"At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time."

-T.S. Eliot
"Burnt Norton"

On the Comfort of Doubt.

All my recreational distortions of reality, dramatic visualizations, and convoluted syllogisms aside, the truth is that when push comes to shove, I'm simply too decisive for my own good. Always certain, always sure, and very nearly incapable of experiencing doubt. I think part of that comes from a habit of stripping everything down to bare facts, and mostly from keeping it all very black-and-white in the head. But as it goes, the value of things is only known best to one bereft of them. Sometimes, I wish I could just loll around in a comforting stupor of perplexity before having to deal with the reality of things. Alas, as it goes with most of life, I skip ahead. Far ahead of myself, out past the forks in the road, choosing much too fast, much too easily. The decisions I make are never wrong. They just tread upon each other's heels and sometimes, just sometimes, they are meant to bring half my world crashing down. As I continue to skip ahead, I feel like I'm barely escaping the collapse. I'm going way too fast and I'm afraid that soon, in my dazed frenzy, I'll push the big red button intending to charge ahead. And then something would hold me back. 

Non-Poetry/Un-Static

i am writing this because i am suddenly craving for ennui. the kind of unsettling gut-wrench that comes with being completely wasted and having enough time and almost enough void to fill several parallel universes with. and then some. last night was the fifth in a row when i passed out fully dressed and woke up raccoon-eyed courtesy the kohl i've been too tired(disinterested) to wipe off. and then i question the need of slipping out and into something else, with some water in between that can't wash away, what i don't have to wash away, what i don't want to wash away and what i will not wash away. from the mind, the body, and that layer of fluid harmony that binds the two, once in an odd while... but the craving soon transforms into the one you wake up with after a night of having too vivid a dream. and then you see that reality finds itself misplaced in this splendidly skewed order of things. waking up from one dream into the next, halfway between the wistful and the endless, and a unfaltering disbelief in limits of any kind and sort.

pandora's box, or actuality down the rabbit hole... a spinning whorl of wants and haves and cans and coulds. no ifs, no maybes, no perhaps, and none of the gargantuan words that require too much space and way too much distance. sand, with no hourglass to hold it. lanes, with too many twists and not enough bends. night, and glowing wisps of smoke. and trains... waited for, and then not caught, with a heartbeat trapped in a second. or two.

Days and Journeys.

Yesterday was about all that is perfect. About long walks, beautiful books and even more idyllic words. About the pertinence of not only sounds, but the quanta of silence that separates them. About how moments often encase perfection within them, much like hands clasp around a candle flame... to nurture it. It was also about the fragility of that very perfection, and what it takes to keep it inviolable. Close to the heart. 

Today, I'm packing my bags to fly to distant lands. To leave things to what they are for a little while. To let it simmer, and brew by itself. But I know that that is just me deluding myself. I am now tied to it in a multitude of ways, by the kind of cords one hopes to grow someday. Like convoluted roots that link a resplendent tree to the earth and all the beauty of the world. No matter how far I go and what I do, I leave a part of myself right here, waiting to be reclaimed and find itself with more reasons to spread its wings and take over my world, making it a better place to be in with every passing second. 

Tomorrow, I will be sitting about 2400 miles away, musing about time past and time present and time future and the non-redeemability of it all. And how the luxury of occasionally not being in control comes at a  hefty price, for the uneasy bearer of heavy crowns.  

Time and Wagers.

Suppose I was a stranger in a strange land. Standing atop a sand dune, watching all that exists bathed in the molten gold that a setting sun spews onto the world. I would walk endlessly on the roasted sand, singeing my painted toes just a little... just enough. I would walk against the harsh wind, feeling it whip my hair around in a tangled mess(like I always preferred it), sting my skin just a little, and whisper sweet nothings to me in a painfully familiar voice. Have it hurt just enough to be comfortable, in exact measures and slow degrees. Because one always needs more of it, after a while. I would look above and see the birds. Not quite the sort you would want to wish upon, but one doesn't expect miracles anyway. So I would murmur those lines I  leave scribbled on a piece of paper, in library books for a stranger to see. And I would walk calmly, taking in the beauty of constant motion doomed to be frozen in time. There was a time when they had a word for that, I think. But time decays. Itself and all that is around or in it. Memory is all that is cursed with immortality. Curses, after all, also come in masquerade. 

I would then turn and look at my imprints in the sand, and think about things that will never be spoken and probably wouldn't be heard. And I would go on walking on feet that are now numb, except for a violent shudder that runs up the spine every now and then. I would see iridescent streaks of color emanating from a distant ball of fire on the horizon, and laugh exactly the way I did about fairy-tales and the tall tower that no one could get to. I would remember something and bend down to scoop a handful of gold dust, and let it slip out from my fingers like liquid silk. Then, I would start walking again.

And right there, I would have lost another of our little wagers because I would still be going exactly where the wind takes me, like you once said I would. But I would still have a lot to gain, you see. It's taking me a little further from you. 

Orange Clouds Raining in My Head.

I'm often asked why I'm so in awe of Tori Amos, after all these years. Well, here's why:

Silent all These Years


My scream got lost in a paper cup.
You think there's a heaven where
some screams have gone?
I got 25 bucks and a cracker
do you think it's enough to get us there?

'Cause what if I'm a mermaid?
in these jeans of his with her name still on it.
Hey, but I don't care
'Cause sometimes
I said sometimes I hear my voice
And it's been here
Silent all these...

I'm pretty sure this is one of the most powerful songs I've ever come across. An intense story embedded in each stanza. How could it possibly not inspire awe? 11 years hence, it still does.

Express Train of Thought.

Climbing up the walls --> Wallflower --> Epistolary --> Selective illusion --> Crunching numbers --> Paradox-8 --> Discretion--> Maskirovka --> Instinct v/s Impulse --> Discordia --> Ethics of Power --> Judgment --> Social conditioning --> Perceptual distortion --> Homogeneity --> Brownian Motion --> Relativity --> Intelligent Design --> Geocentricity --> Tree of Knowledge --> A religion with human guilt as a basic tenet --> Dark Ages --> Ice-Cream Assassin --> Blitzkrieg --> The nature of the anti-thesis --> Going too far right brings you to the left.

The last line won't let me sleep tonight.

Thus went a 20 minute bus ride. It's been one of those days. The ones that feature as a red cross on your calender. With cryptic notes attached and stuff. And to think, it all started with a song. A rather addictive one, in fact.

Happy people piss me off. Majorly. You know, the sort that spout sunshine in copious amounts from every thread of their being. By the power vested in me by virtue of being a devoted cynic, I hereby decree that any person found grinning a five-inch smile on a godawful, cold Monday morning be shot down mercilessly. Seriously!

But despite myself, I admit... this makes a pretty snazzy dashboard. Yes, clicked today. Pami's gaddi.

And,
this also featured as part of the fateful day that was. Gifted to a friend on her birthday. I think it's awesome. AWWW-SUMM. In an annoying American accent, no less.Inappropriate, did you say? I would totally wear this around town. And zoom in on random people to check if some of them are capable of not getting the pun. I have a feeling I'd be surprised. This blog is increasingly getting NSFM(Not Safe For Mom) by the day. I think I'll blare some more Manson out to the world now. I miss drag races and general nihilistic behavior. Also, I'm totally typing this to get into trouble. Behold the retired rebel that is me.

On a completely unrelated note, I'm tempted to slap a poetic license on to everything I've ever written. But that would be modesty. Good thing I don't do modesty.

*zooms in*

Existential Crisis.

Disclaimer : This isn't really meant to be read. It just had to be written.

The angst wears off. It does, and then you're not sure what you're left with. Charred remains of uncertainty, perhaps. Some death-wishes, a little morphine. Torn bits of paper and cracked glass. Nothing shattered though. That would be grief. This is just an unsettling calm. Not placidity. More of the silence you're left with when something isn't there to fill up the space. It's void, it's vacuum. And it's half-silence. White noise. If you define your life in high contrast, it's the stark silhouettes that keep you sane. And now the lines fade away, and colors bleed into each other. Red for passion, green for envy, blue for melancholy, purple for all that is special. All tangled up. They've lost their identity, much like the feelings they represent. It's all a lumpy gray mass of floating debris. It's all a massive swirling vortex. Like ink-stained water down a drain. Every ripple is a meek protest. Decadence. Propriety. Providence. Words that fall into redundancy. It's like watching your world from a distance. On the outside, disconnected. Like one of those obscure art movies no one can figure out. You think to yourself that it's a tiresome storyline, poor narrative, and underpaid actors. The director seems to have quit a long time back. He just sits up there, with popcorn and beer, and sighs every now and then. One questions his existence. Or does away with questions altogether. What are they anyway? An isolated judgment call. How far does logic go? There's a yes, and there's a no. But there's also the maybe. Maybe doesn't count, you say? Doesn't fit into binary logic? Strange how most of existence is based on maybes. On possibilities. On trial and error and randomness and uncertainty and probability and permutations and combinations and odds and chaos and that which we do not know and that which we do not believe and that which we do not understand, in space that has no bounds, time that may bend and laws that we cannot define. We can actually, but we're not even close to doing it. We're not even at the tip of the iceberg. And thinking down to the level of electrons and protons renders everything so ridiculously abstract that we lose sight of what we were looking for in the first place. Because complexity becomes easier to deal with, and the bigger, magnified image is intimidating. We understand mitochondria better than people. And people change. They change and they grow apart. And they don't understand each other anymore. Friendship is traded for familiarity, and knowledge for faith. It's all a trade-off. The universe isn't based on faith. It's based on trade-offs. Society, organizations, religion, faith, relationships, self - everything being the result of an elaborate barter system, spread over cultures, people, places. Little, cataclysmic conjectures at every cornerstone. And what do we do with it? We get on with our lives. Standing with 6 billion other people in 5 different continents in one of the hundred and ninety-five countries on the third rock from the very average star near the relatively less-populated outer-edge of one of the several galaxies of an ever-expanding universe, we drag ourselves out of bed every morning, squint at the scraggly-looking thing in the mirror, and brush our teeth. And then we add another day to the story of our lives, without having any vague idea of our role in the turbulent cosmos. Of how every action really does have an often-overlooked reaction. We remain oblivious of our impact on the fate of a person living halfway across the world eating pepperoni pizza, and vice versa. Then, one happens to wake up one day and realize that sometimes the things you believe in simply run their course and fade away. And you're left with nothing to count on, nothing to call your own, nothing to define yourself in terms of. Just those lumps of indistinguishable color and morphine that you don't need. Because the numbness is almost overwhelming. Everything is measured in almosts and somewhats. The things that you would have given your life for, don't matter to you anymore. Everything seems to be a lost cause. You yearn to feel as intensely as you used to. You crave any form of completeness. You wonder if this lack of assurance could be traded for a dose of disillusionment. You wonder how the world could sell out its morality for a convenient vantage point. A struggle with integrity for some, and self-destructive tendencies. And the vacuum. The black-hole of a thing right in the middle of the cerebral cortex. You can't begin to imagine the things it could swallow into itself. Or all that it already has.

Tori.

This would be a bona fide dedication to who I know to be one of the greatest artists ever. Tori Amos.

I started following her music at the age of 9, and remain just as awed by it 11 years later. That says a lot considering my long-standing inclination towards the "flavor-of-the-month" approach. (Which, allow me to add, extends well beyond music.)

She plays the piano, writes about religion, sexuality, and all that jazz in between. And sings like she's sending a message across. Only, it takes a hell lot to decipher it. Therein, my friend, lies the beauty of it. This particular video you see here was the very first number I heard by her. And it took me ages to understand what it signified. That's what it is, every song of hers. A cryptic puzzle. With hidden references and visual symbology on such fascinating levels, it blows me away.

And to demonstrate :

• The song is about miscarriage, and the ensuing denial and loss of faith. Part of which explains the reference to nicotine patches.

• "Spark" is a reference to the unborn baby, which could not be kept alive. Hence the "6:58, are you sure where my spark is?".

• "If the divine master plan is perfection, maybe next I'll give Judas a try." Self explanatory, isn't it?

• "Ice-cream assassin"= God.

• The man following her is to signify that which we run away from all our lives, towards the path to safety promised by faith.

• The twins that abandon her in the end represent the double-edged sword that faith is.
  

To think that she manages to do this every single time, is just astounding.

Happy Birthday, Tori. You make art.

Tick-Tock.

If only I owned a machine gun, I would polish and shine it with the diligence of an OCD-stricken gunsmith. Then one day I shall load it and wait for the clock to strike 1:01. I shall wear my brand new boots and walk out on the streets and put five bullets each through every hyperactive clown dressed in neon pants.

No. It's not paranoia this time.

At This Point in Time.

There is something almost spiritual about sitting around, munching grapes, learning that "Colorless green ideas sleep furiously" and listening to Aerosmith all at once.

Saturday afternoon + Exams.

I abuse the power of procrastination.

Tacit, Interrupted.

Three make a quartet today,
But two is still a crime.
Out of a dire puzzle arose,
This subtle piece of rhyme.

Catharsis.

Last night, I dreamt that the world was ending.

And believe me when I say, words cannot describe how beautiful it was. There were fireworks in the sky, and things erupting into light, sound, fire and ice. Only, you couldn't tell what was which, or whether it made any difference at all. It was beautiful.

People, for those few moments, became exactly like themselves, and not what they had become. Everything was settled. Everyone was real. Because all the doubts, fears and things they had traded their lives out to, didn't matter anymore. I looked around and saw that no one, absolutely no one was scared, or sad. It shocked me, though it shouldn't have. I now see how perfectly natural it would be.

I reveled. Till a creeping horror sunk in. And suddenly, I was desperate to speak. To say all of the things I never did, to all of the people who would now probably never know. I looked around helplessly.. for people, or a cellphone at least. Anything. I had so much to say. And I didn't have the time.

I woke up at 2 P.M., to the sun shining at me through a dusty window. And the sound of raucous crows. I scouted around blindly for my phone, and saw 7 missed calls, which I wouldn't have answered anyway.
Irony bites.
.............................................................................

Afternote: This was right after I got done with my exams, watched Dev D, sauntered home at a marginally unacceptable hour. Called A to say to him that I never have any meaningful dreams. And promptly proceeded to pass out in my "coffee-induced" drunkenness.
Irony bites again.

In The Gist Of Things...

If it isn't clear enough by now... there's something very very wrong with me.
*Evil laughter* x 10

Reference for the aforementioned trespassers :
Point mouse-click-read-stare-scream.

P.S. And then people wonder why I scare myself sometimes.

If beginnings had no ends...

I start.

I, my evil self, hereby give to myself a chronicle archiving the meanderings of my break-failed train-of-thought. It is with great boredom and a caffeine overdose in tow, that I have finally convinced myself to write for no reason in particular..or in general, for that matter. In honor and great appreciation of nothingness, for the flawless and thoroughly inconsequential thing that it is, I dedicate my neurotic ramblings, disjunctive/conjunctive syllogisms and a fair number of insomniac hours to this particular morsel of cyberspace.

So, dear paranoid androids, co-barbarians ,aliens from the planet Betelgeuse and cerebrally-functional humans, you are all cordially invited to surf around in high tide.The rest will be tracked, hunted and duly shot down with Xanthic Re-Structron Destabilized Zenon Emitters.
All comments, applause, trust funds, death-threats and bazookas will be welcomed.

*POOF*!!!