Tickle me, pickle me, sickle me, popsicle me

Clause One: Tickle me

'Cause i wanna know you care

Clause Two: Pickle me

'Cause i dont wanna turn to rot

Clause Three: Sickle me

'Cause i wanna feel i am worth

Clause Four: Popsicle me

'Cause i wanna to feel the cold

Clause Five: The one that didn't make it to the title

I dunno what i want, and what i dont

Clause Six: Santa Clause

Be good, and you get a present.

Clause Seven: The Corollary

Be in the present, and you ll be good.

Feeling my way through clouds

I am apprehensive. Scared of taking the next step. Scared of even moving. Not because i can't see. Not 'cause of what lies ahead of me. Rather 'cause of all i had left behind. They stare behind my back. Stare right to that dark uneasy corner of my mind that we all call the conscience. I wish it was like an appendix... disposable.

The sunshine is dampended. Soaked and suffocated. Apprehensive.

The thoughts pop up once in a while. They silently whisper. So low that only i can hear. More memories. Contemplations of memories. Wonder why i let things go. Wonder why they seem so far. Another life apart. Did i live through them? Or am i just watching a dull video taken in grainy grayscale?

Fragmented moments in time. Faded photographs. Pictures stained an antique sepia from all the coffee spilt on them. Coffee that kept me awake through all the nights when all i wanted to do was close my eyes and sleep. Tell the rest of the world to go to hell and be damned. I staeyed awake then. Groping my way down the stairway railings.

That ephemeral illusion of love. Muted converations between friends. The uneasy silence which creeps in and shouts so hard, your ears go numb.

There are clouds at my feet. Clouds all around me. I am afraid to turn back and look. I might make phantoms appear from the clouds, when there are none.

I am not guilty. I do not regret. Apprehension.

I might dissolve and disappear someday like a wisp of smoke from a dying candle.

I ask for forgiveness. The supernova has to happen.

Hyper in a diaper

Hyper:(Gk.) Over, beyond, overmuch, above measure

Hyper-activity
Hyper-sensitivity
Hyper-perceptivity
Hyper-reality

Realizing a level of existence that doesn't exist. Or maybe does, but is beyond.
Comprehension. Perception. Understanding. Imagining. Describing. Deriding. Feeling. Believing. ing.
We comprehended. percieved, understood, imagined, described, derided, felt, and believed.
Its existence.
When we were born.
Into reality. Into under, wintin, underless, in measure.
We grew out of it.
We forgot. We no longer know.
Hyper.

Hush, said the clouds...

Secrets are not meant to be spoken out loud. We whisper them to ourselves, in that dreadful conspiratorial tone that reeks of self-sedition. Truth which breaks the constitution of our existence. Dark secrets. Those chapters half written, and given up, because they had too much of truth to stay in that diary of lies that makes up our lives. We keep those pages to ourselves 'cause only a few can even decipher the scraggy scrawny handwriting that came out in a few frenzied moments of furious clairvoyance.

I tried shouting my secrets out to the sky. The world didn't stop to listen. They were half-writing pages on their diaries while my pages, with all their scraggy words, fanned and fluttered in the wind and were shat and spat and scattered across random pavements across the globe. Footprints and dusty shoemarks over yellowed paper and curvy blue letters.

Only the clouds heard me. It rained. The blue letters melted away and trickled down the drains...

Remembering Valentine

This goes out for all who cared enough to love, and loved enough to care...

Hmmmmbug

Introduction. Hmmmmbug is not the Caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland. Or maybe she is.

'Who are you?' said the Caterpillar.

Alice replied, rather shyly, ‘I—I hardly know, sir, just at present— at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.

‘What do you mean by that?’ said the Caterpillar sternly. ‘Explain yourself!’‘I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, sir’ said Alice, ‘because I’m not myself, you see.’

‘I don’t see,’ said the Caterpillar.

Hmmmmbug asked me who i am. She tried to see. Did she see? At least she cared to look. Whatever.

The Caterpillar likes to believe he is right. Likes to speak its mind. And all through the metamorphosis, tries to hold onto what he thought was himself.

She drew herself up and said, very gravely, ‘I think, you ought to tell me who you are, first.’

‘Why?’ said the Caterpillar.

I dont know either. None of us know why. We long to be understood but can never part with what we are. Let go of our secrets. Be insecure.

Hmmmmbug is waiting for her wings to sprout.

Spun

One twist of the finger, and the top starts spinning.

Whirring about.

Its sharp tip drawing a wicked spiral on the ground.

Fingernails tearing through serenity.

As the top spins, it makes the air around it whizz.

The sound of electricity.

Tension.

The air is caught in a vortex.

And pulled apart by a thousand forces working in counter-directions. It whizzes.

It gives the top its sound, its voice, it electric energy.

The air spins around the top

And makes it spin in turn.

It gets dizzy after a while.

Persistence of vision.

Vision gets extended along a tangential line, and finally

All you see is a blurred fat line that connects all around you without revealing

The minute details.

Details by the minute.

Lose track of time as you cannot make sense of the space and direction and distance.

It is a blur.

Cant think, maybe for the better.

The fingernails keep inscribing that spiral.

It is a monument to the cosmic chaos. It stares at the sky, where the the stars are a spiralling blur too.

Then the death throes. Painful, and arduous.

Even the top, the creator of chaos, cannot part with its life so easily.

Tries hard to hold on, and come back to life.

Pushes itself farther and harder, leaning to one side,

To push up the other.

To stay alive.

Gravity wins over the centripetal, centrifugal and all forces centred on its own axis.

The grave belongs to all. We all meet there eventually.

Old friends too.

The fingernails stop crawling.

The top rests.

My ears are warm

My ears turn warm the moment i get drunk.... It is an interesting observation... An uncanny natural response...

The Doorstop

The room had to breathe.

Open door.

Enter the wind,

And the sun, and

the sweet scent of flowers in bloom

and alluring sounds of melancholy.

The bedspreads are awry,

Crumbled ,

Slept on

and forgotten.

Ashtray on the corner-table.

Cigarettes

burnt to the butt,

Matter, fire, smoke, ash, strewn

peppering the table.

Careless taps of the finger.

Whispering wind

Says secrets

Seduces the ash,

Makes it dance around in whirls.

Ballroom of fraility.

The wind stops.

Ash collapses.

End of life.

The curtains flutter

in the wind now.

Billowing,

as the wind belches.

And the door trembles.

The room breathes.

The ash floats,

Stay suspended,

Double somersault,

And paraglides down

onto the unkempt linen.

The doorstop keeps the door open.

Limiting friction.

Full-stop.

Fractured fractals

I am standing on a fractal. A shape so complex they mindlessly term it as being irregular. That's always the easiest way out. Anything too complex has to be irregular. Regularity is the norm. The ideal existence of things. And complexity is anything but normality. Normality is what we love 'cause it fails to perplex us.

Yeah... I am blabbering. Fractals were what we were talking about. A fractal is a rough or fragmented geometric figure which can be split into parts, each of which is roughly a copy of the whole. So says Wikipedia. And they say Wikipedia knows a lot. It says a lot, for certain.

So I am standing on this crazy, trippy geometric figure. A figure broken and shattered by the very necessity of its existence. This is my world. A fractured fractal. Redundant. Like the term itself. Where each fragment is a copy of the whole. And all of them held together 'cause without even a single one of them, the figure will be incomplete and there would eventually be no figure to copy. The tense and fragile necessity to be. I am standing on one of these tiny fragments.

As I stand here, and look all around me, and see the unity in multiplicity, i ask myself the question: Which is the greater miracle - the tiny fragments that look like the whole, or the whole which is the original copy that went into the photostat machine? Which was the first fragment that formed the prototype for the rest? Maybe the fractal had existed as a whole through the whole of time. Static. Unmoving. Fragmented and fractured.

P.S. This post necessarily exists because I love images of fractals and i couldn't but help putting up one on my blog. And for all who cared to read, my apologies. hehehe....

One for the sake of it...

Yeah.. My blogs going dead. And i cant let that happen. So heres one for the sake of it. An adrenaline shot straight to the heart. Come outta the OD, you bluddy junkie!!

So what do i tell you now??

Overcast skies.

The Earth closes its eyes.

Refuses to see.

The warmth.

Its cold.

My fingernails pain.

Tap my foot.

Rhythm goes wrong.

Its cold.

Subcutaneous sweat.

AIR RAID AIR RAID!!

Silence.

Painful.

Wasn't so.

Tries to speak.

Whimper.

Plead.

I hear my own voice in the silence.

No reply.

All lines are busy. Please call again later.

Click.

The Sun still shines.

Stupid Sun.

Wise Sun.

Wait, says the Sun,

Wait for the wind.