Be Roused!

The chains of the courageous
Shackles of time and habit, resentful
A recluse lost between
Choices that play frivolously with thoughts
An ignorant being
How such pointless bounding seems
In security spent with oneness
Of nature born this timeless miracle
Mocks his own presence

Where does the intention figure?
In the limbo of the imprisoned
The straggler struggling to find the self
True in nature; ONE
Yet lost in the journey of projections
Of himself and
The voiceless beneath

Ethically correct, morally impartial
To each except himself
His own journey caught in flights
And fights
Of the consciousness of the other
As a reflection
For truth lost in ignorance’s security

Caution! Tread slowly soldier
The war is within
So surrender the badge, ageless
Not lost but found
By your own self
For the first time
Embrace!

Nihil ad rem

Understanding of phenomena
That reaps insignificant tales
Reminiscing,
Shuttling between moments
Eternally significant as such
A play of memory

Lost in translation of emotions
Of an origin unknown
The drudgery of such significance
Of insignificant tales
Lets me know once again

Existing and the existence of
Phenomena calculating
Origins from conclusions
Deriving once again
A belief

The inhabitant of thy self
Must it necessarily flee?
From its own natural fate
Into the unknown frontiers of
The acquired,
Knowledge, experience, relations

Within comparisons
I am a translation of
Memorials- Insignificant

Gestapo

Sublime forms of the ludicrous
An apology surrenders them to thou
Questions of the bewildering notions
Of a tragedy once bygone
Crucial scenario, isn’t it dear ones

The art of war that resides within
Manifested in sounds and blares
Of thus physical
Balancing the chaotic and the calm
Leaders here once bygone

Born into the cemetery of ghosts
Kept in shadows of,
Some in memories of
And some in the pyre
Emoting within, the resentful war
As an expression

The needy and the abandoned
In the unclaimed corner
The manifestation of perceptions
What resides within,
Expressed in its artistic form

An apology! I must bestow
Now surrender my pallet
Colorful illusions
Expressions and art forms
Not as the creator
But as a creation once born

An early diary entry worth sharing..

Now that this pen is flowing and I'm done cleaning ink stains, I can begin writing about the 'cause' of this radical change in routine.

I had been thinking for some time now that I would start taking notes. You see, I suffer from an extremely blessed state; a kind of forgetfulness- a state akin to a sort of "preference amnesia" (usually induced chemically)- wherein thoughts intriguing are procreated. However, it is the nature of this condition that demands that I take notes, if not to know myself a bit better, then rather to have a chuckle or two.

Amidst the daily 'surfing' activities, a thoughtful delight came to me. An observation that had escaped me previously; an observation pertaining to eugenics. It seems that eugenics or the act of selective breeding and the exaltation of certain "superior" beings, which is looked down upon in colloquial understandings in this progressive age, is still quite the norm. Whether politics instigates it or not, eugenics is practiced quite explicitly in multi-cultural societies. I say multi-cultural because these societies are projected to be more tolerant than the others.

When a child is rared at school, a special value is always attributed to the alpha-student. The ones that excel at sports or academia for instance. Authorities are willing to excuse the talented gene pool. Whether we like it or not, a rational system leads to class divisions. But is it irrational to distribute favors without such eugenicist discrimination?

Perhaps this thought is a mere seed; that needs the suns rays of enlightenment to sprout.

I think..

The narrative of a person always seems to be in search of a conclusion. It is much like a being the author of a story that changes its outlook and perception with each experience. Thus the split of oneness - the author, the story and the change; here it is the fallacy of what in Hinduism is called the MAYA. The illusion of perception as the defining line for the self where questions such as “who am I” bewilder the human essence.

So what is the outcome of the story? Am I the story or am I the author? Moreover, am I the perception of me as the story or the author or am I the perception of me at the hands of the all pervasive “change”? To thread each of the above questions I must find in me equilibrium much like the perfection of nature. Be the painter, paint and the canvas away form the illusion.

Retrospectively speaking our narrative becomes a juxtaposition of finales that must rise to the occasion as created by us. Yet do they equate to us as our own or does that find itself caught up in deciphering the coded language of desires and wants. Such notions bring us to the tipping point where the self from its basic nature of oneness moves towards the split – as pieces of the puzzle incomplete without the other parts and without the whole. This is the search of such narrative, isn’t it- the whole being?

It is such perception that leads to notions and beliefs that an inconsistency to this general narrative finds us encapsulated in thoughts. Where I am as I thought I was, yet the real seems to address me in a different fashion. The act of playing GOD becomes the very essence of such narratives that pervade the global life. So what is this perception that drives me away from the basic nature of my being?

It is not to address such intricacies in a definitive manner – one cannot explain – yet can derive from the process. It may not be the end that our being struggles for it may be the process. With each experience we find ourselves imprisoned and attached to it, for the purpose of the very narrative. Can I just be; and not search for the definite, the exact – literally the finite? Does it set us free?

I am – am I not?

Dreamy eyes

The wonders of then
Coercing the memories
Reliving the moment as it lasts
Of what does this misery stem its way?
Into the coliseum
Now in ruins of its glory

Does the now exist?
Or does it find itself engulfed in
The breathing memory of wonders
Wandering into untamed times
Finding reason caught up in
The limitless distance of knowing

For such conception continues to baffle
Arguing the real from the reality
Of which I exist, the now seems
Vague in possibilities
In this stolen corner I find myself
Reminiscing

Flower Child

Intentions and their persona reflecting
in the dream like state
Breathed as the essence of creation
itself to evolve continually
Sounds of the mysterious skies
fallen beneath the fury of
Intention and its dream state

play a song as the she daces along
Her strength and love; hate and anger,
engulfed in the balance of
the slow tandem of blissful guidance
gently caressing

curious of her,
I follow the wilderness into its wild birth
formlessness of its structure –
bound in perception of, me
the omnipresent essence of the breathed one,
she is – as is

beyond assimilation of my finite capacity
Yet construed by the limitation of
my own curious knowledge
Misguided by perceptive upheaval of
the equilibrium of her generosity

Soulfully mimicking the soulless copulation –
creating
Anxious monstrosity of a thoughtful being
Converse to its own universe

Thoughtless, I
As her own child –
Avant- garde