Death row

You know what can kill a person without fail? Nope. I'm not talking about poison, or some other 'foolproof' method of dying.

A person truly is doomed to death when his mind is stifled.

With the rate of connections his brain is able to make diminishing towards zero;

With the electricity that should ideally be rushing freely through his neurons grinding to a staggered halt;

With each thought his brain is able to muster being thwarted, harassed and killed because it represents something in the living world which unnerves and frightens him;

When the exciting venture into the world of imagination/mental creativity only holds the inevitable caveat of the unleashing of a world of negativity better left untouched;

When all your thoughts you'd thought were your very own brainchild seem exposed as nasty seeds planted in your head by those who were able to advertise their agenda onto your impressionable, 'naive' mind;

When the only possible aftermath of any foray into conscious thought is the realisation of how thoroughly your brain has been drained, seeped of any chance at originality;

When you feel like all your precepts, ideas, tools for thinking are all a crumbled pile of obsolete rubble because you just never really are able to find that reality agrees with what you think of it;

When the slightest period of thought-flow that has successfully gone on uncontested is beset finally by the fear of having pushed your luck;

When you realise that the reason you can't get your brain to make the wasteful effort of thinking clearly is due to the strength of your belief that faced with an opportunity/scenario for the thought to have productive value, your power will desert you;

When you're certain that if someone told you that your life depended on you telling them your name, the one thing you could bet your bottom ruppee on not being able to recall is the word Mihir;

When you begin to feel that no amount of cognizable thought can be worth anything when reality is just lurking around the corner, licking its chops, waiting for you to make that turn so that it can kill that sorry little meagre confidence you dared to accumulate from thinking you'd understood something for real;

When the only thing that has made possible a flow of thought unobstructed for long enough as to enable a rant even as unimpressive as this is that the fact that everyone is asleep has empowered you to believe that no other mind can exert its influence on yours right now...

.....phew....

That person might as well be dead, for all the surviving he'd be capable of if a band of wayfaring robbers accosted him on his way to work, requiring of him to solve a simple arithmetic problem in exchange for an uncut throat.

If that isn't the definition of "death row", the phrase can only mean a situation in which Dumbledore and Harry merrily use oars to traverse the black inferus-filled lake in Voldemort's cave while singing 'Du Hast' on top of their voices.

Soiled by something indulgent

The day starts with an early call.

You trust the innocent promise that this early awakening advertises to your mind. You go on to spend the morning ambushed by your own weakness for a sheltered outing, and you hence lay yourself bare. Don't forget, not denuding yourself was not ever an option when on an outing; the outing itself is the act of stripping yourself to the corrosive sway of elements.

The unrequited offer for a seat would go on to nab your peace of mind later, and force you hostage to the need to compartmentalize. Although well compartmentalised at the time of first reckoning, it may have gone on to spread its shadow over your skeletal membranes nevertheless, over the course of the afternoon.

Parental exuberance too may have curdled the mixture a tad, it is smelt.

The other contaminant possible as a suspect is the parting wave. Earlier instances of this conciliatory wave have produced bouts of atmospheric pressure similar to the one being felt now.

Then some self-identifying reading leads to the promise which the day proffered your way in the morning. The sight of your mould in the writing relieves and elevates your mental fortitude.

The Puppetmaster spake..

"What did he say?" Didn't you hear him? He spoke in words. You have ears. You know sound when you hear it. You have a brain which can decode sounds for you. You can understand how things work. You can correllate a sentence with the objects it's talking about. And that's why you can never say that you didn't understand what he said.

You know you heard him with your ears.

"What just happened?" Didn't you see? Things moved in front of your field of vision. They didn't happen when you had misplaced your glasses or anything like that. Wait a minute, you don't even need glasses. You have perfect vision. (You only ever wore glasses when you wanted to pretend like you were some sort of intellectual. You wanted glasses to make yourself look as if you had a life.) You can see things happen in front of you. That's why you've been given eyes. To see. And the stuff whose light entered your eye had a direct connection to your brain. Your brain can decode optical information into mental pictures. You can use these mental pictures to perceive the stuff your eye saw. And that's why you don't ever need to complain that you didn't know what just happened.

You know you saw it with your eyes.

You have seen life for so long that by now, you know how things behave. This is great for you. Because you know how things work and function, you can interact with them and make them do things for your benefit. Superman knew the air. He knew his body. He knew that a cape flying in his wake makes for a powerful image of purposeful flight. So he used it all to make himself fly, and earn millions of dollars for selling himself as a potent image of an alpha male. Not that you can fly. But you can see. And that's all you ever need to do. And it's all you can do. That doesn't have to sound like an escapist thing. It's only as escapist as a horse-rider saying that it's upto his horse to do the galloping. Provided he has fed it. Provided he has made sure that the bran in its bowl was not mixed with anything the horse was allergic to. Provided he has made sure she gets enough exercise and sleep. The rest happens as part of a mechanism. You can't say no to the mechanism. It's like air to your lungs. Breathe it in. You're sure to come back for more.

Say

Why are there so few admissions made? Why is so much left unsaid? Do you realise how brutal it is to leave things unsaid? When you are actually making an effort to erase the secrecy of silence and coming out with fact-stating, the avid listener is banking on you to reveal to him what he doesn't know. The more avid he is, the more space in his head he will have cleared to accommodate the meaning that he expects your words to convey to him. In this situation, if you leave things unsaid, imagine the evil that has taken place. Not only has the listener lost the knowledge he had earlier, by having emptied his mind to accommodate your wisdom, but he is now left forsaken by your withholding of the wisdom he expected you to supply him with.

And oh what a monstrous mountain of doubt is erected by the unsaid. So much speculation to risk before you can hope to have landed on truth! Blindly groping for something you don't even know exists for your flailing hand to come across by chance!

OOOOH but when I myself make so many errors, it's so painful to expect hope for the existence of something true. I was my only hope. But I forsaked me.

Please say everything. Saltus in demonstrando is one of the greatest boons that I can think of, but as a communication tool, it sucks *#%%) $#@^ (*(!.

Come on Kids!

Why be happy?

Every day is, thankfully a new day. But to say that seems to be buying disastrously into conventional phrases intended to promote positivity. Disastrous because every positive notion you dare to have can be a contract accepted with the devil conglomerates that have set up the positive node of the universe in an attempt to mask the truth of negativity.

Believing something positive has always scared me. Now, when I attempt to wonder why that is so, I figure it's probably because I seem to have to mistrust the prevalance of any desirable situation. Maybe the persistently consistent phenomenon of 'good things coming to an end' (to use a normally used phrase) has created a conditioning within the brain that a good thing eventually, invariably, leads to the end of it. And the end of such good situations, in my case, mostly tend to mean that I'm left in a state of utter dissonance, for when my 'good situation' -- not having been an ambitious one to begin with -- dies, it leaves in its wake sheer desolation, much like when a cob of maize is snatched away from a starving Ethiopian toddler (As it stands, he can only ever toddle at best. Now, on top of that, he has been robbed of the single object upon which he had relied to aid him in sustaining the delusion that he did not actually live amid vultures waiting to graze upon his abandoned spleen at the slightest drop in his pulse-rate.) A sordid existence, I would ask you, if I were looking for sympathy.

Another cause for being scared of believing something positive, or enjoying a pleasant time of anything, is that the time spent wallowing in a pool of happiness and contentment could mean that you are ill-advisedly eating up your chances at redemption. Or, to stretch the point into a stronger depiction of truth, to surfeit in a period of extended mental analgesia must mean that you have dipped your beak into some elixir for which payment would be extracted. And all that you, having no skills nor ability to create something of value with which to pay your creditor, can do to balance the books, is to pay through your own enslavement or divesting yourself of a chunk of your soul (whatever a soul may tangibly refer to, in metaphoric reference it refers to that which you cannot do without; the lack of which leads to feelings that make you wish you'd been bald so as to escape having to tear your hair out by the handful).

Twanging strungs

At each given point in time, a single string reverbrates in a bid to be twanged. It speaks its mind in a convoluted retrospective proposition. Its answer begets the question. Or why would it need to be twanged after its drone has already rung out? What is created, is so, because it was given that shape. A cow 'moos' because it makes that sound. A cow might well croak, but you would then have to make too many cumbersome changes to the universe. And who wants the universe to be more fucked up than it already seems?

That's, a spade, why, suitcase o' mine, is called a spade.

How can you have so much power over me?

Could ya show yerself maybe...
So I know I ain't at the mercy
of a deaf
stone wall.

One day,
will I be your slave no more?

Move and shake

Flighty thoughts on the rampage
spell violent words,
and the screen is forced to take cover.
Little balls of wooden courage
frame it back in the picture.

Illuminating squares above
shimmer down on a blatant mind,
and rescue it from its confused stupor.
Mice sway upon yellow dancefloors
too engrossed in the mixture.

Secured words shouted
across the chamber
hold themselves in their respect.
I search for reverence
in my own bowl of cerial.

Delivered keys monitor labels
and scoot them with control
till they are vacated.
Their fall could save
a publishing firm.

Nailed down, the finger pointed at itself,
not knowing whence it came
or went.
Too sharp was the impression
that a loving paratrooper had.

Moving as it pleases,
it confirms its ideas
to the granter of wishes.
Its smooth, hyperbolic swishes
give it love.

Dealing with a content mind
soulless shells feel lame
and impotent.
Stainless steel leaps
for joy.

It's ours

He's feeling better about himself, he's feeling comfortable in his world. His mind is not aching everytime he acts. It's ours, he knows.

Pocketbook

Comforted by its own reflection,
it grew more tender by the second.
Sparkling crystals shoot out of nostrils
and show what was to be reckoned.

It's one with its motherhood.
It knows only itself.
If more were to be known,
it would surely topple the shelf.

Crows sighted their butterflies in the water
and swooped down to meet their prey.
Twinkling wings batted their velvet
and held the predators' sway.

The warriors tugged on the long rope.
Bristles began to erupt out at the centre.
Dry husk left powderily,
so healing tears could be choked.

But all the while,
the hazelnut fished for a scholar.
Dear-skinned blankets wrapped around the body
to squeeze the smell taller.

It let freedom emblazon itself
onto the placard.
Swotty resins taught it to build its house
in its own backyard.

Pushed for an answer,
she gave way.
And then he hoped
he'd have something to say.

Conspiring to inspire

There is something about inspiration that makes you want to act on it. Why should some powerful thought entice you to do something you would not do on a normally lethargic day? It defies Einstein's body of work that the amount of Energy in you (E) should rise, when your mass (M) remains just the same amount as to continue to make you look like an undernourished twig. But when you do get an inspired thought, you want a mark of it to be left in the annals of history. There is something dastardly about how inspiration can almost enslave you, and make you do its bidding.

But thank heavens that it does! Or the world would be a dried up coffee mug with sugar granules clinging on to the sticky cup-bottom like a starfish with attachment issues with its aquarium wall. Ah the satisfaction of making up a laboured metaphor that could have been left unconcocted in a less gregarious frame of mind.

Must keep writing....before the system realises how far it has allowed itself to snooze, and be back to action stations to thwart me. The urge to write and create is oozing from the pores, crying to be sustained till actual thoughts worth sharing strike me. But till such ideas do make themselves known to me, I must blather nonetheless, in the true spirit of one who is enslaved by a surge of inspirational energy.

What brought this on? Oh I happened to read a funny blog. It pains me to feel that this upsurge may be an offshoot of envy. Such a vice should not have been designed to spawn such a positive phenomenon as inspiration (incidentally does that rob inspiration of its positive connotations? When Ravana's Mom spawned the demon-child, did her maternal glory get diminished...wait, so that isn't fair that just because her baby was evil, she should be robbed of her due glory as a Mother. WAIT. I just argued the opposite case for which I started to make this point. Yeesh.)

Ok there is apparently a cure for the unchecked inspiration surge. You really have to hit rock-bottom, or rather stratosphere, to cease the momentum. This can be achieved by letting yourself run wild till you argue against your own point. Threat neutralised.

Venting air

The sighing hands
that never wanted to deserve rest
ceased to be stubborn,
and assumed a daze with zest.

Trembling in response
to the cold numbness of calm,
they knew how it felt
to be a balm.

Strident cogs rolled into themselves.
They made things happen.
When they shrouded themselves with brake fluid,
He didn't know what then.

Mechanics were always others;
they worked their own steam.
Just the sense of arms
did not mean he was to catch a moonbeam.

In the throes of hypoxia,
the mind paved way for a honeymoon.
Airlessness is not always at hand,
but you live inside an air-vent.

His quest for a niche
sharpened his thirst for the globe.
As she drew to a close,
shreds of yes-men were installed in his lobe.

Endgame

Round follicles denied themselves their sob,
encircled by ambushing catch.
Granules in jeopardy were no match
for the unruly corn cob.

With little to perceive, the book shut its eyes,
when the schoolmaster gave it an almighty nudge.
The book screamed that it was not match much
for all that it wanted read off it, which were lies.

The master cornered it by reminding it
"Your duty is to be read and drunk.
You sin when you give this a bunk."
But there was no jigsaw the book could fit.

All the while, his father appeared
in his full fury.
Denouncing all this as 'bunkum theory.'
Who knew what he wished feared.

The wallet's plush interior
pursed its mouth.
Not wanting to put its future in doubt,
it refused to hold its babies dear.

The chamber is closed to all but itself.
All it smells is its gases;
given over to its stashes,
It revels in its staggering wealth.

dazemire

I look around
but i have no eyes
I walk around
and I have no mind.

The tide runs you along
tirelessly carrying your sweat.
No pain sensors left
to detect your humanship,
so you run free
like a misty vapour
on a caffiene drip.

flight surge

A bird in my hand cornered its own beak. It was there by choice. It had risen into the cavernous mouth of the blue sky, all the whole waiting to be captured by a voidful mind.

https://docs.google.com/leaf?id=0Bw1ZHk_MeXkANzc4ZmJjY2MtMTMyZi00NWFmLWJmM2YtOWNkMzM0MDY3OGFl&hl=en

pot of lie

every blue-eyed boy that
trotted along to me held in his soft hands
a inviting pot of lie.

Best brewed when served hot,
the courage that it built everytime it fell successful,
was all it needed to keep at it.

in a condition it leaves it.
the daze is overpoweringly enticing.
Help is needed to sustain the state.

all that the boy gave,
it took into its slavering mouth.
more of rockbottom played strings.

quietly it leaves it,
silent and based.
the leverage forms him his next step.

every day, in everyway, it's fading away.

the tale

how can you be sure
that you're safe in this place?
with lions on the prowl

in this place
all we can long for
is the headrush.
marbles getting re-alligned;
everything being set right

http://www.esnips.com/doc/46c35d71-4bc5-4f94-9c1f-24ea5a53dad3/the-tale

lonely soul

Lonely soul
you will find peace someday
you will find it one day

It's just around the corner...

The Puppetmaster spake...

"You were made
so they would be on to a good thing.
Your essence is the lake
which the animals gather to
when they are thirsty.

You will have seen orgies.
They will happen around you.
They will happen on you.
As you are scavenged upon,
I tick off items
on your karmic check-list.
YOU should be smiling."

The Puppetmaster spake...

"the slightest thing you want, you will have to encounter demons and brickbats. you want a nature? you want a name? here. you can be the one who is the quintessential loser. you shall be the one who, everytime someone has called someone it, is paid homage to. you want big things sometimes no? not the type of stuff 50 cent wants and has. oh no all that's too crass for mr.highness. we want the top drawer. we want things that no human has the right to want. that which no one is entitled to stake a claim for. we are the lowliest form of scum that ever didn't deserve even the minuscule honour of being labelled anything (even "scum"). ok too morbid. but that is you. you're a demon-child in the guise of a pure human. you cheat every single moment which you exist, trying to justify your "humanity". what a liar. even when you cry about the injustice of being born a human illegally, you are culpable..."

for whatever reason

Brace warriors to their task
till they can't help but fight.
Their flimsy fear must melt
at the thought of fright.

Threads of barren ground will rise
to fortify the silken skies.
Mists of reason and fog
grow stronger at the stroke of night.

Gospel sounds at the break of dawn.
Fringes catapulted into the fray.
Everyone will come one
and show each other the way.

Hoarse winds will stop screaming
their wisdom to you.
A chinese whisper will suffice
to obscure what is true.

Grow into a chrysalis that fits you.
Fidget while you can,
you will be fixed soon.

Linked laces trip over the shoe.
Starved socks breathe their stench.
Your feet are ever plunged
into the cold.

At every station
the train stops and sighs.
The tracks spelt horror.
But it managed to kill some spies.

Floating its way across the expanse,
the soul searched for an exit.
Scorched and parched,
it deserved what it got.