A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession." had said Albert Camus.
I ask myself as I write, "What are you trying to confess, my soul? What sin are you trying to absolve of yours now?"
I get no answer. Only a stubborn, egoistic face stares back at me. My own face. Silent, nonchalant, unmoved.
Then slowly as I reach out and touch that face with my loving hands, a voice from within slowly speaks up.
"Absolving the star-lit sky we shared...absolving the dappled meadow where we sat and fed each other our eccentricities...absolving the stain on my skin left behind by another hand that once held mine and we walked into a valley...absolving expectations, absolving memories, absolving nostalgia, self-deception, self-destruction...absolving passion, fever, fret, false promises...absolving self-pity, rage, narcissism, fake smiles, conforming, adjustments, compromises, self-humiliation, journey into self-destruction...I owe it to myself...I write for absolution of myself in the highest court of law - the court of my own conscience!"
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Inner Monolouges
Getting back to my dear 'self' after a very long time...
Much has happened meanwhile, while you, my dear 'self', were lost in a trance of self-destruction...
You were engaged in your destructive merriment, oblivious to the whole world, and all the while, I witnessed your fatal dance with Life, quietly...
I wanted to stop you much earlier, but somehow I was intrigued by your sado-masochism...you may call me a voyeur...I wont take offense to that...yes, indeed I, like a pervert, kept ogling at your fake orgasmic Pralaya-tandava...only, you were not on your verge of destroying the Creation, but only yourself...
And tonight, I have come to meet you in the silence of your pain, because I know, now you will listen to my voice, finally...
Much has happened meanwhile, while you, my dear 'self', were lost in a trance of self-destruction...
You were engaged in your destructive merriment, oblivious to the whole world, and all the while, I witnessed your fatal dance with Life, quietly...
I wanted to stop you much earlier, but somehow I was intrigued by your sado-masochism...you may call me a voyeur...I wont take offense to that...yes, indeed I, like a pervert, kept ogling at your fake orgasmic Pralaya-tandava...only, you were not on your verge of destroying the Creation, but only yourself...
And tonight, I have come to meet you in the silence of your pain, because I know, now you will listen to my voice, finally...
Friday, November 5, 2010
My First Love Letter to 'You'
I'm writing this for You. Which of you? Well, if you are asking this question in the first place then it is not you I am writing to. Coz wen You, you who I am writing to, read it, you'll automatically kno that I'm writing this for You.
You are my Mirror, my Other Heart...thou' You ll NEVER agree...but the truth is...
my broken fragmented world holds fragments of you very dear...I never dream of holding you in totality...never...just that fragments of you join fragments of me in the hip so perfectly...my lostness is mirrored in your terrible lostness...my self-destructive spirit in your latent self-hatred...my insanity burns more brightly the more it comes in touch with your eccentricities...my pain throbs on in silence along with your drugged and morphined soul...
My Mirror, my Other Heart, my mad mad mad dearest friend, You....may you live on just as you are so that I 'll go on living with and in You... silently...spontaneously...magically mirrored... yet unnoticed by anybody...perhaps even by you...but silently watching you...feeling your tired breath...hearing your feeble heartbeat...celebrating your eccentricities...holdin your sharp prickly fragments very close my heart even thou they prick me and coz my heart to bleed.....you may think why should I bleed for You...but truth is that this bleeding is a relief...a relief in fellowship - fellowship of anguish, of lostness, of two terribly fragmented souls lost in the crowd...so go on living just as You r and I too ll go on living with and in You...
My Mirror.....My Other Heart.....My dearest You...You...r You u listening?
You are my Mirror, my Other Heart...thou' You ll NEVER agree...but the truth is...
my broken fragmented world holds fragments of you very dear...I never dream of holding you in totality...never...just that fragments of you join fragments of me in the hip so perfectly...my lostness is mirrored in your terrible lostness...my self-destructive spirit in your latent self-hatred...my insanity burns more brightly the more it comes in touch with your eccentricities...my pain throbs on in silence along with your drugged and morphined soul...
My Mirror, my Other Heart, my mad mad mad dearest friend, You....may you live on just as you are so that I 'll go on living with and in You... silently...spontaneously...magically mirrored... yet unnoticed by anybody...perhaps even by you...but silently watching you...feeling your tired breath...hearing your feeble heartbeat...celebrating your eccentricities...holdin your sharp prickly fragments very close my heart even thou they prick me and coz my heart to bleed.....you may think why should I bleed for You...but truth is that this bleeding is a relief...a relief in fellowship - fellowship of anguish, of lostness, of two terribly fragmented souls lost in the crowd...so go on living just as You r and I too ll go on living with and in You...
My Mirror.....My Other Heart.....My dearest You...You...r You u listening?
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Myriads of Memories
My memories and me...
Mirror each other.
Shape each other.
Jostle with each other.
Torture each other.
Memories of many a kind...
Faded memories...
Vibrant memories...
Crumpled memories...
Memories ironed out with delicate diplomacy...
Thorny memories...
Bleeding, fermenting,
Forming puss, septic, gangrene...
Where exactly in our biological machine is memory housed?
The scientists say it's the brain;
The enlightened(?) philosophers say its' the soul;
The melodramatic lovers say it's the heart
that houses this cancerous phantom organ.
Only if I onwed i knife sharp enough
to sever the roots of
every bleak, fermenting, falsifying, testifying
Memories!
Only if I could ruthlessly uproot
this poisonous serpentine creeper
from the tired, arid, bleeding soil of my consciousness!
But till then I will go on carrying the black, white, green, gory, infinite frames from the last three decades...
Faded...
Not-so faded
frames...
Of a thousand faces,
A million betrayals,
The wet warmth of a thousand tearful nights,
And lonely wandering around in the bylanes looking for you...you...and another you...
The first sloppy awkward kiss of a lover;
The perverted greedy incestuous hands all over me;
The first red stains on my parrot green panty announcing aloud the forthcoming social imprisonment...
The dear old school ground now buried under a commercial complex,
The innocent informal friendships gore-i-fied by corporate culture and adult rivalries,
Memories! Like small pox patches!
But do i really want to obliterate all of it from my inner eye?
Memory of one and only night spent on the green grass, under the starlit sky, counting the falling stars with A
in perfect Silence!
Memory of sunlight washing us clean from last night's sloth as G and I sat there smoking cigarette packets empty and bonding over our common eccentricities!
Memory of S not being judgemental but simply laughing over me like mad as I giggled meaninglessly and yapped on some gibberish after gulping down god knows how many pegs of vodka for the first time!
Memory of climbing up to the Nathula pass in spite of severe breathlessness, standing in knee deep snow and looking into a foreign land spread out ahead in myriads of colours, dimensions and the Unknown!
Memory of the first leech, god knows when, crawling up my ankle and sucking my blood silently as I strolled amidst the Northern Hills alone, lost in its beauty!
Memory of nights spend on my couch sipping tea, fagging and courting a million words in spite of sleep, penning my thoughts down that gushed forth like an orgasm, bringing forth my first novel!
Not all fragmented frames are comforting;
Most of them self-destructive; gnawing at the very level of self-awareness;
But not all of them;
My memories and me
Are like a paradox -
Best of friends and foes at the same time;
And I know we will co-exist till Eternity! :)
Mirror each other.
Shape each other.
Jostle with each other.
Torture each other.
Memories of many a kind...
Faded memories...
Vibrant memories...
Crumpled memories...
Memories ironed out with delicate diplomacy...
Thorny memories...
Bleeding, fermenting,
Forming puss, septic, gangrene...
Where exactly in our biological machine is memory housed?
The scientists say it's the brain;
The enlightened(?) philosophers say its' the soul;
The melodramatic lovers say it's the heart
that houses this cancerous phantom organ.
Only if I onwed i knife sharp enough
to sever the roots of
every bleak, fermenting, falsifying, testifying
Memories!
Only if I could ruthlessly uproot
this poisonous serpentine creeper
from the tired, arid, bleeding soil of my consciousness!
But till then I will go on carrying the black, white, green, gory, infinite frames from the last three decades...
Faded...
Not-so faded
frames...
Of a thousand faces,
A million betrayals,
The wet warmth of a thousand tearful nights,
And lonely wandering around in the bylanes looking for you...you...and another you...
The first sloppy awkward kiss of a lover;
The perverted greedy incestuous hands all over me;
The first red stains on my parrot green panty announcing aloud the forthcoming social imprisonment...
The dear old school ground now buried under a commercial complex,
The innocent informal friendships gore-i-fied by corporate culture and adult rivalries,
Memories! Like small pox patches!
But do i really want to obliterate all of it from my inner eye?
Memory of one and only night spent on the green grass, under the starlit sky, counting the falling stars with A
in perfect Silence!
Memory of sunlight washing us clean from last night's sloth as G and I sat there smoking cigarette packets empty and bonding over our common eccentricities!
Memory of S not being judgemental but simply laughing over me like mad as I giggled meaninglessly and yapped on some gibberish after gulping down god knows how many pegs of vodka for the first time!
Memory of climbing up to the Nathula pass in spite of severe breathlessness, standing in knee deep snow and looking into a foreign land spread out ahead in myriads of colours, dimensions and the Unknown!
Memory of the first leech, god knows when, crawling up my ankle and sucking my blood silently as I strolled amidst the Northern Hills alone, lost in its beauty!
Memory of nights spend on my couch sipping tea, fagging and courting a million words in spite of sleep, penning my thoughts down that gushed forth like an orgasm, bringing forth my first novel!
Not all fragmented frames are comforting;
Most of them self-destructive; gnawing at the very level of self-awareness;
But not all of them;
My memories and me
Are like a paradox -
Best of friends and foes at the same time;
And I know we will co-exist till Eternity! :)
Monday, November 1, 2010
Sisyphus Speaking!
I am Sisyphus.
I have been toiling from Eternity until Eternity behind Futility.
Hoping for a Finality I fool myself every moment to breathe in the next gulp of oxygen so that I can roll up the boulder an inch higher. In the case of the other Sisyphus, the boulder always and everytime kept rolling back down to the foot of the mountain as soon at he would succeed in pushing it up to the mountain top. In my case, ironically, the mountain top is situated at point Eternity. And I have been successfully fooled into believing that this journey is worth it; it's meaningful; it's worth toiling after.
There are but a very few moments of enlightenment when the truth flashes upon my senses that this journey is merely a liability. It's toilsome, futile, unattainable and yet I have to go on undertaking it. But why, may I ask? Truth is that I 've been put on this highway very much without my permission and against my will. One fine morning I opened my eyes and saw that I was made to stand on this highway and asked to walk on it. Or in other words, I was put on a bus and asked to take a futile journey to Nowhereland. And the bus ride was going to be bumpy and strenuous. Like Jessie Cates (in 'Night Mother) says, "Riding the bus is hot and bumpy and crowded and too noisy and more than anything in the world you want to get off and the only reason in the world you don't get off is it's still fifty blocks from where you're going? Well, I can get off right now if I want to, because even if I ride fifty more years and get off then, it's the same place when I step down it."
I too realise this but at any given point in time I don't call out, stop the bus and get off well ahead of my destination.
Til date I am on the bus, taking the futile bumpy bus ride whose every stop is Nowhereland so it really doesn't matter which Nowhereland stop I got off; yet I don't get off at a previous Nowhereland. I toil and move on towards the next and the next and the next stop and thus unto Eternity... rolling the boulder higher and higher and higher towards point Eternity.
The Myth of Sisyphus lives and continues with me.
I have been toiling from Eternity until Eternity behind Futility.
Hoping for a Finality I fool myself every moment to breathe in the next gulp of oxygen so that I can roll up the boulder an inch higher. In the case of the other Sisyphus, the boulder always and everytime kept rolling back down to the foot of the mountain as soon at he would succeed in pushing it up to the mountain top. In my case, ironically, the mountain top is situated at point Eternity. And I have been successfully fooled into believing that this journey is worth it; it's meaningful; it's worth toiling after.
There are but a very few moments of enlightenment when the truth flashes upon my senses that this journey is merely a liability. It's toilsome, futile, unattainable and yet I have to go on undertaking it. But why, may I ask? Truth is that I 've been put on this highway very much without my permission and against my will. One fine morning I opened my eyes and saw that I was made to stand on this highway and asked to walk on it. Or in other words, I was put on a bus and asked to take a futile journey to Nowhereland. And the bus ride was going to be bumpy and strenuous. Like Jessie Cates (in 'Night Mother) says, "Riding the bus is hot and bumpy and crowded and too noisy and more than anything in the world you want to get off and the only reason in the world you don't get off is it's still fifty blocks from where you're going? Well, I can get off right now if I want to, because even if I ride fifty more years and get off then, it's the same place when I step down it."
I too realise this but at any given point in time I don't call out, stop the bus and get off well ahead of my destination.
Til date I am on the bus, taking the futile bumpy bus ride whose every stop is Nowhereland so it really doesn't matter which Nowhereland stop I got off; yet I don't get off at a previous Nowhereland. I toil and move on towards the next and the next and the next stop and thus unto Eternity... rolling the boulder higher and higher and higher towards point Eternity.
The Myth of Sisyphus lives and continues with me.
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