever it is, it smells brilliant!

The elevator reached the ground floor and the girl started to walk away slowly. While her white sneakers made no sound as they treaded against the ground, Vincent envisioned her wearing black pretty heels that made a loud noise with each step. Vincent turned around to walk toward the building exit. He was too naïve (or careless) to notice that his thoughts were now completely transformed.

What a delicious chick. That t-shirt went so well with those jeans. A pretty athlete; how brilliant is that? I hope she’s on Facebook. My phone’s out of charge. Fuck! Once I get home then. I should talk to her in the next class. I wonder if she drinks. We could go out for a drink sometime. I’m sure she loves good vodka. She looks classy. She definitely likes good vodka. I can’t believe I thought of dropping semiotics. I should form a study group with her. And that smile in the elevator — so . . . soft and genuine. We need more women like her. I could just feed her berries in bed all day without touching her. I’d still be happy.

Vincent pulled out a cigarette to light as soon as he stepped out of the building. He looked around him and then adjusted the waist of his jeans to hide the pounding erection that made the cigarette tremble in his fingers.

 

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The Fallacy of Incremental Well-Being

The Fallacy of Incremental Well-Being

There seems to be an unequivocal conviction in the mind of man that he needs to strive to be better than what he is today. This constant yearning for the betterment of oneself is, undoubtedly, the force that drives humanity’s endless thirst to advance into an eventual technological utopia. The thirst for betterment is driven by external forces and the entire idea of becoming something, or someone, is driven by the desire to add things, whether tangible or intangible, to oneself. These things include cars, spouses, college degrees, trendy clothes, decorated vocabularies, and can range to things as extreme as spiritual supremacy and political correctness. Nobody is coded to find such things strange as the common mind in society is securely entrenched in a matrix of beliefs and convictions that are accorded to a collective human mind. The normalcy of every member in society is usually measured by its degree of accordance to this collective mind. The security that such accordance offers is so immense, so complete, and so intellectually unchallengeable that it clouds the natural intelligence of the human brain and keeps it from recognizing the fact that the collective mind, itself, is a manifestation of a very serious form of insanity. To begin with, very few people have questioned their elders about the validity of obedience to the older generation. While the wisdom of the experienced is sublime and immensely helpful in guiding the human child into a responsible style of living, it is only limited to very basic lessons such as, fire is harmful or wood is not food. The wisdom of the elder might extend to dimensions beyond such basic lessons, however, it has no place in defining the morality of the new age being.

Morality, being inherently subjective and carrying with it high levels of danger, is not a psychological form of energy that anyone must tamper with. Science has induced in us an innocent sensation of awe at our smallness in the universe, but has also simultaneously cursed us with the recognition of our mortality. It has given our mortality an aura of doom instead of an understanding of liberation. The science that is nurtured and advanced by modern man concentrates on a very limited dimension of human existence—the physical. While the play of the physical universe seems to occupy the majority of man’s awareness, by no means is it evidence that the limitation of man’s awareness is an implication of the universe’s limitations. However, the collective human mind, being so childishly infatuated by the physical dimension of existence (and its limitations) has somehow managed to develop an almost incurable fear of its inherent mortality. Such a fear, of course, is guided by the mind’s perception of its separation from the rest of the universe. It is this sensation of separation that leads every individual to believe that more needs to be added to oneself in order to complete oneself. There seems to be a great feeling of lack and negative emptiness that motivates us to strive for betterment, and often times, at the cost of the comfort and happiness of other beings.

We cannot transcend this diseased system of thought with haste. It requires a tremendous amount of clarity and inner observation to even recognize the disease. The regular mind will cease to even spare an extra glance at such an enquiry because it is convinced that there are other important activities to pursue such as finding a good job, buying a new car, finding a reasonable spouse, or visiting the next spiritual guru who can offer a fresh concept of freedom at the price of one’s individuality. Man seems to be too occupied with the games that occur in the physical dimension and will perish as a race if he seeks his survival only in the correctness of outward affairs. It is a fallacy. We have been enslaved to this endless desire to add things to ourselves. If I tell you that you are perfect as you are, you would pant like a dog searching for reasons to justify something imperfect within you.

So, what now? Do we give up our jobs and burn our cars so we can throw ourselves into a pursuit of the unknown? Do we hastily enquire into the nature of our mortality and rebel against the formidable establishment of the collective mind, so that we might discover our freedom before it’s too late? An intellectual mind that is spurned and excited by logic would find only such a conclusion valid and rational. Only an intelligent mind, as opposed to intellectual, will understand that there is no conclusion that is required. The trick is not to change the world, but to discover that it does not need to be changed.

But, of course, the collective human mind will resist the individuality that is inherent in each one of us. The individual mind is alive while the collective psyche is a residue of a million yesterdays. The transcendence from the collective psyche of humanity indicates the transcendence from human history. We make ourselves unavailable to the divine potential of our own intelligence because we are afraid of the insecurity that is kindled by the unknown. You only fear your mortality because you have never walked deep into it and faced it with an open mind. Instead, you have settled for the fancy heavens and hells that you bought from strangers and, at most, have come to realize that if not for the heavens and hells, your life is a purposeless dance into a pointless, hopeless void. Such a recognition has made most people bored of living. The human being is the only sentient creature (I hope) that has reduced the eternity of the universe into time. There are several illusions to be uncovered if only one dares to step out of the collective psyche and shed light on one’s own mind, as it is, in its natural state, uncorrupted and undivided. It takes a courageous man to decide that his freedom lies in his own hands. Do not waste your years on patriotic freedom and social correctness. Why do you so fervently endure the trash that is fed to you from the collective psyche of humanity? You are neither responsible nor accountable for the rash, ignorant activities of your kind. You are responsible to the universe for a far more important thing. You are a creator, and if you waste your years in this beautiful world seeking success, convenience, and incremental well-being, you will meet death in a very distasteful manner.

Creators are not born to be survivors. Eternity is in their very nature. Why do you add things to yourself? You are born to add things to the universe that belongs to you, as much as you belong to it. Why do you so thirstily rummage through the wastebaskets of society’s false offerings of happiness believing that you will find a sense of satiation? The answer is inside, in the very same place that the hunger for truth resides. The only voice that will help you return to the humanity that you so desperately crave for is your own voice. You do not need time to wake up. You can do it right now, wherever you are, whoever you are.

Screamjack

 

art: Real Gold – Sir Eduardo Paolozzi

The Art of Psychedelic (The Midlife Melodrama of Wit Warrior)

The Art of Psychedelic (The Midlife Melodrama of Wit Warrior)

My name is Wit Warrior,
83 years, 13 months, and 32 days old
The world doesn’t seem any older to me,
Than it did, when I decided that I was bored with it
The many myriad images,
Of desolate forests and broken souls of flowers,
Are but a tiny flickering to me,
In the endless expanse of space that I access

I broke the boundaries with old friends,
All those many years ago
We, like kids in a candy store,
Having a go at every molecule we found colored,
With even a tiny ounce of rebellion
I’ve seen things, heard, loved, and hated,
Opened avenues within me that,
Only the skies can know the true nature of
That sweet word, REALITY
I stitched the fragrance of it fibrously onto,
The deserted canvas of my imagination
And how I’ve danced with its many meanings,
Throughout my years

I’ve seen so many children in the sunshine,
Making choices, that broke them, that made them
To live on omelettes, chai, and rolled cigarettes
To scale the soft cushion covers in high penthouses,
Drinking bourgeoisie wine and making love,
To plastic dolls and rubber toys
Men drift too much to the east, and sometimes the west,
Some choose principle, honor, patriotism
The others choose love, madness, dancing, and rum
The few choose polished shoes and trimmed beards,
The many choose daytime jobs and evening whisky
Men choose too much, but me,
I’ve been as clueless as the sea waving blindly,
With open eyes, at the sky

There is a dimension to living,
That my way of mind has opened to me
It is, a kind of secret door in the psyche
There are two intelligences
One made of numbers, analysis,
Endless counting, metallic, perfect
But the other, is mine
It is untouched, yet entirely felt,
Ungrasped, yet so tangible
There is a kind of style in this way of life,
To groove on the edges, of risk,
And yet stay unbitten, unsmitten,
By it all
To notice the leaves dancing in fall’s death rhyme,
Is one aperture for human eyes
But to see, the sweet untold songs of death,
Being sung in the silence of red and yellow leaves,
To see the sweetness of death’s ugly feminine touch,
To waltz along with the absolute meaninglessness of existence,
That is the other aperture
Through which all men find a strange,
Lasting peace

The language of poetry only creates walls,
Around the sting of life’s true touch
But all men must write, for it is the only medium,
Through which our thirsting aches for expression,
Find fruitful waters

When I watch the news,
Have a little conversation at the grocery store
I cannot help but perceive,
The separation of my soul from the rest of it all
It is not, that I loathe it,
Or that I wish it was otherwise
Perhaps it was meant to be;
The flavorless tunes of loneliness,
The dull vibrancy of a settled happy life,
The absolute security of a lovely damsel,
And the cherishment of fresh, beady-eyed children
I construe this universe to be a great chaos,
Through my melodic explorations into the endless psyche,
With molecules, shortened breaths, and simple silences
I have seen this chaos, and the choice to find melody in it
Men are too lost in choices,
Our confusion is too great to truly communicate
You see me? I walk the middle, the inside path
I am neither this, nor that
I have no principles, I am bound by no reason
But I am reason

I watch the dabbling noisy ocean of humanity,
Striving to induce meaning,
Into their words, their treaties, their theories
So many men who are so convinced,
So sure, that death can be avoided,
By chasing some great dream
I saw it the day I opened my eyes,
With the molecule, without it
It didn’t matter, my eyes were open
I was looking at an old friend,
Death, dissolution, end, finale,
And it felt good.
All men must die, that is what they are born to achieve
There are some things, however,
That last forever
Like questions, born from old answers,
What is man? Who dies? What dies?

“The seeking must stop!”
We’ve heard that before

And all those many years,
As I swayed into those dangerous realms,
Of clear tangible beauty,
And little sweet droplets of tormenting wisdom
I felt it for the first time,
I felt the weight of being alive
And it released me,
Into a blissful corridor of absolute delight
And I saw the origin of this entire cosmos,
It came from, why ‘ME!’

There is an art in life that too few men find the time,
To discover and master;
This art is ancient, so ancient,
And yet so timeless
That drives us to live with magic,
Crawling and battling at ease,
To birth ecstasy in the concrete manors of mundanity
And find fullfilment in the smaller perspectives of movement

We set ourselves goals so high,
And parameters too unreal to be tuned into our realities
Men live with such delightful theories,
Of perfection
It is not that we need change in this world,
You see,
As it is; this cosmos is splendid
This little earth with its little germs,
Creating war, endless murder,
The perpetual social catastrophes in our communities
Lovers appreciating intricate architecture,
Thieves and rapists, terrorists, and masked bombers,
Milkmen and prostitutes,
Drunks and drug addicts, conmen,
The children of midnight doing business at dawn,
The machine maker, the code cracker,
The marketing maniac, the suited salesman,
The suicidal, the ambitious, the artistic, the calculative
I see them all as one creative movement,
One explosion of life
Ah the several aspects of living,
The numerous creaks through which we find expression
These are the lovely little acts of living,
Are sweet scenes in a delightful drama,
And it makes no meaning,
To proclaim the elements of this drama,
Within the drama itself!

But well, that is the folly every poet must turn to,
Every artist, artisan, and engineer of innovative living,
To proclaim the drama, within the great act

We must, so that a few men,
Might wake up to see,
That life after all,
Is quite an intricate thing
Quite a complex thing
And, is quite worth living
Whether entrenched in meaning,
Or abandoned to oblivion

It is not, my friend, that these things,
Might come to your understanding,
One great eventual day
Most of these things are left to die,
Without finding the halls of universities,
And worse, the hearts of living sentient beings
But, what drama is there in understanding alone?
What adventure will we find in complete revelation?
What joy will we discover in eternal clarity?

The dance is in the chaos,
And the truth in the laughter,
That erupt from our untouchable innocence
My friend, it is sweet when we look at the colors of living,
The delectable opportunity for eternal exploration,
Answering the mating calls of the unknown
And yelling, “That’s fucking psychedelic, man!”

artwork: Archan Nair – Alchemy Resonance

Sway With Me

Sway With Me

From the depths of my empty self,
A little verse has now come to tell itself
I wonder, if I can write without impressions,
Without the prudent forcefulness of desires,
For superstar perfection and stardom,
I’ll begin.

Unshaved, and lying in bed, the many days are passing,
And I watch my life slip through my toes, fingers,
I watch the same clockwork cut out,
Tick tock tick tock, toward my six feet under.
A better dream is set to come true,
In a few weeks, I think three or two
And yet, tick tock, tick tock,
I march in nonchalance and broken pride,
To my sweet six feet under.

The older you get, the verses change,
They behold no more color, no more stories,
Of ecstatic voyages into intricately threaded psychedelic splendor.
Now the verses drown deep into reflection,
And hey, I’m not even old yet.
Somehow still, I feel older than the stars.
Answerable to the invisible gods that bring monsoon,
And change winter to spring. I feel answerable,
To excuse myself before their perfect selves,
And ask them for forgiveness,
For the dump in which I’ve laid waste,
The endless possibilities of my mind and body.

A strange sleep has encumbered me,
Has come to remove the light from my eyes,
A sleep that feels like it will be victorious,
Over my final gasp for one last breath.
We change every day, like trees,
That rejuvenate themselves in Spring.
We are not simple people, simple persons,
With simple dreams or simple songs.
We are like trees that die in autumn,
Trees shaped tall, small, twisted, broken,
We are trees that die and fall,
And rise from the soil again.

Who is the real me?
The little child at three, looking up at the stars,
And finding no words to express its glee?
Am I the curious 12-year old,
Misunderstanding his sexuality,
Hoping to bury his head,
In every pair of breasts he sees
Being tough in school,
Trying hard to hide his embarrassment,
Of newly initiated masturbation,
And failed attempts at pornography
Am I the intelligent 18-year old,
Broken in love, and resurrected,
Seeking semblances of permanent sense,
In this strange world torn between spirit and science
Or am I this, this scarred young man,
Twenty- five but old, dancing in balance,
Between awe for women and misplaced misogyny
This young old man, drenched in extreme experience,
Fondling with boredom like with the tits of a whore
Heart racing at every opportune moment,
To rocket his soul into blinding euphoria
Which one am I?

Life races to nowhere, kindling only new feeling,
Breeding confusion, chaos, and candle-light delight,
In its subjects who carve its marvelous reflections
The purpose here is nothing but movement,
And we, confused children beneath the midnight moon,
Wage war against our ends with words and sonatas,
With triumphant symphonies and graduate degrees,
Sparing no second to let the thought of our deaths,
Suppress us into silent melancholies

We are the children of the sky,
Who are born to offend, the nature of all things
And in our diabolic efforts, we kiss the deepest feelings,
And jive and trapeze with the subtlest discoveries,
Cause hey, we’re human.
We weren’t born to sway with the breeze,
We were born to make it sway with us.

Come now, drink this wine,
And sway with me.

artwork – Spacedance (http://jacquesmayou.com/)

Touch It

Touch It

It takes wounds to write,
Several. And if there are none,
We must hurt ourselves to create;
Through wounds the light can come out.

From what glorious futuristic vision,
Does our elation stem from?
It feels like that good feeling,
Which we chase our entire lives,
Hoping to touch someday,
Forever eludes us, cheating, escaping us.
It seems that our imagination is discontinuous,
With the heat that operates our bodies.
We have decorated ourselves with job titles,
Expensive suits and beautiful wives, husbands, whores,
Jeweled our invisible images with neat talk,
Defensive vocabulary, heavy wallets and hearts,
Spyked with the endless thirst to be emperors of our world

As we build elevators to glassy penthouses,
And leave our eyes in the basements of our dreams
We come to hear the toll bells of our honeyed hells,
Through the streets of our cities, that like garbage dumps,
Harbor and nurse the whims and what nots of our erect penises.

We are a “touch it” world, where we need to feel,
Our toes wringing in maddening glee
Every inch of our feeling selves dancing,
Every cell mourning and dying to ecstasy;
There is nothing more than that
In all our endeavors;
Our chivalry, our righteousness, our goodness,
Our poetry, our dance, our glorious revolutions;
Everything is a “touch it” thing,
And if it isn’t worth our mental erection,
We will abandon it by dawn.

Two types; one the suited, the other—the nature guy,
Both don’t know and both are right, both wrong.
They will battle till this chapter of life comes to naught

Our wounds will be ointmented with whipped cream,
Made from steel butter and urine ice.
Our world moves toward a dark time,
When hell will erect its massive edifices on our lands;
Our endeavors flourish only for entertainment,
And death comes racing; greatly motivated,
To move this wheel of time into nature’s deepest abyss

Our satin-saffron clad priests will perhaps survive this descendence,
Chanting their verses in praise of their Adiyogi.
But they would’ve missed, they would’ve missed.
Life is no great thing without the darkness,
Without the hurt, without the fear,
Without the knowledge of possible annihilation,
From a very un-enlightened perspective

I will come back,
To give you better renditions of our mysterious fates.
Until then,
Bask in sweet sorrow and drink to our demise,
Chasing the dreams that you can touch,
Relaxing in crisp and clear sensation,
In confident erection, eyes open,
Tongue tucked behind gritted teeth,
And a loudly beating heart.
We crave all things that ask and beg and plead,
Mourning, “Touch Me.”

Screamjack

Dancing through Hell Fire

Dancing through Hell Fire

I often feel we cheat ourselves because we’re afraid of our own glory. We’re afraid that deep down, we truly are magnificent creatures destined to keep on living, not achieving, but being the most glorious pieces of light that stretch across the endless expanses of space. Sometimes, I feel that the greatest purpose of breath is to dance, to dance through every single day like nothing matters. There lingers deep down oneself the immense urge to explode into oblivion, to become a simple nothingness that is more glorious than the atomic truth of material existence.

Every time somebody reads something, it seems like they are looking for something. In every act, it seems like each person is expecting some kind of great mystery to come rolling down onto the floor of their conscience, naked, bare, and innocent. It’s only a daunting thought to see that there might not be any mystery at all. If we remove purpose, meaning, tomorrow, and time from our lives, we simply aren’t able to imagine what might be there to look at in the sunshine. There might be nothing at all. Say I just give up thinking entirely, would anything be there at all?

So many people are searching and searching. I like laughing. I adore the human ability to burst out with energy from the innards laughing into space with a sense of insanity and absolute craziness. Because of the way so many people have told me life should be, the mold it should take, the kind of boundaries it should be limited by, the kind of stupid scientific theory it should be reasoned by, I find even writing this difficult. From deep down in the unconscious I feel an almost unstoppable forcing drawing only dishonesty from me. There is a kind of living organism stopping me from touching life. I don’t know, maybe the organism’s just another thought.

You know I’m afraid that if I stop writing, I might lose myself again. I might forget life, might just disappear into the endless void of non-being. But then, I’m this endless explosion tickling myself at this little corner of the galaxy dreaming of doom and hopeful of a blessed tomorrow that hasn’t come for over a billion years. Funny, eh?

Morbidity is this little flash of wisdom that sits smoking a cigarette made of childish doubt at the tips of my little goose bumps that come erecting through every little molecule of breeze that touches me. I sit here, asking the sky to come molest my existence and cloud me with more and more confusion. There is great evil in this world, and it isn’t our enemy. It is our experience. And we make it because we like it. We love great tragedy. Deep down, the human heart is crafted by soil, wind, and spirit to handle the most grievous torment, the most heart-ripping sorrow, and the most devious and disastrous self-deception. The human mind is made to feel evil at its greatest height. This is not our destiny, this is our creation. And we play it out so well that all our acting has transformed itself to become real personalities in this desert of verbal and mathematical calculation. Only gods can hoax themselves to perceive mortality as a real concrete thing. Only gods can take this existence ride into absolute mayhem and uncalculated misery beyond self-understanding. This confounded movement through the undefined cosmic soup is the absolute glorification of our divine existence. You know, it’s great, hell and all. In the deepest fire is where you will find the light. Rotting like a living corpse in the deepest, deepest most unimaginably painful place in your infinite self.

I stopped searching for reality when I discovered that losing touch with reality is reality itself. This whole thing, this life, it’s too fast. We try with paintings, music, poetry, we try, but those are just desperate attempts that come meagerly close. It’s too fast to capture in a sentence, it simply can’t be done. Ah, it’s great though. You know, we’re all drunk on this great cosmic thing. It’s a great and long intoxication, almost eternal. In the mind, sixty years seems too little. Run to Medicare, fitness, hit the gym, sport, diet, good food—bullshit. When you forget tomorrow, you’ll just be dancing out there breathing the very air that sustains you. There is no tomorrow, so many idiots are fighting a battle that does not even exist outside their mental space. The mental space is an elusive entity. Everything that exists in that space is a dream. And it’s funny when you realize that the entire universe as you knows it happens in that limited mental space.

Does anyone really set aside time to think of useless things? I wonder. The world is so preoccupied in making tomorrow better than today, they are interested only in productivity and mechanical manipulation of every dam thing. Even this thing they call love, it’s a mechanical process devised to end in confusion, torment, anguish, and total indifference. Duality defines the world every minute in such a way that each intention is bound to attract its diametrically opposite intention. If you chase happiness, you will run into sorrow. If you chase salvation, you will run into damnation. If you chase love, you will run into hatred. Success and failure. Life and death. How can there be so many people out there who never figure this out? It is so, obvious. So, concrete. Yet people live in a way which merits the belief and hope that one side of the coin can exist without the other. It’s absolute ignorance. It is hope that keeps you crawling in the shadows addicted to wishful thinking and endless dream.

You will not wake up if I ask you to. I will not wake up if you ask me to.

Whisky, wine, rum?

 

art: Vincent Van Gogh

Breathing in the Shadows

Breathing in the Shadows

Sometimes, we all get sad. We get distraught, entirely confused and craving for some light, a little inch of understanding that might salvage us the remnants of our half-wasted lives. The various flavors of guilt steal our attention to remind us of the miserable ways we treated people, the low energy moments when we fed off the joyous memories of some ancient glory we believed to behold but had no part to credit ourselves to. Sometimes, the whole of human existence feels like a ghostly movement of flawed vocabulary and broken spirit. And then, we turn to rum, on some days its whiskey and the few days of wine. And every day, there’s beer. The liquid diet serves to cure both a broken heart and the guilt that spurns from the memory of other hearts that were broken.

The universe has a tiny irking for brokenness. It kicks itself about it and yearns for more and more brokenness. Brokenness gives perfection a glorious crown. It is an element of art that decorates the highest level of creativity with aliveness. It hosts an immense power to alchemize existence into something higher than itself. Here we are, the pinnacle of the universe’s desire—humanity. A wretched race built on the broken ideals of morality, love, and hope. Here we are, a tormented people striving for greatness and blind to the doomed quality of our ignored mortality. We are the peak of the universe’s magic, and the foundation of that peak is the broken nature of our hidden spirits of whose existence we will always be doubtful of.

Every journey into the realm of understanding—to understand oneself, others, all of it—every journey, smells of vanity and stinks of cheap beer at the end. Sometimes it’s best to say things in a way that the only implications are the things being said and no greater meanings hidden or pointed at. The power of transcending grammatical perfection and lingual decency is the only power that helps anybody break out of the shackles of their own concocted verses of rhyme, meaning, clarity, and eventual boredom.

Each alphabet, each sound, is an explosion of the one thing there is—life. Is it here? What does it mean for something to exist or not exist? What does existing mean? Do I exist? Do you, who is reading this exist? Or are you just a swirling in the cloudy imagination of dreams that I spurned yesterday. So many men want their lives to end on the shoulders of a pretty woman and on the rims of a glass filled to the brim with rare whiskey stored in nurtured barrels for a million years. I have no dreams for tomorrow. I want today. And the more I look at it, the more I see that there is no today. Today was over, many years ago. All that remains is the inklings of the little child that dreamt each day of a future that never came and a future that never comes. I like Ms. Plath, glorious and alive in heart look up at that fig tree and wish for every bit of it that it can offer, but I see it all, grown rotten and created to hoax the only thing I ever believed to be alive—myself.

Our lives become staircases into the shadows not because of sorrow that we claim to be our own, but sorrow that we claim to have shared with the tender reflections of ourselves—other people. The many masks and personas that we dance with from dawn to dusk into the weary walks with our dreams at night, we are the dreams of endless nothingness. Have you ever felt like nothing amazes you anymore? Felt like the greenness of the trees and twinkles of the stars were nothing but boring kisses from the same old mother? In the end you see, all things are robbed of charm and light, robbed of dreaminess and steaminess, robbed of life. The only fear the living are left with is the fear of who gets robbed and who keeps robbing. Neither exist.

Somewhere between this dreamed beginning and feared end, there arose this “I am”. And “I am” is the hoax that breeds this endless oblivion.

With the end of things, all that remains is the infinite potential for a new beginning. Even such a thing as glorious and eternal as poetry meets mortality. The only real thing about being alive is death—the fact that one day, all this that we know and love and cherish, hate, despise, and scorn at will be gone. All gone! And then I, my own sweet precious I that I nurtured and kept moist with attention, light, and sweetness will come to what? Nothing. I see that now my friend, and smile.

I’ll ramble till the sun goes down on his knees and begs me for mercy. I will speak till the breath flowing in my toes leaves through my nails. I will not preach but I will scream. I have no reasons for my dances in the moonlight, no causational rendition of meaning to my madness. All you have is me, and the experience that is me. All we have is the stars, to mourn and complain of our mortality.

If you aren’t afraid of death you haven’t seen life yet. I’ll leave you now, with an empty heart and a shallow hope for an eternal tomorrow. Give it up sweet tearful friend, from birth to death is one large lemon, and we swim through burning ourselves, slowly disappearing into a forgotten nothing.

 

art – The Road Through Death – the jamesstark