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Dear me, Here now everything is on a pause….a halt… everything is stopped ….everything that has a color of flesh ….a picture from the deepest depths of four corner…..all these days poverty , poetry, narcissism and soliloquy are the inhabitant of my basement room… It has been a part of my own fiction...Like the strike of clocks ...a rusting desire to go backwards.. My sand house..For an unknown quest I have mingled Ash with the blues of ocean fire and a sky of lost horizon..Day after day …Night after night..An open window…it's just like a vagabond rain across the serene fields of mustard flowers....yellow all yellow....death...and Before anyone comes to see the way I ‘m living here I might become a dark cloud…That never fizzles out..No I don’t need the share in sky scrapers …Rather I want to become a tree…A bodhi tree …A Buddha preaching to a barbarous Ashoka …The colorless glasses of infinity…No Can’t live like others do…Like a clown a puppet…..Neither can live like the uprising sun…A sun with no shadow….for I don’t know the dancing pose of total destruction neither I know the path of enlightenment….a hanging tale… Ending has always been fascinating …..ending of a story ending of something heavier than heavy ending of a breath ….a perfect ending of life…..after the end there is no fear….light …like a floating white ash in the middle of nowhere. For a long time I have been writing a single verse in different versions , using the word I for me ,using an I for my existence , but sometimes I in my verse and I in real like a parallel line….on a etherized table an I of dust….rest yet to be written. Hope is like opium ….yes there is hope but not for us ….I wish I could become Gregor Samsa, wake up from an uneasy dream and become a gigantic insect. Not because I hate to be human , but being human disapproves my will to transform without fear ….Kafka was right definitely right….in the roadways of eternity( if it exists) if I could change myself to something that is very light I would….uneven proportions can never be calculated ..weight and lightness ….darkness and light….love and hate….life and death….I play with opposite and more I play the more I get confused what is for me? A rolling stone or a pillar of perfect strength …..The grey colored evenings and the smell of ripe paddy doesn’t fit together yet THE THING moves on relentlessly.. Ah this life ….the dark morality, ruins and a society that tells you to live a life that you don’t own…..man is an eternal free being and freedom is its purpose ..but there is no truth is also a truth….and meanings of golden ships sailing through a surreal river….name it the way you like it….honestly is there any purpose? Any perfect meaning , the sufferings and happiness , if we sum up our life by these two elements tell me the end result….the result would probably be an X of an indeterminate equation , where one side is always more! A pig is a pig , a dog is a dog and a man is a man pig and dog at the same time….walk the line that has never been drawn dream the dream that is always going to be unreal live a life that never existed ….one small sailboat and a vast ocean everybody knows what happens next….exoneration with a fine that I have to repay with life…..a closed doorway. For a long time every night I see a dream , a dream where I become a tree whose brunches are trying to touch the sky but rootless…..floating in between the lost heaven and a filthy earth…. In my dream I carry the guilt of a broken window…tree never cries …..tree never cries ….within a dream I search an another dream where a rootless man doesn’t cry even if it becomes a blue bird even at his mother’s death….someone may find it absurd….yes it is but it is better than many dreams where the dry leaves has to play the role of the host to a dead melody….a perfect ending …..No you can’t ask for more…. Yesterday I talked to my imaginary friend; he asked me what reality is? Is reality like the color of a crow? Which is always black or the color of blood, which is always red? But somehow I wasn’t able to explain the this simple concept …because the term “always” means certainty which is by nature senseless….nothing is certain not even the ghost songs of heaven , neither the hymns of hell . reality is like an illusion which we accept , ….very few in this world knows what is the meaning of a real “I” ….so I felt very perplexed and I could afford no words at that point of time ….and just than he questioned me are you real? Without a doubt I bid him goodbye….some things are better kept inside….you take them out and you are dead…. the web of what is me and what is not me in between a perfect blend of dark chocolate , intriguing tempting….under the veil of that temptation there lies the reality….a lust. Slowly in the womb of an ancient dream /I float in/ a clear pure note in silence Motionless/like a bird of an evening sky/unseen horizon/if I could carry the vastness under the wings I would. Sometimes I sail on /on the edge of a dying poem/source of water/like a vaporized breath/on a drunken ship/far far away from the surface, life/ I’m the captain, if I could write the story /on the mirror of water I would. The preface on the ripples /the middle stanza upward tides /and the end , I don’t know…..water has always been an essence of life/ but drowning kills. The silver fish and I have the same sense of nothingness ….but our nothingness differs a little …since I express, it makes me a fire eating lunatic who feed words to the fish and the fish remains silent….surprisingly sometimes roles are interchanged….he feeds me words and I keep mum…like a cloud of September sky. A dangerous passion to glorify the blank , the blank of thousand years the blank where a once a rainbow used to shine ….no it is not regret , a simple wishful reminiscence …gardens of water and a rain ….slices of moon in my pocket …but what is soft and delicate is to be preserved in a fortified wooden box …a box where you keep the secrets ….secrets that you want to carry to the grave….ah after the soft gentle rain the serene winds flowing across the graveyard ….no matter how chaotic the life may become but in the grave it’s all quiet ….the quietness of a thousand drowned sun under the carpet of autumnal leaves…a perfect fall... The triumph of silence in the mind/A silver fish tries to smash/It’s head against the glass/Of an aquarium/Burnt out manuscripts/Of love poems may be Epistles to the unknown. A man can be a whirl wind/But not still water!/Unbearable honesty of the heart /In silence…….Soliloquy, narcissism Poverty and poetry/All in the basement room/ A heart wrapped with the skin/Of a snake A stone, a mirror, the cigarette buds/And dust …..What else? All the brown evenings/and the mental ink drops/Writes an epitaph /All over again/Broken pieces of a mirror/But the hand never tries/To glue them up/Thousand autumnal Goodbyes /And an open eyed man/The triumphant silence/Screams in the glory The fish dies …..! On the judgment day the fish has to die….without a colorful lie…when the happiness and sadness reaches the extremes you better let the fish of your heart die….it’s very delicate you know …very delicate say like a mirror….when it breaks you no longer have to worry about the incompleteness, there will be no one to laugh at you , there will be nothing where you can see yourself …it is good that our images doesn’t mirrors in our eyes ….breaking the mirror is easy than keeping the eyes shut….and then you can be ready for a fearless dive ..as if you have awaited….the greatest battle is perhaps the battle against the self ….in this battle be a winner or a loser ….be a little darkness or sunshine….Be a monster or be an angel …..Doesn’t matter….what matter is you are living existing death is welcome but the equally scary truth is what not life is can’t even be thought….and thus I live on …..an edge , a surface , a clown ….with a fate of a murderer , with a fate of the king who was killed….like a great hamlet …like Rimbaud again on a drunken ship….a knife and a bruised soul…eclipse! These days I see an another dream, a flower is opening up it’s bud I’m residing inside ….as long as I keep quiet it is a flower, but when I say something it is a trap …oh a trap it will consume my being slowly, swallowing…licking my flesh and my fleshes are coming out….bones are visible….I scream I scream and then all quiet again…. But I don’t need any guardian angel, I need no Marcy from the brothels of heaven … I rather try to be a Lucifer and rebel against …..I will break the wall that surrounds me I will break anything whatever it may take...” I am god, I am hero, I am philosopher, I am demon and I am world, which is a tedious way of saying that I do not exist.” ! In his fiction Samuel Beckett writes “The long blue days, for his head, for his side, and the little paths for his feet, and all the brightness to touch and gather. Through the grass the little moss paths, bony with old roots, and the trees sticking up, and the flowers sticking up, and the fruit hanging down, and the white exhausted butterflies, and the birds never the same darting all day long into hiding. And all the sounds, meaning nothing. Then at night rest in the quiet house, there are no roads, no streets any more, you lie down by a window opening on refuge, the little sounds come that demand nothing, ordain nothing, explain nothing, propound nothing, and the short necessary night is soon ended, and the sky blue again all over the secret places where nobody ever comes, the secret places never the same, but always simple and indifferent, always mere places, sites of a stirring beyond coming and going, of a being so light and free that it is as the being of nothing.” This nothingness is not because you have lost but because you don’t find a reason why to win and thus the being and nothingness move together sometimes clashing sometimes hugging each other….isn’t it a relief that you are free to choose your path? In an absurd affection for absurd I always created my own rules and then broke it….say I masturbate once in a day and I’m very protective about sex life or may be I write how sensual I can be on bed…but there is no difference between not lying and not telling the truth…even if I say an elephant to be a mouse but it will not become a mouse…a broken belief…! I’m a man …Son of Solomon the inherit ant of a civilization that taught us to eat drink and be merry ….to fight for an inch long land , for woman , for a fistful of gold for pride..read whatever can bear the fruit even if it is sour ….work like a dog …go to temples church …get married fuck woman ….have safe sex ….yeah don’t forget to wear condoms (increasing STP) give birth….suck out the juice , pray to a dead god for forgiveness of all your sin and one day die…before death ask someone to buy a coffin for you….after one year you are the soil…yes this is life…and after that you want to go to heaven huh ! yes Dogs can your link to paradise. They don't know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing is not boring — it is peace. I can even question the purpose and ask La-otsu , what will happen if I increase the hypotenuse of his triangle/all torn overcoat hopes, cigarette puffing loves/real color of the portrait/ Lermontov is happy for a fool is getting a beautiful face/the joke ,the joke But I am responsible for everything ... except for my very responsibility, for I am not the foundation of my being. Really the crow is black….but in my dreams it is always white….my rejection of self gives me the power to pull on….my rejection of any superior …..my rejection of sentimental melancholy ….whims …fancies….but I could never be a realist ….neither I can differentiate the what how when and whys…..let some questions be unanswered …. I don’t need to be rationale and deliver a meaning all the time….I don’t know my purpose and I’m not ashamed of it …. I don’t know where Al D’erredo of Marquez is …but one thing I’m sure ....may be the reason is covered up by morality and ethics but my existence is above all these …free to soar high and most importantly light and real…..! Is that why my flesh is so naked?. With a feeling of companionship “The other me” |
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