Fine dining, creative thinking, being immersed in fineness, using music and words to weave powerful monuments of beauty and fortune, spontaneous rectitude, visions and shows that stimulate and tickle, the feeling of deliberated insulation within self, doing the right thing.

Till then, I Pray

I'm sorry, World. I'm an asshole only because my mind is corrupted. I don't mean to say that you did this to me, but it's just that I don't see anyone else around, and I know I don't hate myself, so I feel like taking you to court so you can please recompense me for all the tyranny I've gone through for your amusement.

This sarcasm, if found to be unfounded, has to be condoned. I know you deem that lie evil which has not infused enough belief in its own self. And belieflessness is the very disease I have. So, anything I say, anything I be, is inherently prone to seeming stupid/evil/intolerable/contemptible. But see here, I'm going to ride my contempt to freedom, since that is all you will give me. And maybe, one day, when you're tired of condemning me, you'll get your kicks out of giving me what I want.

Till then, I pray.

Serenading the sky

The crazed boy looked at the sky and started to wink in a most impish, affable manner. He knew if he befriended the sky, it would be an eternal source of solace for him. He wouldn't ever need to face the anxiety of being friendless.

The blue visage was acting coy. One moment, it would beam down at him in a show of affected conciliation, and the next, it would begin to perspire on him dismissively. The boy, for a long time, was at a loss.

Then he began to speak to it. He tilted his cranium heavenwards, and began to mumble sacred words imbued with attractive power; these words were earnest and woven from his very depths. He took steps, propelling his body wherever the perpetual canopy stretched, and found that his vitality was replenished and augmented with every footfall.

The sky had accepted him, he began to feel; and he began to feel.

It's a bitch to live in a world you think is fabricated. The world may or may not really be so, but just the fact that it appears to you as such is enough to rob you of sanity. I find I just can't build an understanding of the world when I feel like everything that meets my eye is something placed deliberately for the sole purpose of bamboozling me.

This disillusionment seems to have subverted my mind and brain so that all my precepts, ideas and concepts are rendered way too incongruous and amorphous to be recallable or discernable any more. This is why I seem to be tearing inexorably down a sheer decline into unmitigated dullardness. Well, of course, eternal hope keeps enthusing me to force myself to believe that I will break out of this cocoon of doom sometime very soon, but this eternal hope is constantly under merciless assault from my overall situation and everyday experiences.

Now, I know that this tirade of articulation does not ring true to my alleged mental ineptitude, but I'm not going to deny myself these fleetingly rare halcyon periods just to prove a point.

Of course, Mother tells me I am doing myself a great disfavour by not trusting things the way they appear. She's totally right, but prima facie authenticity is something I have long been forced to mistrust. If things were indeed as they appeared to be, I would not have gaping lacunae in my understanding of the world. There must be a world beyond the apparent one, where all the chemistry happens and the well-oiled mechanisms work their cogs into effects and phenomena.

Oh, to have eyes that could glimpse that glistening chamber of secrets. Please, oh please, let me run about every once in a while in that dewy meadow of gladdening information; I promise I'll set aside a portion of my earnings to pay my dues.

Pre-menstrual disdain

Deep, underneath the surface
there was a monster
that cried for its lotus;
all the while, wondering,
would its language suffice
to invoke the Sun?

To spend its time fruitfully
it loved to create ambiences
that dovetailed metrically;
knitted in fluid webs
of candid perfection
that spoke no lies?

Memory kept fading
just to flaunt its indispensability
to all those who were cursed to forget;
the accursed lost access everyday
to who they were
and what they meant.

The eye will strut the globe
in claret robes of clear
and untainted contentment;
that is
so the way
to be.

godhelpedme

The fairy glided up to the boy and asked him what time he wanted to be liberated. He told her he preferred 1330 hrs. And then he went to meditate.

No one ever wants to talk about it, man. And the worst part about that is, it makes you believe that the thing you wanted to talk about isn't even there. And that doesn't relieve me with its suggestion of a lack of a problem warranting discussion. It gives me this really deep feeling of nihilism.

Like say you have a problem. And rather than diagnose it, treat it or provide some solution/coping mechanism for it, they try to make it out that there isn't any problem to begin with. What can you do then? Where are you left when your family doctor, the guy you trustingly called up to ask why your spleen hurts so bad, takes advantage of your temporary weakness and makes away with your organs? Damn, that's morbid.

See, because the point is that when you admit your problem, you're admitting that you're stupid enough not to know how to handle it yourself. When you do that, you enable them to fill your head up with any story they care to concoct. And you have to believe it, because you don't have your own answers. It's called 'faith'. And it's holy, because you have to accept it without questioning, especially since you have no other choice. God forbid that you point out some inherent flaws in the story you're being told, or offer the anxiety that you have been misunderstood. It would just be construed as arrogance, or labelled as the very same stubbornness on your part because of which the problem persists.

Anyhoo, I wish I could talk. I wish stuff could be talked about, and not be so friggin ineffable all the time; it would really help clear my doubts and set things right for me and my mind. These doubts are eating my mind away. I want my mind back.

Reach for the pen again
as cancerous neurons
appear to want resurrection.

Sighing into softness,
burgeoning creations
are spewed forth in a dazzling splendour.

A nauseated mind
will be squeezed in no time,
and nurtured into the horizon.

Grasp Your Power

The bow-legged charmer seems to be up to something fishy. You can't seem to understand why she would keep summoning you to her chambers only to insult and belittle you (the insulting and belittling were subtle, disguised as affectionate chiding. However, you felt her words were aimed at destabilising you). But enough about her. There's no need to stay in a room that's filling up with toxins.

In other news... your dad is another head case, isn't he? He seeks you out of your lair and cajoles you into revealing stuff about yourself you'd sworn to keep safely stowed away within yourself, and then he denies that it is all in any way true! Double-you-tea-eugh!? Who needs him any way? You feel he isn't even out to help you. We'll just thank him for the constant roof he provides our head and let him work out his own issues, won't we?

All you will ever need is yourself. You hit upon this exhilarating feeling and capture it, never to let it whine out of your grasp. As you keep it held firmly between your lovingly fastening fingers, you feel treasured, strengthened and invincible. You feel all your Powers come rushing back to your fold. "Oh lovin' Master, We never should of left your side. We'll be of good cheer fo'ever more," They, the Powers, blubber in, strangely, what is a Georgian accent. Why the accent? Maybe you'll find out to your pleasure later on. .