Tuesday, August 26, 2003
ash to ash. dust to dust.
born of the dust. Watered by the love of this earth, each of us evolve....each of us revolve..on the cosmic potter's wheel. turning into vessels of His purpose..fulfilling it till we turn to dust.
but the time we wait by His side is when we spent most of our life. It is the wait as much as the purpose that defines the life...
much as we wait to be shaped...we shape each other as we wait..pressing onto each other our myraid edges and curves..
we shape each other even before He has begun and when our time comes..He might take one look into what you have become during the wait and shake His head....sigh and say..."Recycle"
*&^%$ alias 'Neo' is a self-centric writer.
He never seems to get out of his inherent disability
to see beyond his tiny little View Window. Most of his
creations have a dark, spell-binding effect, however
applicable to introverts only, who share a similar
attitude towards life.
If you try to read any of his so called
poems/writings, you can see that He is not at all
Infact, he takes an escapist attempt whenever he is
cornered in his own blunderous jargon of words.
For example, whenever he tries to go beyond a certain
break point while trying to emphasis on an idea, the
technique he uses is to suddenly switch to an entirely
new idea/concept.. like say when talking about a
desert, he tries to plant an orchid in the middle of
an ocean and bla bla ..
Though one may argue that it brings in some amount of
beautiful surprises, at times it sounds too crazy and
beats its effect by making it too predictable. Neo is
a totally imbalanced writer, playing around with the
words he learnt till his 8th standard.
If that is a poet's right.. well fine, anyone can be a
poet. Neo's greatest success is that he has a loyal
following of friends, who try to interpret his crap in
multiple ways.. and thereby bringing an entire
spectrum of meanings for his writings.
Thus, he just needs to plant a seed of thought, which
will be further interpreted by his friends, who are so
intelligent that they think of it a something too
good, or having many different meanings thereby
increasing the "universality" of his writings.
What his friends donot realize is that if they wish,
they could write better stuff than neo himself, for
they are better off with ideas and focus than Neo
Yet another crazy gimmick that neo uses in his
writings is to give exotic prologues and dates to give
it an authentic look .. eg: "Czech Rehabilation
Centre, July 14,1981"... Though this did work at times
as people though it be authentically a work by someone
at rehabilition centre , and not neo's.. the
repetitive use of such gimmicks is irritating.
I would like to conclude by saying Neo is an average
writer .. trying to live on other people's
interpretations of his "game with 8th standard
N.B. Nihas doesnt post it so i do.
Saturday, August 23, 2003
and happy i am
for i felt real grief
after all these days of pseudo grief
when i searched in darkness
for the very reason
For today somebody stabbed me
Right here in my heart
and it felt so sweet
to feel the real stuff
I just wanted to share it with you
My happy mind floating in grief
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
Monday, August 11, 2003
no real friends
only sweet colleagues
and the world looks like a movie to me
and by that i mean unresponsive
i see the same scenes every day
but then there are surprises
and in the boring watch
even a slight change does count
i have my whole time to watch the details
but still i miss some
and i move on
without a beacon to guide me
Thursday, August 07, 2003
A sculptor by his block of stone,
tools of trade by his side.
Waits to wake the spirit within the stone
and fill himself with foolish pride.
To show the world what all can see,
if only we chose not to hide.
The genius is not his, to own.
The masterpiece, not his bride.
Tied we are by strings so fine
We don't feel them and how they bind
Try moving far and they become chains
Yanking you back to the ground again.
I broke them once to set me free
But lonliness won't let me be
So I crawl back into my hell
Inside a happy gaudy cell.
Welcome faces greet me
Binding me fresh, with love and twine
Homecoming hero, I am
A new sentence, I do time.
Things I think I cannot speak
Of hate and sorrow my spirit reeks
Cannot find peace, Can't stop thoughts
Without my chains, I am lost.
Each man is born due to a biochemical reaction involing two cells who got to know each other, after some credible effort from their owners. Each man dies leaving a few million cells as manure....or ashes if you are a Hindu.
Somewhere along this way he assumes several baggage and burden, borne till his deathbed. Some he even believes will go on even after he is dead. One such thing, believed through diverse cultures and countries, is the "SOUL".
Mark the double apostrophe.
An intangible, unquantifiable quantity/quality....
Yes that sums up the purpose of the soul for human existence. Or for the existence of life in general. But man is obsessed with his own superiority. So much so that he made god in his self image. He had to be above the teeming million lifeforms that swarmed his planet. So he named his unnameables "soul", "spirit"....Blah Blah
So called "soul-searching" takes place when the irrational hopes to defeat the rational, when the illogical applies to defy the logical. There are even people who claim that animals have souls...and so do plants ( thanks to J.C.Bose). WHY?!!!!
What did those poor animals and plants do to be dragged down to be at par with the scum of this earth? INSANE?
Live life. Fuck your soul.
Don't give a shit about what happens after you die, when you can't give a damn about how you live!!!!
Life is such that I take the time I find inside crowded buses and more crowded trains to unleash the words hidden in my thoughts.
The first thing i did inside my first bus after nearly a month, was check if there was a bomb under my seat.........
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
lock out this world for just this night.
i can't share this beauty,this personal sight.
a heart,bleeding and stripped off pretense,
asks to be shared, asks a lowering of defence.
share with me moments stolen from time's hands,
time held frozen in shifting sands.
time we stole from this busy world,
with reasons that must be untold.
for i don't believe, they'll ever understand,
what it means, to have upon my heart, your hand.
why words don't matter when eyes speak with love and tears,
eyes that shield me from my demons, and my fears.
eyes that look with beauty, deep.
eyes that close and put me to sleep.
wishing i could be a single breathe you take,
even if i am sent away in a soulful sigh you make.
the few moments that i linger, i'll always cherish
granted this feeling is evanescent and it'll perish.
but i can't let the world see me,they'd never understandthat when you touch me, i feel it like my own hand.
Poem by bala.