The universe, for empty hands...

The orange blur of the morning rush
The misty twilight aching to scream
Is it the silenced pain that the world disavows?

The wrath of the candent noon
Caught between sultry blows
The flagrance of blighted hopes that the world denies....

The pitter-patter on broken windowsills
The faint glorious smell...
Is it rain or is it tears that the world doesn't cry?

The solitude of someone else's mistakes
A lonely moon amid the starry sky
Endless nights that betray the sullenness that the world doesn't claim...

Too harsh, too heavy, too dark, too morbid,
Dismembered and dispatched.
The lucky few have another to catch...
For the ones who don't,
Is the universe!!!

Disorganised Musings of Dissociated Proclamations

Too many thoughts, picked up at random times and random places... The curse of an overbearing mind! Now how do we make sense of the enmeshed voices? How do we tell them apart from each other? Sometimes the voices inside your head scream with the pain of having been crushed by the madness that is not theirs. That's what everyone will say anyway. Why do we disavow our insanity, that is so innate to us? Why do we thrive in unremitting alienation from ourselves?

When there's too much, nothing ever really takes form. At least, that is how it is for some of us. Disorganised musings of dissociated proclamations.

Burnout becomes another one of those benumbing paradoxes when it creeps up on people who happen to love what they do. Perhaps then, there are some discordant unconscious motivations at work? Then again, it becomes hard to separate the micro- from the macro- when it comes to the marvel called mankind (I really happen to like that phrase - pretty much defines all that I believe in).

Sometimes it seems to me that Psychologists take the easy route by putting the entire onus on the individual. I know, society is made up of individuals... but sometimes, the sum is greater than its parts. Like so much else that we call human, it's a viscious circle. I guess we'll never really know what came first - the chicken or the egg!

Clutches of self

When every step you tread becomes untracable
Can you leave a trail behind, still?
Sunken deep in the craters of your passion
A flicker of hope for a hopeless fill.

People come and people go
Even in obliteration, leave behind the scars of their embrace
So do you, in debilitaton of your dysfuntional life,
Someone's insanity, someone's grace.

You be someone's muse
In the inevitable abandonment that follows
You seek your own
Apres-coup, it always is so, caught in your own tragic throes.

So what fulfils the desires of your masochistic soul?
How does reparation alight?
If it's always an eternal circle you traverse,
Is the wish for a spiral truly pined?

It's always a paradox.... a voluntary plunge into masochistic delights and the screams that follow; the desperation for a witness and the silencing of shame... Who's shame is it that we silence? 

Lashes and Endurance

The lava boils yet again, the crust is dangerously steady.
Your lashes come in steady too...
Will the hardness endure or is an eruption en route?

No one knows, no one did and never will...
The volcano never charges at one, but all...
The beauty, the paradox and the sadness of what is.

The words are too strong to comprehend...
No, the simplicity that was comprehensible was but mocked.
What is one to do, then? Elude!

Another without a name...

Words fail in face of impediments. It's mostly idiocy that leaves one benumbed. Laughable, this life! It's always about technicality. And stupid crash-downs. We create confusion and chaos. We love the infantile rush of the morning, and the war with the stars.

Some of all that we call human...

No it doesn't take much
A song, a word, a sound,
A faint smell or a forgotten touch
Sometimes it's just the atmosphere.

Follows a swirl intangible,
Mental representations of yonder years,
Illusions are but never fallible
Of those gone by and those yet to be.

Reality tests itself ony in what is,
The silence of your breath
In the motion of life, the momentary bliss,
The cunning nature of all that we call human.

Inevitably, it's a flight
Be it in kindness or kind,
In love or fight...
All in being all that we call human.

The despair of your condition,
Of the impossible feat,
Of the will-less volition...
The nakedness of all that we call human.