Whats my song today?

Brainwave FM. The earphones were never there....

For all of you who don't know what I am talking about, lemme tell you what Brainwave FM is all about.

Brainwave FM starts playing every morning when i hit the showers. I would be halfway through my bath when the beats start slowly rolling in my head. Usually its a song played on in repeat. But often, there's an entire playlist. Anyway, Brainwave FM sets my mood for the rest of my day.

Brainwave favourites include;

"Raindrops keep falling on my head"/"Little Pooh" : Innocently happy

"Scarborough Fair" : Melancholy

"Lips of an Angel" : Aaaaaah

"Semi-charmed Life" : Oooohoo

"Comfortably Numb" : Psychedelic

High-Energy-Bass-Blasting-Electronic-Music : Aaaaawesomely Charged up

And the music keeps coming back every now and then throughout the day, to remind me how i oughts stay today.

So its not 'cause i am feeling sick, Blame the Music!!

Crazy Diamond

Thats the name of the yellow kite that hangs gaudily from the wall in my hostel room. Nice and yellow and warm and happy. It smiles at me everyday, makes me warm. I hung it there for that very reason.

The silent sound of a raindrop trickling down the window

The rain had stopped. For a while, now. And a single raindrop stood poised to take a dive down the windowpane. Patience. A moment of timeless silence... As it waits wordlessly, straining thought and gaining force. It is accumulating mass, gathering together at that spot of captured illumination. Reflection, refraction and internal reflection. Held together by something someone named surface tension.

Surface tension. Waiting to break free from the surface. Or wanting to it to the surface. Tense and quavering, the raindrop stayed. And it let go off the ledge.

There was no explosion. No brute force. No captured momentum bursting into a cannonshot of energy. Silence. And a slow wormlike movement. The raindrop crept down the window.

It urged to go forward. Reach out for the ground in surges. Pushing its forces forward. Hoping to touch gravity. Pulled down by the gravity of its own predicament. It trickled, crawled, halted. Then it thought out.

Strategy. That is always part of reaching the lowermost rung.. the windowsill. And then, it pushed forward. It screeched, and sighed in relief as it carved a space for itself to run through right down the windowpane.

Violence in silence. All violence happens in the deepest of silence. We probably never understood the language.

Lotta-what?!

When we say "a lot", i don't think we mean too much. It's just more than what we expected. We are an incredible species. The only one that eats past its hunger, the only one to drink rivers dry. Maybe greed is an outgrowth of intelligence. In fact, it has to be. We would have remained static in evolution, and for sure, not have come up with the term "evolution" in any case. We would have still clung to tree like our simian ancestors, if someone was not greedy enough to have a roof above his head. It is neither necessity nor curiosity that drives human progress, its greed rather. Wait... Ayn Rand already said that.
But do we really need "progress" that bad? "Progress" is just another marketing term...

And "Lotta-what?!" A lotta shite, i tell you... Even that was just a marketing term. Sorry if you fell for that.

Big words in my small head...

{I am an agnostic. And God doesn't know whether i exist either.}
{Why does the window rattle so?}
{It's not asthma. The air just got thicker.}
{Funkedelia....!!}
{The veritable signs of existence}
{An altered sense of being}
{There are rainbows, and unicorns and pretty blue stars on the wall. You just have to look hard enough.}
{Air raid!! Air raid!!}
{Watch the raindrop draw its line of fate down the windowpane.}
{Windowpane or Window Pain?}
{The magic words, i say...}
{I want to be a fish, 'cause i want to know how it feels to sleep underwater.}
{Mind-tweaking phenomena..!!}
{Yeah yeah}
{Why wake up just 'cause the dream is over..}
{No. It wasn't the earphones which played the music. It was always playing in your head.}

Shite... It aint coming out right....

Nooooo... I aint constipated if thats what you think. But gauging by the verbal diarrhea on display all over my page, i guess constipated won't be too bad a term. Anyway this post is not about constipation, or laxatives or about shite. (aaah... does come somewhere nearby tho!!) This post is a dedication to someone who is a self-confessed eater of cow-shit. Not too uncommon 'cause some people feel cows do serve a higher purpose than provide divinely ordained beef. Lets not be so controversial now. Peace. And happiness. And a pinch of madness. Thats what the world needs at the moment. And lemme give it some by introducing y'all to my demented little twin. Aaah!! Y'all know her. And if you don't, well read on. You might find out a bit about her.
So my demented little twin. Call her my psycho-twin for no small reason. ' Cause she is a lot that i am, and a lot that i aint. But psychological twins we are all the same.
She is the Festival Express, that runs on, tearing apart the rails, music streaming out through the windows, and leaving parties in her wake.
She is Slycho, aka the Conniving C***, 'cause a conniver she certainly can be; for the best of reasons and the brightest of seasons.
She is the Sandal Slayer, 'cause she is jealous of my awesome slip-ons and moreover she has a general aversion towards footwear (and hygiene too... yeah, she eats cow-shit, in case you have forgotten. and no, she doesn't floss or brush. hahaha!!).
She is the Iron Maiden 'cause she does make metallic music when her mood turns sour (or she just has to try singing). And she can be quite irony before she does open up. Kinda ironic. Yeah, thats why the name goes. And yeah of course, she truly was the Iron Maiden when her life did take a disastrous turn. You are forbidden to say you respect your twin, so lemme not break that solemn oath.
She is of course Pagol Godha, and i guess that doesn't need much of an explanation. You just have to watch her for like 10 minutes. Won't disappoint you. And hell, she thinks she is well-mannered like a Queen. The Queen of England, y'know. The old lady who still looks young in those stamps!!
Yeah, And of course, she is Tabs. 'Cause i believe she was born in Mozilla's lab or some shite... Anyway fact is, she has to be connected to the net for at least 8 hours each day. Thats where she downloads corny music and muchy movies to her brain. And plays them over in repeat. Yeah yeah... she might act all grim and irony, but she is all mushy as a marshmallow inside... No, a snot-soaked handkerchief would serve as a better metaphor. And ohh!! the other story about her birth is that she was an alien and her mothership crashed near Mt. Everest. Yeah, sad story...
And to me, she is Shaddaps!! 'Cause thats what we tell each other most. And yeah... now i cant take this any more.
Winding up. But you're still the best.
And btw now you owe me 16722+999=Rs.17721... only...

Bookmark

So here goes...
The page was screaming to be marked. Its bold letters each climbing up a decibel until it reached that unbearable crescendo. The final symphony of pain. And relief. The note slips. The orchestra goes awry. And the stick falls from the conductors hand as he collapses to the ground in the ordeal of cacophonic creation (or was it recreation?!). Freeze... Bookmark...
The letters stare at me. They each pose a question. And they sink their gruesome stare right into my heart, like a thousand silent daggers. Smooth and soft. It doesn't hurt. Just a warmth. Or is it the blood seeping out through my wounds?! Freeze... Bookmark...
I stare at the page. It is innocent. It is silent. But its innocence and silence which poses the most disturbing of questions. You cannot answer to innocence. And you make your own questions up in silence. The words run around my head in dizzying circles. In a whirlpool of thought. Interstellar verbal orbiting. Freeze... Bookmark...
I was scared to mark the page. Condemn it to memory. Afraid i ll remember the page number and the odd tear halfway down the right edge everytime i flip past it. Condemn it to familiarity. Tag it as special. And yet never be sure, whether it was so exceptional after all. Or whether it was a moment's fancy, or a passing glimmer of hopeful fear.
A faint breeze catches the page, and it rustles in mid-air. My fingers still rest on its torn edge. Freeze...
I never use bookmarks. I just remember the page numbers.

Why I left my footsteps on the sand....

The footsteps still remain. Though no one cared to ask why they do. Why they were left there in the first place. Ontology... such a nice brutish sounding word... The science of existence. Lemme explain.
The footprints remain 'cause there is no wind to blow it away and cover it with fine silt.
They remain 'cause there are not many who care to walk barefoot and walk on sand, and wipe away mine.
I left my footprints 'cause i forgot to take them away with me, and they were too innocent, unlike memories, to cling onto me.
My footprints exist 'cause i pressed my existence upon this earth, and the sand wielded.
My footprints remain 'cause i wish to be remembered, though not for the person that i am, but for the mere fact that i did walk and leave it there.
My footprints remain because, at times, flesh is tougher than million fragmented crystals of silica that bend down in supplication; 'cause sand worships life.
And i left my footprints 'cause i hoped, someday someone could place theirs in mine and walk to the same far horizon that swallowed up my lonely figure.
They remain... waiting... and remembering...

Three Vials of Triviality....

Alice drank the first one and grew big or small or whatever and finally did end up in Wonderland. Ah! And there unfolded a series of unfortunately trivial events, so trivial we now consider them mad. Poor Alice and her vial of LSD. Nice enthralling psychedelia; and Wonderland no less...
The second vial was really running short of substance. It was just about as mind-bending as the acid that Alice so devoutly drained down her bowels. And damn the bluddy leaking bottom. Vials really should be made of tempered glass or some shite!! (I really wouldn't want to run into one of 'em. They are quite sharp even otherwise, and add a bit of temper, and they could very well be ferocity in transparency..) Anyway, to get back to trivial matters, from the leaky bottom of our second vial seeped out the few last drops of truth. And they dripped down and plopped into the azure depths of the ocean. Maybe the entire ocean drained out of the vial. But anyway no one cared to own the vial. And the brave few who tried (and yeah, they did have a good audience to perform in front of) found it too bitter and promptly spat it out. There was not much need of it anyway.
And ah the third vial... It was filled with a liquid (or was it a gas) so light and transparent, you can hardly see it. From what i heard it used to be thick and mucky earlier. And so large, they called it a gene pool. Its grown thinner. Like hair, it thins out with age. And now we hardly feel it, though we exist, like that vapour-water in the vial. Scentless, tasteless, colourless and formless... We look like the vial 'cause we live inside it. And we choose to stay inside, away from scents, tastes and colours.
Maybe we should drop the vial and check whether it cracks...

The Mutiny of the Mutes

Dunno why it started. Maybe it was bound to happen. All i know was how it did start. And well, that's part of recorded history.
History is very ironic. It only talks about iron and metal slashing through flesh and obliterating bones. And of monuments built by armies fed on iron-rich blood, to be razed down to make more fodder. Man's monumental history of blood, and iron and blood in iron (heamoglobin, as we call it).
Yes, the Mutiny of the Mutes is waiting to happen. History reminds us that it had happened earlier. But then, the Mutes merely learnt to talk, and they weren't Mutes any longer. Became Mutants rather. The Mutant Revolution.
The Mutes talk in the voice of silence. Words cheat their thoughts and feelings. Their war songs have no words and no rhyme. Their thoughts retain their abstract selves of purity. Their weapons do not thunder. Their footsteps don't raise the dead from their sleep, and awaken them with a yawny groan.
The crumbly charred pages of books will litter the streets. Signboards will read themselves out in the language of fire. Rivers of fire will surge out of windows, in a silent symphony of sorts, intoxicated on Molotov cocktails, Dante's Inferno in a vodka bottle. And the soot and the smoke will block out the sun and lead to a cataclysmic episode of global warming, which will then escalate into the worst Ice Age in the history (ah! that had to turn up again..) of the planet. So says Al Gore. And i don't trust him on that.
The Mutiny of the Mutes remains an abstraction. Like their wordless thoughts of purity. it finds life in our silent moments of perpetual violence, when we forget to hear and refuse to talk. Stop... turn back the pages of history... or write a new book. Write of smiles and tears, love and fears. Write why i left those footprints on the beach, to be licked up and washed off by the kinky tongue of an insatiable sea. Nature reflects who we are.
Let us learn to speak.

The EverGreen Pain Machine

The river darkens to a mouldy stain,
Spreading through the dreamless, thoughtless, hill-less plain;
Spreading pain,
Bedding disdain.

The branching veins drank off the mills,
Choking trees which have no gills.
No frills,
It only kills.

No shadows ripped the streets at night,
Shadows live on the light.
No left, no right,
No blurred foresight.

Dreams are lost in a speechless mist,
Smiles torn down no longer resist.
Pain persists.
Clenched in fists.

Words spoken are never heard,
Become whispered mumbles in a herd.
Undeciphered.
Un-recovered.

Words chewed down, words spat out
Tears frozen in a moment of doubt.
Tears don't shout.
Wings don't sprout.

In the endless plain where pain descends,
Time is caught in an electric fence.
No enemies, no friends.
Good riddance.

Words on a String

This might as well have been the title of my blog. Some randomness tied together with the flagrant hope of bringing out some amount of cohesion and comprehension. Trying to make sense out of this petty madness we all live and call life. Funky shite, i tell you...
So here goes my first post!! Major achievement, if you ask me... And this one's all about why i love living through this madness. Why i love trying to make sense and failing time and again and yet hopefully going for another try.
I love life because its beautiful. Its got that poignant beauty of thinks that wont last for long, like snowflakes and mayflies... Things that melt away or disappear, like a whiff of fancy.
I love life because we alone can live ours. How much ever people try to take it away from us, we can still hold it within our little hands and hold it out to the sun. Warm it up a bit. Or hide it in our mitts when it gets cold and wintry.
I love life, most of all, because every moment in it is unique. Every moment you live belongs to yourself 'cause you gave birth to it. And it would certainly not have existed without you, or outside of you. Life and all its moments stay with you and within you. Prolly its the only thing that very truly belongs to you.
I love life because i can still feel, touch, hear, taste, see and live all that is around me.
I love life 'cause i can smile, laugh, cry, hide my tears, and whisper my fears.
I love life because it hold a promise. A promise you can work out by yourself. I love life 'cause it has a past, a present and a future.
I love life because i try time and again to make sense outta it and never succeed.
So every once in a while, lean back. Take in a breath of air. Breathe in... Breathe out... Lick your lips and taste the air... Its a beautiful world, and every inch and every moment of it belongs to you...
The Semi-Charmed kind of Life we lead... Its funny... It sad... Its happy... Its mad... and above all its always worth living and loving...