Friday 30 November 2012

The sea of Okhotsk....I am the island.

Navigation through this sea is almost impossible in the winters.I am the island that stands frozen midst the ice.
everything around me is the white sheet that covers the bubbling life beneath them. stranded? Not so, here by    the desire to be unpossessed. . Claims to me are numerous yet I am abandoned, do I regret?

I stand here in between grandiose and puny . Large land lost in it's own vastness is one of my my neighbors, mighty in nature and expansive like an ocean of land, tumultuous in endowments but laid back by choice, scattered in it's ravished and pristine landscapes, fertile yet barren, still so vast.
Puny, the little dots of lands, overflowing , virtual life, swinging in schedules,so much that each second gone is on the pulses of the living who tick like robotic devices.A vigor that would send a floating feather from one end to the other shore over the mechanized tracks, and the feather would fade in a whimper as it is swooped by the wind that entails the machine in motion.

Both on the map, one by the virtue of it's natural endowments and other by the virtue of their proliferation. I stand devoid of any. Most complete in my existence ,off the radar, off the map, a safe haven only visited by stranded boatmen and curious tourists. Uninhabited, untouched, utopia in it's solitude. Left alone, sustaining life on it's own. The sanctuary of all that lives in neither extremes, that knows the tales of both , that rest with none.
An island I am...an Island I'll be, not in the remotest but midst life, cut off from the worlds by sheets of ice. Cold ,pale ice that would thin on the crust and then melt into the Sea of Okhotsk.I'll stand their with all my wonders intact , visit me perhaps, I do not ask of you to stay.Please do not stay.For now, the sea is frozen.

Wednesday 28 November 2012

Bottled Messages...floating in the sea...Chanced upon.

All that pain is not yours to caress alone, or perhaps it is, just as it is mine. How generous are we with our fortunes and how closely we treasure our afflictions and their infliction?

There was nothing to me,bound and unbound that you could fathom. as  unfathomable. Mostly if  not all that led you to me was misplaced ardor and the lingering of it in a chasm as pertaining to the least of logic and the last of nous.I think I knew it from the first knock at my door. Intuition does trigger a thought but I stop intellect from ravaging it's probabilities. The interest was my interest.This is no accusation though, not to be taken as any offence. I would only be glad if it were confirmed, I do understand.
Insensate to stabs of the blade that the wounds you left were, you knew. You could not believe that the insensate were loved and the insensate could yield to healing but you did try, undoing and doing with all that you had created and all that you had destroyed. Understood, Indeed very understandable.Not shirking from the blames that were flinching at your mention.

Here are your blames and mine:

.When you fill a void with concrete, you first shovel the earth, no matter how lose the soil, here is matter leaving it's land, with the roots that were deep, sown seeds and all that was as endowed by nature.You can plunder it and the land will not wince, unearth it all and sink them into oceans but tell me how would you ever synthesize the same soil, with the roots placed at the same heart and the seeds sown exactly as they were meant to be.  What were you looking for? A haven ? In the familiarity of the simulations that were created by a force or testing a passion in equivalence, solace in the sufferings of the insufferable, as we are known.
More importantly how would you destruct the block of concrete  , it was not concrete but quicksand(an amalgamation gone wrong in it's immature state), it pulled in all that it could and all that was , the structure you tried to built atop,they tumbled into the pit and were lost in the depths you dug.

In parallel was built a wall. at the periphery of the pit that was a bottomless swamp.Immunity to a devastated land. The structure used the raw concrete , leftover from your resources and bound by the disposition to cover and not fill the void that did exist. The void all bubbling of  waste that was never meant to be, radical reactions often lead to such miscalculated errors that lead to such disasters.
 You did not have a solution? how could you? still the facade of the problem remains, The wall. that was conquerable ,was it not?So I thought, so you knew and so each one through the forces, not concurrent but still parallel tried to mow down the structure.Our estimation did fall and rise but the wall was intact. (Though I admit, I once felt that by the nick of a chance a few bricks had been removed and vents were created.)

I was wrong , not in my attempts, my intentions but my methods. The complexities that are owing to my own experiments, my own volition and my own belief, that nothing is irreversible do not apply to the simplicity that it was...once done, never undone. Something that stands created by the hand of something so staunchly divine, so perfect in it's existence , sculptured stone, never changes. Perfection that you are. Perfection that you want.While I ,human and fallible, discovering and undiscovered, yonder from the points that I know are to be sought.
Yet I obliged myself with this staunch belief, that if I had a belief it could pertain to things outside my own microcosm.I was not wrong in this. The time was wrong, very wrong.
We share the passion for not just the object but the proving of our theories on the object, that is wrong, very wrong, indeed.
If all that you are is perfect and all that I am is in search of perfection only, there will be no proving further. As for the Obelisk that stands,do not thwart your attempts at bringing it to life but for that be alive. For someone so resistant to change , how would it be brought to another?
Also, we forgot, the regard for the person beyond that object......
'Want'..'.it is all about the want' could or could not be coterminous. Still, I trust that you would know better. I for all that I am still am the distant observer who just observed...but passionately. The masterpiece was not my to own or to modify, I knew.





Sunday 25 November 2012

A temple of thought that is as ruined and refined.
debris that pierce through ravages of time,
A wail echoes like chants in it's prime,
deep abyss, oh depth of the dead.
sleeping like those who never rise,
a requiem is all left of a reprise.
reeking of the rot,
the dead leave to the living
through graves they dig
and thoughts in engravings.
they never change.
Are we dead enough?
Are they living enough?

Tuesday 20 November 2012

Apropos!

Lets not say what I inferred of it all or perhaps you could stick into the implicit the stake and tell me was their some water in all of it, because when I did run through the scalpel of intricate skill through the clutter that required hacksaws to get through, I found a fluid more warm, sanguine. It was all having a life of it's own running, stinging in wild passions, rising in rushes, falling in tides. All that ran through with membranes enclosing the full bodied person that existed in your speech. I feel so much, is that a disorder? that I see through opaque and hence the life in the lifeless seeming drenches and the thumps that are a dead hum come alive in my ears as percussions of a wild beating heart.Too sensitive, too lame?
I never was, and now it's proven or perhaps it is,vinndicated I am, I feel.
As I speak, you utter....Apropos!

Saturday 17 November 2012

Tacit and tarter

Pungent, never subdued,
implied ,inferred, delicate.
yet the striking never ruined
the smooth roundness of her face
and chiseled , scraped almost ,
cleaved to perfection
all that it is the facade to.
dissolves into self
resolves into self
and implodes upon the misdirection,
all that nothing stands witness to.
you are tacit and tarter,
all I taste in my mouth,
left to linger
sharp at the tip,
lashing at my tongue
spread to blood
down in my throat
the flames that lunge.
all other senses I rest,
I feel,  feel again
without asking of much.
tacit and tarter,
no appetite for starters,
they never taste as bland.
More tacit, less tarter now.
tacit and tarter never the less!

Tuesday 13 November 2012

Coppélia

Of all choices that you have made, the ones that were stabs aimed at me have not hurt me as much . I could have been anything, dark, twisted, damaged, tangled, chaotic, vain, veneered, wrecked, chipped, dazed.The adjectives I were, the adjectives you accused me of. were all meant for the living. The living who evolve,flow, fly, walk, slide, crawl , move.
Now you just ruminate on a spot, over a rotting situation, A wooden carcass.

.The want, the flare and the passion that exudes from the alive is amiss. That warmth that you channeled through every pore in the skin , the fire you raised as you lashed with your disposition to disagree .The cold shivers you sent through the my feet reverberating the ground  below .The embers you lit with amber chiseled.The cold is now frigid, the embers now flames and you have become the devout of the nymph of numbness.

How could you have been enchanted by  Coppélia.?

Saturday 10 November 2012

 As much as we are defined by what we love, we are defined by things that we hate. Convinced of the fact I have always been but the perception was perhaps half of what exists.What we love and what we hate are like two streams running in meandering intersections through the channels of our nous, and as estuaries they mingle in the ocean that our psyche is.

In a restless transition of the same water that wantonly meets the same end and flows from perhaps the same source,we drown. Not knowing which of the two rivers were which. This led to us becoming what we hate. By volition or not, by chances that sustain themselves because we let them, by the precarious existence of the two.
Apathy is drought.
The only repulsion that did exist within the realms of my acceptance was apathy.What more damage could you have done?
The only switch that  was not to be turned on has been flicked on and off, off and on and I am not alone in such experiences. Do not turn apathy on as of(f) yet.,not here, not now, not on this. 

Saturday 3 November 2012

Music Boxes


Lets make boxes for music,
the glazed polished kind.
 that ballerina
perfection captured in static
dolled in shimmer
painted in gloss
are you happy now?
Forever box this music
it will play on and on
the same happy  notes
till they seem static
would you be lulled now?

What stands on toes will fall
if taken out of the box
the arabesque in refrain
is as much a contained pain
as the beauty it exudes,
only the prelude.
out of your boxes
all music does conclude
and is filled with requiems
You can not keep joy
in a box.
'happy' never tastes the same.