Sugar Love.

Love that will not come
Love inside all curled up
Love of the two year olds
Love of a teacher
Love of a preacher 
Love that dares
Love of a knife that slits clean
Love believed when in puberty
Love of candles
Love of a boy who freaks out
Love of pitiless nights
Love in waiting of seconds
Love in random car ride
Love of almosts
Love of clipped wings
Love in a belly
Love of fading footsteps
Love outside living
Love to be reading about
Love in morning muscles
Love shaped in new words
Love of a bored wife
Love of half baked gods
Love in celibacy kicks
Love of sexists
Love that wants itself again
And again
Again
Again
Making me live
Opening me up
Making me come closer
Closer to closures.

Time.

Ask me what it is

I know and I don’t know why

Driven from a past into a future

From instinct to make love

To the drive of sex

They are me

Connected to life

From seconds that moved to hours

To memories and the contemplation

Past remains in the present, as I see

I ask myself of my events

Of the one-way motion

Carrying impressions, of being

To survive, to a purpose and its end,

From a birth, turning around

Not in a life that began in a sperm and an ovary

The sun and its heat, its light

When it was born, I was born, in time

The events aren’t a puzzle, moving in time

Always connected to a birth, in a past

A past that remains in present, in future

In a small needle hole

In a snake, that has never existed

No, that could never be the cause

The events have been personal, not the sounds, voiced - unvoiced

To all the blood that flowed in wanting to make puppets

In whatever faded away and disappeared, a nothing made to nothing

I cannot see it anymore

Neither can you evaluate

Jaws clenched, fists in a prayer, ready

Light comes out of my eyes and travels into space

That is how it moves

Ask me what it is

I know and I don’t know why

Why?

Why aren't I in love? Why don't I unearth my heart? Why don't I climb in of me? Why don't I drink? Why don't I smoke? Why don't I sing and dance? Why don't i lose my shadow? Why do I look at the sky? Why don't I look at the cloud; the wind that moves it? Why don't I punch? Why don't I spray? Why don't i wait and write? Why don't I wake up? Why don't I wake up? Why don't I wake up? Why don't I laugh loud? Why don't I travel inside? Why don't I love? Why don't I shoot? Why don't I be human? Why aren't I in love?
Smokes rises, outside in flooding thoughts, full of scars and wounds. Imaginations stringed too close, stars that look at us have died long back. I am still here, asking why aren't I in love?
I was,
I am,
I will always be.

Into this...

Into this, the beauty held itself,
The dance in her breast spread in all spaces,
Life came into this, corners curled, kneaded gently, hearts became the hands.
So much so for what was fear, she walked through it, into this.
Haven't we heard this before, the feet can dance, the wings can fly, songs written from dreams and pains, life came into this.
I think of you, of strength, of your pieces that made the hands pump and eyes look up.
Into this.the rains will come, into this the flames will fan the passion, into this...

What I want about me?

I don't know.
Why we need to know our self,  need people, relationships,  want to be careful, be safe? We experience fear, take care of family, never want to apologize. 
We want to trust. Deal with fakes, and find true love, nobility. 
Imagine the emotions raging through us, within us, the entire range, depending on the premise our mind functions on, surviving with or without guilt through our actions.
Could one defend greed? Yes. 
Could one base its philosophy on greed? Yes.
So on and so forth with all emotions, can be defended, philosophized and argued upon. 
Feeling safe, to be trusted, to trust, are our basic urges. 
How safe do you feel and with whom?
How trusted do you feel and with whom?
Who would you trust entirely?
Could I close my eyes, see what face hits my perception the very second my eyes close, whose name do I hear first? 
Then what do I do?
I don't know.

Yoga

A possibility of letting go the power of choosing exists every millisecond. The dream wakes up every morning. The desire goes to sleep every night.

The Little Boy.

The little boy looked at me again and this was after many years of mine. The treads of his eyes contained all my journey traveled.The dust on my shoes from my journeys spoke of my mortality and his immortality. The little boy looked again at me.

The Dimension Called The Dream.

A dream has to have a trigger from the real world. 

The trigger too has to have an agent from present. Dreams from such triggers leave no trace when I wake up. The agent could be from a recent past, but that past too has to have some recurrence in present or some emotion of future. There is nature of the dream that tells it's a dream to me while dreaming and these are dreams that are common place, that don't remember or need to be remembered when I wake up. 

Then comes a dream, that lingers on for some time after waking up, it takes some time to brush it aside because the agents that triggered it come slowly to mind, the mind thus indulges in some limbo before it can wake itself to the daily grind of waking state in real world.

Then out of nowhere a dream hits you, it comes and engulfs you, it grips you as if that when you wake up it takes a lot of time to regain senses and still its losing continuity with opening of eyes is not considered by the mind. The mind cannot or refuses to give you the agent that triggered that dream, but this line of thought starts much much later. Till that questioning hits you, there are series of emotions that have to be dealt with. Emotions that stain each action that you want to engage in your real world. The grip on reality seems lost and I am at loss as to how to exactly put it in words. 

Dreams for one which makes us realize about dimensions, how many are there in real world and how many can be in dreams are what we indulge in. I don't want to get into the scientific explanation or mystical explanation of dreams here.

But when a dream whose triggering agent is in past or a future (one says future, only after the mind gives up trying to recollect the past from where the trigger could've come from) hits us, we realize that they (dreams) could be itself a Dimension that has triggered the evolution to take such a course. (The concept of evolution I think is a paradox as I am free to choose to dream and build a dream.) 

The Kiss.

The flame teased the dust, it threatened too, to burn it by dawn.
The dust too laughed as it still bargained for a kiss from the flame.
Was the dust a seeker, was the flame divine, both were though empty, both in love, drenched in the silence of the night.

Sleep.

Sleep now...the sky above you has let go of noise and din and light to help you rest. So rest for the day that the sky promises to bring.

What do I say of this day
How can I close my eyes to this night
I don't know what do I do with this body and its name
You gave me, it's yours thus it's your name too.
Your questions are yours, your answers are yours, if I travel inwards, I only reach you, if I travel outwards, it still remains your play ground.

Stains.

Stains in consciousness live, are immortal, they survive centuries and travel through genes. Such are my stains too, that will survive my mortality. It does not matter where the die is cast or the colors are spilt, stains travel mysteriously to my consciousness.
Your consciousness merges into all as in some love story that waits to return to its own home that is mine. When it returns, it comes back  with stains of love, with that of hate, with anxious breaths, with people and their guns, their personal hopes and conflicts, their joys and their laughter.
The stream is endless and so are the hues. As a child I called these dreams, I still think consciousness flows too in dreams. I am sure you see it too, you see me too, but you see me as you.
This is how we connect through centuries, this is how we remain immortal, our stains thus never die.

It would be nice
To be born as a sea
Pick up a storm
And then forget
But the children still talk
About their boats
Sailing before the storm
The raven though wise
I saw it lost to the child
In me
Who asked
Where is my God

The Inverted Bell Jar.

The Priest raising the communion host during mass in a Maltese Church calls out Allah, as that is the word for God in their local language.

To mock is no FoE. The demand for immunity from society in Obsessive mocking in whatever forms of art is an irrational demand.

The struggle in pain often leads one to express this pain in an art form. Mocking a belief/section of society temporarily relieves the pain.

As any drug, mocking to relieve the pain also becomes obsessive, to the point that it makes the hurt permanent and the abuser a fascist.

Sylvia Plath in her poem Daddy says - ""Every woman loves a fascist... the boot in the face.""

When someone wants to kill itself, it first desires to kill someone else. That desire leads to self-slaughter.

History has innumerable instances where men committed suicide to prove a point to the society at large. This is Altruism at its worst.

These altruists who laid down their lives for some cause or pain always finished grand, saying "I died out of my own choice & place & time."

Thus the Bell Jar was actually inverted and that too to only keep the feelings/emotions trapped in it. The other way round, it couldn't be even named a Bell Jar.

Twitter Notes.

A few of my tweets ---




The Walk Came or Rather Stumbled Upon Silence As it Met Its Purpose.
#Quote




I have a Secret Fear (we all have), this secret fear haunts me, mocks me. It keeps the child in me alive. It feeds me to force me to think.




The skies don't guard the cultivated fields of Human Hands.
The Human Mind that Reasons does. #Quote #CharlieHebdo




We know about pain.We know about fear. We know when we choose not to Name any recess of our Mind, it's because of Fear & Pain.




EVERY NIGHT HAS A MOMENT WHEN THE STARS SHINE THEIR BRIGHTEST. EVERY DAY HAS A MOMENT WHEN THE SUN SHINES ITS HARDEST. #Metaphysics #Quote




Women from birth have their jobs assigned, rather from before their birth. They don't revolt against this. Why? #Question




May be not all is well with my neighbour. May be not all is well wth my neighbour"s neighbour. May be they think same about me. #AWorldatWar




There will always be a beyond to what my/our eyes can see. Beyond the horizon of the valley that I saw must have been one more valley. #Poem




In total darkness, when the eyes had no use at all, whatever I touched to hold myself, I felt my heart beats in that touch. #Metaphysics

Here comes the evening once again,
Long would be the night,
There would be time of death, just as usual,
I would be cold,
There would be ghosts,
But just like yesterday,
They too would be killed
By chirping birds of dawn,
Candles burning,
Reminds me of me in my morning,
When I was thanking to be alive.

Here comes the evening once again,
Long would be the night.

Love Ends.

Love ends.
Does this sound like the grandfather's paradox?
It does to me because I think Love never ends and neither is hate it's opposite.
We hurt, we cheat, get cheated, lie, say truths, sacrifice or not sacrifice, build us temples and all this once we stumble upon love, once we do, we look or don't look for values, flowers and springs and rings.
Everything that we do, we do after discovering love, so can we go back in time when the love never came into being, but if we did that why would we go back as the love never existed till it came into being.
Love always brings us to a point where we say to ourself we need to do more and there are physical changes that makes us realize us our vulnerability.

So does Love END?

Guilt.

Discovering guilt is difficult or impossible for one's own self. Guilt hides between smiles, tears, arguments, altruism, loyalty, sympathy and self talk.
A change has to make a thing simple, if it does not simply it's not a change, just being different.
Guilt does not require a mental disorder, it leads to one. Being optimistic and being loyal to relentless movements in wonderland are signs of guilt hiding behind unloved parents.
The arrival and departure most of the time go unnoticed. And I now feel sorry for writing this.
  

Trust.

Yesterday I moved because of trust,
today I moved because of trust,
tomorrow I will keep moving because of trust,
I could never handle trust, so I thank trust for handling me...from ashes to ashes.

The Story Of A Nerve.

I had a nerve,
The nerve activated
the self preservation
mechanism,
The nerve was destructive too,
Suicidal and crazy,
'Why me?' thinking to
the nerve, which knew
nothing of feelings.
I stopped asking.
I had to keep trusting it
though,
it was fatal and
I was on a theory.
I hid myself, it made me, or not.
I tried numbing,
it made me, or not.
Either nerve made everything a nothing,
Or just a mess in my brain.
The nerve tried saving me, it did.