What I write is exceedingly nominal to what I think. And my writing finds itself lost, trying in vain to keep up my thoughts' pace.

How we articulate

On the intensity of the mind

Little are we bound to take

Managing glimpses from far behind.

Words are let entangled

Like a small prey in the intricate thoughts

of a famished spider.

Dil ki awaaz kahan kho gayi hai

Hoton ka rasta bhul gayi hai

Joro se behlati hai, joro se satati hai

Batlane se khoob ghabrati hai

Aakhir dhadkan hai kaisi

Jo yeh sunana bhool gayi hai.

no, Movement

Holes carve in your flesh, scything the topsoil in desperation.

It hits a stone.

Crumpled pieces topple upside-down.

Have a nice day, my friend.

Closing eyes

blink blink

Wonder, just wondering.

"Move out, son!"

Dawn sprawls out soon, the dusk closes in the night sooner

Justajoo ho to safar khatam kaha hota hai,

yoon to har mor pey manzil ka gumaan hota hai.

Aur kuch, kafar jenaab?

The Piss of Being

Stoical relaxation bores me. If one could even call an impassive percept anything, it wouldn't be any different than pissing through a hole in the brick wall. You have to concentrate just enough to bother any pain or pleasure from permeating you, for the piss to flow smoothly. You are as jaded as a stone since you cannot happily maneuver the piss or are capable of doing anything that could to the slightest excite you, but what keeps you going is the relief that comes out of the same. This is when you say that you feel just 'fine', and there couldn't be any worse.

This is the point of no-happening.

My dad came to my room last night, to inquire into the macrocosm of my 'rebellious existence'. His intent was lucid: he knew something was bothering me and he wanted to know what. It was true. I had the whole fucking world bothering me. I held it responsible for my lack of motivation, claiming the inheritance of the nihilistic Shelleyish social world view from scattered literary wanderings: which was solitary, for taking the open fields deterring from the state-sponsored highway and highly exploited, for reaping an army of Nietzsche's Weed Plantations there. I was disjointed from the economics of my existence, and consecrated to my assumed morality, or an economic belief in the lack of it. I had put together vivid remnants of my experience, and conceived a concrete concept of how the world actually is. Yet without the suspension of disbelief, I watched the play like a disgruntled critic. But one with onerous aspirations as to how the world is desired to be. These aspirations overpowered the direct sensory stimuli of the intellect, and the two worlds fused into one. What seemed at first like an investigation into the nature of contemporary existence, became a coup d'etat of its ideology.

And I hold myself responsible for the whole world, solely on the premise of my existence in the same. Where does that conclusion spring from? From my ritualistic exposure and enticement by the existentialists. They argue that life has no meaning by itself. Since life is meaningless, we can't ignore the 'is'. In other words, we can't ignore its existence. Life has to exist for it to 'be' meaningless. Hence, our existence precedes our essence. Paradoxically, then my life gets meaning from the virtue of its existence. But since it gets meaning because I exist, it gets only the meaning I attribute to it. The whole world is under me and I am under the whole world. The world I inhabit is the world I create. And my creation is on the basis of the choices I make, which determines who I am. Therefore, I am responsible for everything that happens.

And since this responsibility is asserted into me on the basis of my being, it cannot be different for any other being alive. Each one of us are responsible for each one of us. We are bound to the freedom, or as Sartre puts it, 'condemned to be free'.

Then how is it that something can ever bother us? Could there be anything completely honest, could anywhere hypocrisy be extinct? Since our world has evolved uptill now to function as it is functioning, wouldn't it be liable to change on its own in the same pattern? Who are we to decide if we want it the way it is, or we want to change it?

Who are we?

We are the fucking world,

And the world is fucking us.