You and I
Hmmmm, you and I
Are two different things
Behind a face or 
Like a shadow in a dream

Catch what I try to sing
I can only do that much
Or it would turn again in
A definition 
You wouldn't want that
No
No
No arguments ever again

Of a you and I
Which would always stay
Two different things

Wash away all the tears
Or the blues
All that stood in front of you
Was all inside of you
How can still
Can you walk at
such a slow pace

Every where you be
Anywhere you go
Across all lands
You and I stay
Two different things
 
Nothing seems as it seems

Vibrating in thoughts
Hit by it
I was blessed
Blessed to go
Round and round

Round and round
Round and round 
Everyday

A pretty bad space
The ways I feel
A child knew the merry-go-round
I know now too
Everyday I go
Go
Go

Round and round
Round and round 
Everyday

A state so conscious
An existence so real
And I
Talking, standing on grounds
with holes 
Wrapped in a chocolate box
I so glad move
Move
Move
Yes move

Round and round
Round and round 
Everyday

I remember 
I still can feel the blinds

I lie
I lied
Will I always lie

I never witnessed anything else than an I
Fair enough, not anymore, 
There had to be a reason 
There was always a reason
Ignorance is sin
Innocence never stays
I lost it 

I lie
I lied
Will I always lie

Suspended now the lie
I know it was the truth
There was no crime ever committed by anyone still
Yet I thought I was wronged
So..........,

I lie
I lied
Will I always lie

Give me a reason
My own standing in my way
I coming back again
To a blind alibi
Devil knows I stole his
soul too
Ha........

I lie
I lied
I will always lie

Set the head rolling
Kick off a brand new past
To find a mood to a natural
or real to wiggle out a future

Do it, do it, do it
The old hag shouts

Abstract concepts die
No words running the sky
In a line I ride
I can I say
So I keep writing stars new

Do it, do it, do it
The old hag shouts

A chain knew
But never the thoughts
The life and
The movement of life
I'm nuts
I'm nuts
Where did I come 
Where did I go

Do it, do it, do it
The old hag shouts

Black crows lie
They fly low and stay hungry 
A fever runs high
I feel the heat
I know I'm alive
Let me love
Let me do
Do it till I die

Do it, do it, do it
The old hag shouts

Where did I come
Where did I go
Set the head rolling
Kick off a brand new past

Feels like feeling nothing
Back on back
Relaxed to take no step

Not together
Not in a life, just a
A process in some head
Your or mine

Feels like feeling nothing
Back on back
Relaxed to take no step

Face to face a
Mirror stands 
A street that promised had
no list,
A wise man follows

Feels like feeling nothing
Back on back
Relaxed to take no step

I am all over
Playing to some storm
Standing by my own
Under celestial music dead

Feels like feeling nothing
Back on back
Relaxed to take no step

Jhoot.

Joothe Tickto pe chute lamhe,
Lamho ko ab sach bata dije,
Laut aaye jo rote veerano se, unhe,
Darwaaz-e-dastak ka ab tho pata dije

Two movies.

Moneyball : ok for watch. Specially if you want to know how an individual took on the establishment in baseball.

Paranormal activity 3: went to the premier; that's 3 hours and money in liquids wasted and time at a chore wasted.

Ch 2: April 1st, I change, but I don't (Part 1)

"Kaia, Kaia" where are you?

The sound of ones own voice in memory retains a vibration; without the nuances of the voice. The voice of memory, is a longing, to re-imagine what is lost, something that indulges in a recollection of the original emotion, while experiencing a compliment with its own beauty. A beauty that is the only purpose of recollection, for now, you could stand detached to the original memory.

Its a peculiar recollection. In it one finds his voice, without the noise.

And it was all noise when I had first called out. I was always agitated when I ran looking for Kaia. The agitation born out of a world turned upside down for a minute, or two, before it regained composure.

It is odd, I never thought of the question itself, I always knew where to find her. Getting there was a problem, my legs never seemed to carry me fast enough. An inconsolable cry, that would, in my certainty only settle when I reached her doll house, or her plant in her garden. Or perhaps I was inconsolable so I could run looking for her? Its difficult to tell now, for the dust has settled on all my fears.

When I found her, we played, we pretended, we fought. She never asked me about my agitation when I got there, and I might have mentioned an inconsequential in the passing. It was a ritual and we both knew what we had to do.

On some evenings, she might come to watch me play. She would make no noise, just watch us play, me and my friends. Everyone would notice her in her pretty pinks. Even then she had the presence of a silent force. Tom, would always call out and ask her if she would play, she would smile, rather dismissively, and look at me. Like a declaration that she was already in her game.

I was rather good, in everything I did. For her it was like she had nothing to do.

Codnt.

Rearrange experiences as what you do next may not be born from past.

The chemist of this planet have kept quiet. They don't like flashy physicist who now talk nonsense.

Can the stone under my foot know how much it suffers? I left it alone on the road where I stepped on it.

Nature began for all. My nature to my neighbors nature came from all nature. Nature is defined as a limit till rationality proves it to be limitless.
Anti-pragmatist are not humans. They talk of humans to be a super man. In reality I have to design my life.

No way out actually gives a way out. Deal with it as it is beyond our control. Free is how the order appears. What appears has to have matter. Sensations too come only from matter. Human touch adapts to all and reduces all to past concepts.

What belief makes or can make:
1) A dead a Sacred Dead?
2) A dead increase it's Deadness?

Ch 1: March 31st - Like a Bubble floating into the air

“You can hide me but not contain me”

I don’t remember if it was an act of telling or permitting. Perhaps it was an act of innocent love? 

But those words echo sometimes in my mind. I don’t remember why she said them; I guess we were playing in the garden then, Innocent.

I remember laughing out loud and daring her, not realizing that she was baring herself for me to see. I wince every time I recall it. If only I had known then what I know now, everything would be so different, or maybe not for the cruelty it could mean. Childhood should never be held against where we stand today; even though the closer we get to the origin the clearer it becomes how far we travel from what we see. If only we were born with clarity. But then do we need clarity when we are born? The sin was not in the birth, if at all it was, it was always in rebirth, something we hold against being born.

I am still holding clenching my fists, wetting the edges of a fragile piece of paper in my hand, reluctant to let air in as I imagined I was gasping for breath. Could it be her? Of course I knew it was her, but when did I know her totally by what she said?

It is sometimes so difficult to know a person without a signature. But this was her signature, it simply read, “Meet me at Smiths on Apr 7^th”. No name, just a date scribbled on the top right corner, March 21^st. Today was March 31^st. 7^th day from now.

This year? I desperately wished so. Yes, desperate is the word and my heart was pounding hard. There was no name, but I knew it was her, I had long known to hope for this letter to come someday.  It felt and sounded much different from how I had imagined it yesterday, but it felt.  Today is perhaps always unique.

Was she dying? Plausible, and strangely that thought didn’t evoke any emotion. Her body I knew had done enough before we parted. She was reborn every day we were together and each day was a lifetime of strain on her.  But I didn’t want any of this to end, this self-inflicted but strangely liberating sense of life. She couldn’t die even if she wanted. She had much more to do and much more to travel and it was always more never less. It was a matter of running even to stand still. But what would an onlooker know?

I know she was not expecting a response or confirmation. She would still wait even if I had not gotten her note in time without an emotion out of place even if I had responded with a denial. She had to be there then, and feel being there with me or without me, every slice of being there was important to her.

I would still write, perhaps. Something might change if I wrote, I told myself. I scribbled back a note, “Smith’s isn’t what it was”.

It was just yesterday that we met, but yesterday was long ago. What is time anyhow? But I am struggling to recall events. All I have in my mind is a set of emotions and images from once. Events were never important anyhow, there are so many of them happening all the time. What you make of them cheat on the simplicity that the events are and they are the keynotes to living.  Only keynotes remain from yesterday.

I had to regain my direction, my senses, those events, those memories, it was elsewhere this world I was invited to visit. I needed no bags, no trains, no money to get there, just respond to the recall with a recall. I was lost, you wouldn’t know it if you were with me for a lifetime, and perhaps I wouldn’t tell. Explanations are messy and tiresome; mystery is more exciting and maintains the chase. I know this too well perhaps. But It was a recall of everything lost, and now was the time to explain and she always made it effortless filling the gaps for you. Believing your story and a willing performer of any character you assign to her. She barely had questions, an occasional “how” maybe, but no “why”. Perhaps because there were no boundaries and no flag posts and she was wary that the why would fall into an infinite abyss? I am inclined to think she knew it all. Perhaps she did sooner or later.

A performer draws from his experiences to create art. What seems to separating art from life is the lack of inhibition on its shores.

But for her there were no inhibitions in life, it was hard to tell when she was performing and when living. It made you distant from her, for you were an alien in her space and you had no point of reference to know her affectations. Her unbearable love was always inside waiting to be given, but who could take it?

I tried. I did. And we parted.

I still am trying, but what it takes to do is always higher no matter how high you scale, then there is the understanding that it’s impossible to be her. And even undesirable, for it might diminish my love for her, and oddly she did not seem to love herself either, she was always looking at me.  I am no mirror, and if I pointed an odd flaw she would laugh and admonish “If I did half the things I already knew I could, I would look to learn something new”. It was true, and I was holding onto a slice of her as I only could, that is before she slipped between the fingers again.

Then again, all this was her as I saw her. She was however, perhaps, different. I hated it. I still hate it. And it is inevitable that I am drawn to love it for the same reason.

I am not helpless. Neither is she. I am not joyless. Neither is she. But in equal measures we wanted nothing we could sense and feel, but know was there, like an invisible shadow. Everything was a limitation and of no value but that changed nothing in our lives.  It was an invisible layer of separation, visible only because of the separation. You could never grasp it all. Just see cheer or leer and stand back smiling.

You could burst it, but not own it, neither was it unnatural in its creation. You couldn’t hear her scream; it was too personal to her and only she could bear the noise. But you know it is love and you can only try to guard it. I tugged to hold on to “what is” while having a vision of what I wanted and she let it all go.

Like a bubble floating into the air. My Kaia.