Most of them had left. they have asked me to keep few things of them. these things have filled my room and room looks different.
Some of our friends were ill. but now they are recovering.
I cleaned fan, tube light and my table yesterday. dust filled my hands and then I washed them. Wash basin is dirtier than it was when I started living in the room.
I am under the influence of 'Catcher in the rye....' this particular genre is called 'Stream of consciousness'. Like stream of water flowing through tab over your palms, then to wrists and then dropping into sink since it cannot go anti-gravity. Stream of breaths, stream of letters, stream of memories, stream of steam, stream of books and stream of streams...
i am feeling like throwing darts in the darkness. Soon some darts will chase me, like your words.
I am not drunk, but I am feeling elated.
Dart, Dark, Drunk....
I took few things from my friend's room. i heard voice in empty room and then neglected. I can't use those things. there are touches everywhere.
I forget everything sometimes and then remember with one tiny hit.
I am writing like some hostel student writing to his mom, which never really his mother.
I can't send letter to undefined address. It returns.
Else is fine. I am learning about fear, memories, future, others, regions, truth and so many other things.
Evening is little difficult. I cannot drink tea alone.
I write to somebody and at the end of writing I forget whom I am addressing. So I am writing here.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
5. References of Ephemerence
Realization doesn't last long. One who gets one quits the whole game so quickly. There is no fun living once you know what worth it was. But he was alive, and he realized being alive is being in reference to something.
Reference of what? whose son or daughter or student or relative you are? Where do you have your home? What is your education? how much money do you get per month? What do you want to be in some absurd number of years down the line? What book do you read? What sort of clothes you wear? Who is your wife? What movie you watched recently? Contacts in phone book, people who will come to meet you if you are hospitalized, the college where you got your degree and what not... the list goes on until one goes off. Fuck! nothing absolute.... everything is damn relative... understood in reference to something else..
Even this sea has references of shores. He satirically smiled at his own addiction to analogies. Since long back he lived with reference to what he saw himself from some different place than he actually stood. And kept himself providing analogy of some or other story he provided to his life. One cannot lie, means should not, one should tell stories instead. What if one becomes a story, a mix of lie and imagination.
He walked back. Different sounds reached his ears. one of sea waves was loudest, then conversations of couples sitting near shore. He felt like a silent participant into so many dreams around him. He turned into one scantily lit lane and walked till he came before a restaurant. He couldn't enter. He was not somebody who carries thousand bucks and lots of cards and drives a car and has a perfect postured woman with him.
A car stopped near him, inches away. It was some latest model. It's rear shined in lights of restaurant. A handsome guy came out, and soon followed a girl. Her smooth legs went into borders of red dress above her knees. Near perfect buts mingled into flat roads of back. Her hair were meticulously made. In all darkness, her neck shone among black of her hairs. She locked her fingers into her man's. she leaned on him, giggled, her breast touching his body. He put his hand around her waist, and put his nose near to her. Her lips made an inviting movement for a while, for a second or none and her finger with colored sharp nail carved on his chest. His hands moved slowly on her back. They came closer till their lips touched, eyes half shut and hands pulling each other even more.
He walked away. The peace he had touched moments back was all shattered now. He just wanted to be that guy now. He wished to be touch on her lips. He wished to be a finger on her bare skin. He wished to be caress through her hairs. And knowing that he cannot be one hit him hard next moment. He lacked references for such.
He kept walking till he reached railway station. Now his ears are full with crowd of voices. Yellings, calls, bye's and hi's, names, sledgings, breaths, sighs, whistles. Flock of smells captured him. A strong smell of human sweat, perfumes, urine, dog shits, eatables, smokes and faint smell of distant sea. He kept walking through pool of human bodies touching him, shaking him, pulling and pushing him, avoiding him and surrounding him to provide him one eternal reference of crowd. It is metaphysics in action, he noted and erased. Fuck to philosophy!!
He got the ticket and took the train. He stood catching breeze near the door. Coach was full not croweded. What day is today? He just didn't remember. Whatever it is. Why does it matter, he thought. He felt nice being away from scale of time for a while. Whenever he feels time, he feels it escaping from his grip, something always getting late, timing of everything is always lagging behind some moment few slots of times back. This is better, no time. Train stopped stations. he felt sleepy being inside large amount of exhaled carbon dioxide. Now all he saw are heads and all he felt is different clothes and underneath human flesh. He leaned on rod behind him, straightned himself to avoid touches and felt his breathing at his nostrils. Crowd was expanding itself at every station. He sort of started listing touches he feelingh and meanwhile concentrating on edges of his nostrils. First one loose elderly skin looking to be hold on by crowd, then a tight working man hand having metal wrist watch, then hairs of small boy suffocating among butts of crowd, then contracting touch of a girl and then one arrogant shoulder almost hitting him in his abs. Meanwhile he dozed off in his attempts of concentration. He thought of getting down at next station and having something. He was feeling hungry.
He got down at station and swam through crowd towards exit. He stopped for while to see where he was. He knew these roads, these garland sellers, these book vendors, these smells of coffees , scent of incense sticks in the temples, a warm murmur of friends having tea, fast walking priests and old, tired couples walking slowly from the roadside. He thought of one cheap place to eat.
He ordered a meal. H ordered few items more than his meal. He looked at people eating around him and found them looking at him. He just concentrated on his meal. He kept eating, few crumbs failed on his wrist, he made noise while sipping curry, he ate with much part of his fingers inside his mouth and he almost licked his dish. He felt like some animal who is grabing all pray it had hunted. He paid the bill and walked away on some street entering a gloomy looking next lane. It is like web of lanes and addresses are told with reference to lanes next and behind. So when you are searching somebody here, you are like trapped into old magic of lanes. but he was searching no one. He walked some distance and lit the cigarette.
He felt better when nicotine pushed his spirit a bit. He had few continuous long puffs. He had almost forgotten why he started all his roaming. He watched street though shores of smokes. He suddenly found himself being pulled away from everything else. He tried thinking about his friends, his mother,. He tried feeling a connection with somebody. He tried calling on number of a girl he had flirted with long ago. But somehow he let every impulse pass and emptied his mind with that particular thought. Names of some books flashed before his eyes, he tried sticking plots and dialogues of those books to moment he is right now, but that too disappeared. He threw away the but of cigarette. He was all sweating, his heart beats are quicker than normal. He felt like hiding behind some warm and friendly darkness. Silence is pleasant when it has certain termination. He wanted to speak now, but all his word found a counter word and annihilated. To each of his feeling, there came and struck an opposing feeling. Cloud of pains burst inside his head and yet he couldn't call anybody. He see people around him withering. A web of lanes turned into web of his own imaginations and choked him. He sobbed, muttered something with fast drying lips and lost the last thread of consciousness.
Reference of what? whose son or daughter or student or relative you are? Where do you have your home? What is your education? how much money do you get per month? What do you want to be in some absurd number of years down the line? What book do you read? What sort of clothes you wear? Who is your wife? What movie you watched recently? Contacts in phone book, people who will come to meet you if you are hospitalized, the college where you got your degree and what not... the list goes on until one goes off. Fuck! nothing absolute.... everything is damn relative... understood in reference to something else..
Even this sea has references of shores. He satirically smiled at his own addiction to analogies. Since long back he lived with reference to what he saw himself from some different place than he actually stood. And kept himself providing analogy of some or other story he provided to his life. One cannot lie, means should not, one should tell stories instead. What if one becomes a story, a mix of lie and imagination.
He walked back. Different sounds reached his ears. one of sea waves was loudest, then conversations of couples sitting near shore. He felt like a silent participant into so many dreams around him. He turned into one scantily lit lane and walked till he came before a restaurant. He couldn't enter. He was not somebody who carries thousand bucks and lots of cards and drives a car and has a perfect postured woman with him.
A car stopped near him, inches away. It was some latest model. It's rear shined in lights of restaurant. A handsome guy came out, and soon followed a girl. Her smooth legs went into borders of red dress above her knees. Near perfect buts mingled into flat roads of back. Her hair were meticulously made. In all darkness, her neck shone among black of her hairs. She locked her fingers into her man's. she leaned on him, giggled, her breast touching his body. He put his hand around her waist, and put his nose near to her. Her lips made an inviting movement for a while, for a second or none and her finger with colored sharp nail carved on his chest. His hands moved slowly on her back. They came closer till their lips touched, eyes half shut and hands pulling each other even more.
He walked away. The peace he had touched moments back was all shattered now. He just wanted to be that guy now. He wished to be touch on her lips. He wished to be a finger on her bare skin. He wished to be caress through her hairs. And knowing that he cannot be one hit him hard next moment. He lacked references for such.
He kept walking till he reached railway station. Now his ears are full with crowd of voices. Yellings, calls, bye's and hi's, names, sledgings, breaths, sighs, whistles. Flock of smells captured him. A strong smell of human sweat, perfumes, urine, dog shits, eatables, smokes and faint smell of distant sea. He kept walking through pool of human bodies touching him, shaking him, pulling and pushing him, avoiding him and surrounding him to provide him one eternal reference of crowd. It is metaphysics in action, he noted and erased. Fuck to philosophy!!
He got the ticket and took the train. He stood catching breeze near the door. Coach was full not croweded. What day is today? He just didn't remember. Whatever it is. Why does it matter, he thought. He felt nice being away from scale of time for a while. Whenever he feels time, he feels it escaping from his grip, something always getting late, timing of everything is always lagging behind some moment few slots of times back. This is better, no time. Train stopped stations. he felt sleepy being inside large amount of exhaled carbon dioxide. Now all he saw are heads and all he felt is different clothes and underneath human flesh. He leaned on rod behind him, straightned himself to avoid touches and felt his breathing at his nostrils. Crowd was expanding itself at every station. He sort of started listing touches he feelingh and meanwhile concentrating on edges of his nostrils. First one loose elderly skin looking to be hold on by crowd, then a tight working man hand having metal wrist watch, then hairs of small boy suffocating among butts of crowd, then contracting touch of a girl and then one arrogant shoulder almost hitting him in his abs. Meanwhile he dozed off in his attempts of concentration. He thought of getting down at next station and having something. He was feeling hungry.
He got down at station and swam through crowd towards exit. He stopped for while to see where he was. He knew these roads, these garland sellers, these book vendors, these smells of coffees , scent of incense sticks in the temples, a warm murmur of friends having tea, fast walking priests and old, tired couples walking slowly from the roadside. He thought of one cheap place to eat.
He ordered a meal. H ordered few items more than his meal. He looked at people eating around him and found them looking at him. He just concentrated on his meal. He kept eating, few crumbs failed on his wrist, he made noise while sipping curry, he ate with much part of his fingers inside his mouth and he almost licked his dish. He felt like some animal who is grabing all pray it had hunted. He paid the bill and walked away on some street entering a gloomy looking next lane. It is like web of lanes and addresses are told with reference to lanes next and behind. So when you are searching somebody here, you are like trapped into old magic of lanes. but he was searching no one. He walked some distance and lit the cigarette.
He felt better when nicotine pushed his spirit a bit. He had few continuous long puffs. He had almost forgotten why he started all his roaming. He watched street though shores of smokes. He suddenly found himself being pulled away from everything else. He tried thinking about his friends, his mother,. He tried feeling a connection with somebody. He tried calling on number of a girl he had flirted with long ago. But somehow he let every impulse pass and emptied his mind with that particular thought. Names of some books flashed before his eyes, he tried sticking plots and dialogues of those books to moment he is right now, but that too disappeared. He threw away the but of cigarette. He was all sweating, his heart beats are quicker than normal. He felt like hiding behind some warm and friendly darkness. Silence is pleasant when it has certain termination. He wanted to speak now, but all his word found a counter word and annihilated. To each of his feeling, there came and struck an opposing feeling. Cloud of pains burst inside his head and yet he couldn't call anybody. He see people around him withering. A web of lanes turned into web of his own imaginations and choked him. He sobbed, muttered something with fast drying lips and lost the last thread of consciousness.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
4. Awakening
(first three parts are prologue, city: initial verses, dream skeletons)
Bus kept traveling smoothly and he slept for a while as if he is living kind of swift and smooth life he always looked for. life with constancy of motion, life without doubts of if and should, just a life. but it was just for a while. soon dreams came back, resembling the memories he had, like old skeletons in brand new clothes.
'But why you did that?' somebody was asking.
the voice was hurt, pains filled in it beyond any estimation of depth. he tried answering with sort of poetic reality he has assumed for himself and that voice. In poems, reader resides in words unwritten and one's ownership over that unexpressed content and twin relationship with expressed poem make one reader, a true reader. But poet often forgets that such a reader is assumption to express poem, not hard reality on which poem can grow. he too has forgotten. he changed his poems and so reality which kept shaping his poems.
He lured words to fit in the stage he had set for them and to lure them he camouflaged. now he has forgotten his original color or colorlessness.
'Enough of this webs of yours. you cannot balance emotions on threads of your momentary colors.'
That voice was sharp, wounded and stroked him like a whip.
He started fumbling. He tried erecting some temporary clouds of words to cover the unbearable light which was penetrating him.
'you got to answer questions'. voice said, as if it was of stranger.
he knew this point, he had escaped it before.
he uttered 'I answer but my answers are not what you expect or will fit in image you have about my answers.'
voice laughed, a sarcastic laugh. 'you cannot fool me. Answer!'
'I am not fooling. Nobody accepts something as answer until it fits into our image of that answer. We seek answers because there is space in us which needs something. There is space inside us because whatever person, event we enter inside us cannot fit the experience of that person or event. Experiences are bigger than our encounters with them.'
He expected voice to turn sympathetic, showing some congratulating softness. A strange silence followed, silence which has germs of self destruction, silence which deepens chaotic interpretations, silence which let words form shape which is farthest away from their birthplace.
'Is this your answer? Answers are in plain facts which cannot be excavated further. answer me who am I for you? Answer me who are those for you? answer me. '
'You? Those? and how can I tell it in facts. I know no facts except few like my name. And they too are very shallow'.
'You are weaving one illusion again, but not this time.'
'But I do not have defined me and any of my references.'
'But references are what we have about anybody else. We comprehend by references, not by what it is actually'.
'But that actual exists. Reference is one limited dimension of our perception of that real. Real is incomprehensible.'
'So what do you mean? You are multi-dimensional, much more than what your references can tell about you. Aren't you lying? Fooling yourself?'
Voice didn't say last lines, but it was there unsaid, but almost felt.
He kept looking towards fingers of his feet, aimlessly scratching digs, his body was trembling inside, he felt like jumping from a very very tall cliff or crying, tears rolled to his eyes. he controlled them and kept watching fingers of his feet.
'So be with your incomprehension.' Voice marked these words without saying and faded.
Even with disappearance of that voice he was not at peace. Loss of pain is a loss only. Having nothing is not exactly happy.
He woke up. He was alone in the bus. He felt sea-breeze and salty smell of air. He was soaked with sweat. Few drops were lingering on his eyebrows. They were about to fall and light, entering though their dense media was splitting in droplets of brightness and illuminated his eyes. He removed those drops, dried his forehead and got down from the bus.
Sea was in front of him. He knew this places, lot many poems this sea has in it and he has taken few of them. All those poems then formed a collective appearance, took some name and co-ordinates along space-time and dragged his life till here. He looked at sea, he looked at shores which are too distant to be perceived clearly, he looked at sky, where light was making incomplete attempt to define age old darkness. He felt all moments he lived or thought of living collapsing into the one where he was now. He felt every corner was getting folded into the place beneath his feet. It is just now and here and I.
Bus kept traveling smoothly and he slept for a while as if he is living kind of swift and smooth life he always looked for. life with constancy of motion, life without doubts of if and should, just a life. but it was just for a while. soon dreams came back, resembling the memories he had, like old skeletons in brand new clothes.
'But why you did that?' somebody was asking.
the voice was hurt, pains filled in it beyond any estimation of depth. he tried answering with sort of poetic reality he has assumed for himself and that voice. In poems, reader resides in words unwritten and one's ownership over that unexpressed content and twin relationship with expressed poem make one reader, a true reader. But poet often forgets that such a reader is assumption to express poem, not hard reality on which poem can grow. he too has forgotten. he changed his poems and so reality which kept shaping his poems.
He lured words to fit in the stage he had set for them and to lure them he camouflaged. now he has forgotten his original color or colorlessness.
'Enough of this webs of yours. you cannot balance emotions on threads of your momentary colors.'
That voice was sharp, wounded and stroked him like a whip.
He started fumbling. He tried erecting some temporary clouds of words to cover the unbearable light which was penetrating him.
'you got to answer questions'. voice said, as if it was of stranger.
he knew this point, he had escaped it before.
he uttered 'I answer but my answers are not what you expect or will fit in image you have about my answers.'
voice laughed, a sarcastic laugh. 'you cannot fool me. Answer!'
'I am not fooling. Nobody accepts something as answer until it fits into our image of that answer. We seek answers because there is space in us which needs something. There is space inside us because whatever person, event we enter inside us cannot fit the experience of that person or event. Experiences are bigger than our encounters with them.'
He expected voice to turn sympathetic, showing some congratulating softness. A strange silence followed, silence which has germs of self destruction, silence which deepens chaotic interpretations, silence which let words form shape which is farthest away from their birthplace.
'Is this your answer? Answers are in plain facts which cannot be excavated further. answer me who am I for you? Answer me who are those for you? answer me. '
'You? Those? and how can I tell it in facts. I know no facts except few like my name. And they too are very shallow'.
'You are weaving one illusion again, but not this time.'
'But I do not have defined me and any of my references.'
'But references are what we have about anybody else. We comprehend by references, not by what it is actually'.
'But that actual exists. Reference is one limited dimension of our perception of that real. Real is incomprehensible.'
'So what do you mean? You are multi-dimensional, much more than what your references can tell about you. Aren't you lying? Fooling yourself?'
Voice didn't say last lines, but it was there unsaid, but almost felt.
He kept looking towards fingers of his feet, aimlessly scratching digs, his body was trembling inside, he felt like jumping from a very very tall cliff or crying, tears rolled to his eyes. he controlled them and kept watching fingers of his feet.
'So be with your incomprehension.' Voice marked these words without saying and faded.
Even with disappearance of that voice he was not at peace. Loss of pain is a loss only. Having nothing is not exactly happy.
He woke up. He was alone in the bus. He felt sea-breeze and salty smell of air. He was soaked with sweat. Few drops were lingering on his eyebrows. They were about to fall and light, entering though their dense media was splitting in droplets of brightness and illuminated his eyes. He removed those drops, dried his forehead and got down from the bus.
Sea was in front of him. He knew this places, lot many poems this sea has in it and he has taken few of them. All those poems then formed a collective appearance, took some name and co-ordinates along space-time and dragged his life till here. He looked at sea, he looked at shores which are too distant to be perceived clearly, he looked at sky, where light was making incomplete attempt to define age old darkness. He felt all moments he lived or thought of living collapsing into the one where he was now. He felt every corner was getting folded into the place beneath his feet. It is just now and here and I.
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