Madmans Squibbling

After taking a whole O out, the course was nothing but a curse.

The Rut

I have had this feeling since a long time. A lifelessness, a lack of movement whether forward or backward and a will to spend some more days without coming back to life. I knew I was living in a rut, for so god damn long that it looked like the only reality I could relate to and fathom. Instead of pushing out of that rut, which should have happened some time ago, I had kept finding strange reasons to enjoy digging even further. I have often felt like a helpless bird, blown away by a strong gale, despite flapping my damaged wings, trying to move out of its way, only to be pushed backwards. It is not like I had not tried climbing out and claiming an existence, but every effort had ended in me finding more reasons to continue such an exercise even in fail, after having realized that I can't face those who had never lived in it. How do I explain the joy of coughing relentlessly before those voices in my head take over and transport me to childhood? The silence and stillness taught me patience, offered me peace, cajoled me by giving a chance of gain knowledge and not chase material gains. As I looked into a mirror, I wasn't nearly the same person who had wore a cloak of false strength to portray a role in a ruthless society. I wasn't the son or the brother I had known myself to be. Relationships had sailed away as I flowed, ebbed and drowned myself in mystic waters. The hollow nothingness offered by life, a void created by time that had lapsed and a realization of the darkness inside my own black door had not left enough of that same person to escape back from a self built prison customarily designed for laughter and sounds of blues. Secretly wishing death, may be after one more high, I crouched and coiled to fit into the hole.

Give desolation a chance.

Many a days I have passed with gloom and sadness around me and wondered why I have fallen in love with it. It is not depression or desperation but just melancholy that attracts me. I have reveled in rainy and winter seasons when people take shade and protect themselves from harsh weathers, the empty streets and roads provide me with peace from the mad world we constantly find ourselves embroiled in. I have chased darkness and shunned light, preferring to reach the end of the night, knowing I was constantly wasting a dawn. Owls and bats have been closer friends and pets than robins and sparrows. I still carry, although buried somewhere, a zest for life, as we have stooped to live it. I have nothing against happiness or bliss, except that it is momentary. The pain however last a lost longer. In times of sadness, I have often dug deep to glance on those questions and search for answers to things I have feared. The feeling is similar to being lost in a tunnel with darkness on either side, the lack of direction providing that thrill of adventure, while exploring for secrets. Those moments when time stops to look upon me and mock me while I struggle to put two and two together and find a way. The echoing sounds of crickets chirping around me, complementing those screams of anguish inside my head, act as a perfect catalyst to dip me into a hole. A rut is settling in as emptiness creeps inward like a misty fog to engulf the spaces left by those things I have denounced.
Even in a group of people, I have felt strange and isolated, as if I am all alone, unwanted. Loneliness doesn't have a pause switch, though it can make life seem a lot longer. During those times I have looked in places I never knew existed. Sadness acts as a key to those doors covered by layers of happiness ivy. Dreaming of castles of solitude, I wander forlorn with time besides me, hoping to spring hope from hollowness. Isolation breeds retrospect. A spell in a dungeon is more creative than gatherings of multitude. With time and voices as my only companions, I follow that lonely road towards making myself a better person in my own mind. It is during those times, when I can really be a judge of those things that matter and those that don't. I feel vain reflecting on trifles I had used as floats to make my existence bearable. What good is me being present in a pub when I am still serving time inside my head?
Desolation and solitude are cornerstones not only for discovering myself and my feelings but also developing my wit to mask them from others. I have often found humor as a cloak to hide the void inside me. Sadness is indeed introspectively funny if given a chance.

Just about time to turn....

I can think of no good reason to quit. It seems a waste of time to get rid of a harmless monkey and join in a charade to while away life. I had traded so much for those hours inside my head, that I had lost all tabs. It was a lonely and alone journey, either way, a decorated reality or a flawed illusion. There was no reason for me to switch lanes, and cut back to mundane, still, I had to follow those signs. The signs around me had changed or rather gotten hazier, more confused. Some had told me to keep straight towards obscurity, but some however scary, told me to come back into reality.
Though I never really know where I am going in life but there is a resonating feeling or a sign to convince me, that may be, just may be I am in a right direction. Times when signals echoed feelings and justified means. Everywhere I looked, I found hidden and well placed clues of fate. Never mattered if I was going through dense forests or dark tunnels or doors, something was telling me that I would find it. The pieces would themselves fit into place, all I was supposed to do was keep riding the wave. Nothing would ever go wrong, and even if it did, there would always have been a replay button, one last hit.
It has been different these few days. Something always has felt amiss. As if those squirrels tugging at nerves in my brain were being attacked by furious monkeys. There was a lurking fear that times were changing, had to catch a drift and let myself be blown away or stomp my foot down and try to weather ancient storm. It seemed like a game where levels had gotten tougher, time had decreased, yet I wished to complete more number of things. The ceaseless buzzing of a mosquito drowned noises inside my head, as I lay inside a cupboard, trying to justify to the voice that I had to stop listening to it for some time. There were no reasons.
Even after returning back to the horde, I would cherish those times inside my head. There were numerous things to relearn. I was returning to a world where money had replaced books as treasure. Not only would I have to forgo old rituals, but now make new routines, habits and indulgence. Replace innocence with a streak of ruthless, mask it with gentle false pretensions. Devote more time to others.
Before leaving no trails and wandering into unknown, I had to give one real try of coming back to life. Before I helped script another myth of a lost soul on a journey, I owed an attempt at a legend with my psychological Gremlins.

A dark beginning

Its only after I realized that I had to think twice, to confirm, whether I am talking within a dream or a reality, that I felt the need to control the good and the demon inside me. There is a Sal Paradise and a Dean Moriarty in every one of us. One a lazy listener and other a crazy agent.
The darkness had to be trapped. Is darkness a black flame or absence of light?
I had been following those designs never once doubting it wasn't going to be all better. How innocent I was to believe that I could achieve a purity of thought and then go back to the way I had always lived like. A god inside was switched on during the day, the devil filled my ears during the night, overcome by guilt at dawn, it was all equally pleasurable, I failed to differ. There was a choice I had to make, the devil was too tempting to resist.
Inception if it isn't just the beginning. Germination. A tiny idea, evolving, formulating and taking shape in our head. Amazingly enough it consumes my existence. The little game which Jim Morrison had also referred to. Playing it inside your head, where the world within becomes a strange yet simple world. The world outside the window seemed stranger and more frightening, distant. Fearing the heat while making friends with the cold. Detached. No connections, lost like a bird flown away by the harsh winds. Yet hopeful.
"Truth shall find you", signs consoled, "You are just a sojourner". Reading is as much pleasure as listening, but aren't all those voices just an echo. The dark passenger, it yearns to be unleashed, there seemed no harm. Would it lead to the truth? The reality, when all those perceptions are drawn away like sordid curtains to fill our mind with sunshine. Travel that road down inside your head listening to a craving voice.

Peace comes with a price. The path of the devil might just lead to a backdoor of heaven. Truth and knowledge are your companions on the road to excess towards the palace of wisdom.
Was bitterness ever worth the time and happiness ever worth the money.
Would I not prefer a heaven or a hell over any earth, death being common to both choices.

"Wake up! You can't remember where it was Had this dream stopped?" , Awake from An American Prayer by Jim Morrison.

"Confusion
No connections
Come 'ere
I love you
Peace on earth
Will you die for me?
Eat me
This way
The end" ,
Jim Morrison Angels and Sailors from An American Prayer.

"People with virtue must speak out;
People who speak are not all virtuous."
"Never hesitate to ask a lesser person.",
Confucius.

It is indeed strange that I had filled my time with nuances than immense concentrations.

So when the musics over.....

Something wrong, something not quite right,
Something wrong, something not quite right,
It may not last, till the end of the night,
Till the end of the night...
Universe has set the wheels in motion,
Will you follow the path to the other side...?

People around have conspired,
It will happen just as they transpired,
It won't matter what you had desired,
There are no dreams that you admired...

The line around you is moving,
Try all you want but its not stopping,
When will you know...
You are chasing a shadow.

Desperation...
Crossroads of confusion,
Lack of confirmation,
Lets feel lost on a highway of seclusion,
and not live in a cage of bright illusion..

Burn away,
Burn away..
lets live a life,
lets breathe out in the open,
lets shout at the top of our voice,

rot away, before it gets bright,
recording dreams at night,
chasing white rabbits in their flight,
wanting to reach that other side,
Lets live a life...

Give me a hint,
show me a sign,
grant me a look,
send me a book,
catch me on a hook,
drop me a line,
burn me with fire,
drown me in a mire,
set my funeral pyre,
tell me a word,
message me a bird,
Its almost time,
send me a sign,

Dreams will get clear when the end is closer,
The light will fade and the music will soon be over..

A stoner life

He is a lunatic with a rhetoric interior,
Spending life driving pleasure out of drugs and drinks,
He never shaves, doesn't give a thought to his career,
A hedonist grows, while a slave shrinks.

An apartment or a cave,
They look pretty much all the same,
Shelter, cloth and food, his needs are crude,
A putrefying body, a purifying soul.

Longing for love, friends, teachers and loneliness,
He is happily lost on a road through a dark tunnel,
Madness, they called it,
It is simply a will to be weird.

He behaves normally,
As a calm straight hippy,
No desire, no yearning for a pot of gold,
Just a hunger unsatisfied, and dizzy highs to explore.

A shabby exterior he looks upon, gazing into a mirror,
lost, aimless and desperate it glares,
Wondering with amazement at his own earthy form and reflection,
reminiscing sacrifices, as he pushed those boundaries of reality.

Resurrect and polish, they crooned,
Get a hold, join this raging, mad herd,
spend life on collecting furniture, car and money,
carry them to a worthless grave, they chaffed.

To him, life is blissful, yet cruel,
he finds soft death more comforting,
Yearns for peace, and a clear, untroubled, unburdened, unprejudiced mind,
wishing he could show others, what he had just heard.

G..U..JJ..U... gujju !!

It took me a rather long battle to win in my head before writing this. The incidents might be framed or rather fictitious, any serious consideration is deeply forbidden.

Love is in air for our dear Gujju. He has searched for it, begged for it, lusted it, yet never found it, up until now. He ties new bonds, and enters realms of those sacred dreamy promise-lands. That too with a girl. Unbelievable. Believing myself to be the best man, it is an honor to roll in the credits before a silent warrior-within takes on his journey, finally with a pillion rider for his FZ, which he had incidentally bought using my money. This saintly, pure at heart, "gujju "warrior is a picture of resolute determination towards conquering those battles inside his head. The question of "WHAT? WHAT sagar WHAT?" is still being sought for answers. Those scars are deep, they kept him a hungry lusty beast.

We all had our doubts about Gujju. Adi, and I, with utmost horror recall those nightly-adventures of Gujju with SunnyKaBaap. A signal filled with love and a gentle reminder of "its night, lets sleep", was foreplay for a night of sheer terror, for people, sleeping in adjoining rooms, filled with creaking sounds of rusty springs from a battered mattresses, broken by muffled shrieks. Pain and pleasure. Immense ferocity ending in a soft embrace. The result of those nights was a broken back for one and lust-satisfied blissful day for the other. Despite those ghastly, goose chasing, bumpy nights, we now are glad to hear that it had not left a mental scar on Gujju. He is straight but with a lingering back ache. After a lot of pleading and begging for mercy, the lord has shown our Gujju a "straight" road. Love is finally in air.

Gujju is still the machine we all admire, for his neatness and adherence to schedule, be it washing his clothes or shaving his beard. Even the speed at which he eats his food is timed to schedule. It is his heart that is priceless. We, the "Burger Generation", pledge sincere loyalty to him who saved us from starving. We owe our dog-like loyalty and faithfulness to Gujju. He would inadvertently break his sleep to fetch some food for us lazy fat asses. He would feed us water. In case of emergency, we could safely bank on using Gujju's soap, comb, razor, towel, milk, clothes, socks, even wear his jockeys in some instances, when the maid had lifted ours. He wouldn't mind, and even if he did, we really never cared of it then. But now that he is stepping into a new land, leaving a gaping hole in our lives, and no free rides to have cold cocoas, we stop to get a hold of those moments.

Gujju will remain in my memories as an under utilized stud, a gujju stallion with no one to ride. He has seen more action at night with "Lina" and "rikimaru" in forests of dota than in real life. A true geek, with solid interiors and attractive exteriors, more appreciated with guys than girls. A true brother, who carried his own birthday cake from the bakery. A real gem.

My parting words would be stolen from Johnny Depp and altered to make me appear enlightened. "Life is not so much about the destination, which for all of us is death, but the journey, which is bliss if traveled upon with the right companion".

On the Road

"They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!" .. "

This much is true: You can't burn out if you're not on fire. ..

Life is as simple as we want it to be. A draining but purposeful journey, to search for that we call happiness, in our own dwarfish narrow worlds. Craving to expand our horizons beyond those constrained by our vision, knowing those chains that bind us to reality, become a charming burden to bear. A reason, providing fake solace to ones wandering mind, watering the ashes of a tigers wrath into fodder for a trained bull. Misleading us into pastures of prudence, away from cliffs of dreams. Yet we all live, waiting, just like a cigarette butt, glowing for one last moment before it fades away, wondering, whether it will leave behind a black searing shadow on a white surface or a white illusion of ash on a black one.

Madmans Scribblings

World would be a lot cooler if we could all discover the "amazing" inside our heads.

I have the mental scars to prove the predictability of my unpredictability.
It is not me, but the presence of a set of preconceived perceptions about me, that you are talking to.

From Hell.

Dwelling upon those mysteries of life,
I pondered, sore and tired,
Can any hell be more terrible than the present,

We forsake time to save more money,
Slavery, it has become our middle name,
Society, it has bound us, obstinate as a mule,
Television, brings us soft death, every hour

Life's joy,
More fleeting than a comet,
Its pain, stays forever.
Collect those tiny timbers, to make ourselves a boat,
Row across the ocean, hoping to meet an uninvited visitor.

Prisoners own their cells,
Kings cherish their throne,
bloodbath either one has caused,
One gets time for retrospect, other gets a gemstone.
Generals lead us into wars,
Warrant medals for their bravery,
A killer, we take his life away for butchery,
Murders roam our streets,
Vowing to protect us.

Yearn to acquire soulful wisdom,
lead my way through that dark hour,
Death, wild haired, will bring us peace,
unwelcome and undesired,
Myriad of miniscule trifles,
consume our existence,
Cribbing, lusting, we rot, until death finds us.
Where is the child who believed in miracles,
Where is the innocence in simple plays with street urchins,
Where is the will to dream,
To conjure castles, to date fairies, to fight monsters and rescue hapless villagers.
Confined in a labyrinth,
Is our present any different from a matrix, devoid of free will.
For man likes not to travel inside his head,
yet call himself an artist,
Never take a detour, to find universe in a grain of sand,
to lie under the stars,
yet Man has advanced, from living in caves to pigeon holed apartments.

Yet we disapprove of death, our only friend,
Set us free to limitless joy,
Rid us of troubles,
Open those doors,
Cleanse our soul, so we can perceive,
The devil promises infinite, God restrains desires.

Aimless and lost.

"Are you a writer", it asked of him.

No words came out yet. I am a lost traveler, he said to himself. Searching for a thing which should be sought more. May be it doesn't even exist. There must have been people before me, who would have gotten lost. Meaning of life, inner peace, a guiding hand in the wilderness, a lonely charm, tranquility in thought, access to deepest secrets of the universe. The little game inside the gold mine, our head.
I often feel like a bystander on a highway, waiting, for a blue bus. Watching cars pass by. The make, reflected the drivers' soul. Those souls had immersed into a myriad of materialistic obsessions, craving freedom. Life too just like most cars on that highway, never stopped for those who stood and wander. With an irony in the face that it often passes by unnoticed , remembered more for a set of unforeseen calamities.
Looking heavenwards, the sky, it seemed a lot calmer. Clouds scattered across, breaking blue plains with tiny white specs of cotton, yet, thick enough to engulf the light. A gentle cool breeze washing his face, bringing sounds of laughter from the west to his ears. Birds gliding along. Chirping, perhaps asking questions of the wind. A lonely bee, wandering, having lost a scent of treasured flowers, rests on a hook, as it take a break from its search. A pigeon flapping vigorously trying to untangle itself from leaves, branches. It had been entrapped while searching for a place to build its nest.
Universe has conspired. It always has. The idea has been simple and yet never understood. Blinding, to keep everyone searching for ways to make themselves feel happiness, to have an illusion of control over what we call life. A momentary sense of pleasure, to help its secrets remain hidden in plain sight.
Sky is a lot calmer, he thought.

"Are you a writer", it asked again.
"No, I am just a sojourner in civilized society".

Madness or Precision

Each second ticking through,
Presence, was all it asked of us,
Beckoning us to follow a timer sound,
Awaken to an inevitable truth.
Riding a new high,
Waiting for a new sun,
Realizing a futility in reason and judgement, cage that last fleeting glimpse of glory,
Living, waiting for the end to come.
Engulf us, the flames, glazing, gold, a stove of knowledge.
It will burn us, its our salvation.

As it is, ... infinite

Amazement, the smog draws near. To take us to green forests. Peals of laughter, shoulder to cry upon, these friends will lead us to dangers ahead. We travel, we earn, we eat, we love, we worry, but it eventually ends in a shallow bed. Moments of inner peace, reflection, retrospection. Simplicity, thoughts floating like single clouds on a clear day, pale blue. No more quests, no more journeys, tired bodies needing rest. A break from the soft parade. Masquerading as student or teacher, the needy or the helper, the one or the just another one, takes its toll. Draw your eyes closer. Take a dip with us.

We are back. Into a dream. Or is this life?

Unison, confused yet in control. The lack of sense, yet a clarity of idea. Childlike innocence, no more judgement. Hunger. Break the rules by which our thoughts had been bound into a narrow corridor. Enjoy talents, creations, give rise to new elder forests. Break through religions, start a cult. Celebrate love and laughter, swim into a river, whirling and undulating. It will lead us to banks, trails leading us to doors. Taking us through mysterious lands. Feeling the true existence of every moment. With music as our only friend. Friends as our only companion.

The time is up. The parade will begin soon. Grant us one more hour to glorify this day. Shower the time with remembrance. Bring back a treasure before we leave in search of soft lies. Wait for the dawn, draw a mask and move ahead. Yet yearn to be paroled, for forever, before death draws near. Vagaries of life, whether to live now or die, trying to live some other day. Who will remember us? Why are we bound to the eyes that lie and the arms that chain. Is it the end, or do I have to watch this same reel again, waiting for being cast.

Have you been born yet or unconsciously gazing at an echo?

Ship of fools !!

Is knowing as easy as people show it is. The mystery behind knowing it all: It is not so mach about finding the meaning of a doors song, but to enjoy a meaning totally having forgotten the earlier one upon its discovery in a previous ritual. A mirage spawns on every song, a glow of colors, a stage, with a caesaresque-poet, delivering a sermon, trying to lead his people into corners of truth and turmoil. Where confusion is no longer an enemy, but a key to opening any door which could lead into air over an abyss. The excitement, hysterical peals of childish laughter, of lost ways and conversations, followed by sudden and utter silence, unison, waiting for the scream of the butterfly. These secrets are dark, humongous, make you feel lost. One feels restless, like searching for "a strangers hand, in a desperate land." That hand is leading all of us into our journeys. Journey to various places, to find various treasures, to commit mistakes and learn from them. The journey continues, but there is a latent feeling, of bidding goodbye, the hand will set us free, leaving only a chain of thoughts. This message, gets lost within a poster of Scarface or in a city of tall structures, now rubble. The thoughts, either make no sense or have obscured only to be constructed back on a later ritual. I am awake. Or closed to a world of magic.

Madmans Quibblings

The problem is, I have forgotten half the things.. and i was too dazed to remember the other half !! In fact I took Jim Morrison's quote of "learn to forget" way too seriously ... All that remains is a hazy past, filled with long cryptic nights, misty dawns, sounds of laughter in the air, a rumbling stomach and random clues to trips with friends surrounded. Only persistent feeling was that of joy, child like happiness, everything was dazed and confused, and yet simple and exactly how it should have been. Wondrous bliss filled each noon as I scanned my fading memory for which month it was, remembering the day seemed too arduous and ridiculous a task.
All i knew was that the future was uncertain and the end was always near with a past forgotten and a confused present .....

Madmans Quibbling ....

Spirituality is often mistaken for religion. It is not so much about finding a God to worship but finding the God within oneself. Any connection with the soul or an activity that bring true inner peace and invokes contemplation on a superior level could well be Spiritual..

So you think you can tell...

Everything is "written" or so as it is said. Life has a complicated yet beautiful way of functioning in circles. Decisions or choices which are already made are thrust upon us to be re made, simply to make us believe that we are in control. Situations manifest themselves in ways such that we are made to believe that we manipulate the choice we make, in accordance with the one that is already "written", and still feel in control. Are we are the ones controlling and leading our life towards our destiny, or some external hand that is incessantly leading us down the path. If the latter is true, then how much are we in control. Who is the one who "writes" it all down and scripts it ever so brilliant to make the matrix seem non existent. "There is someone in my head but its not me". Brilliant poets have emphasized that when you don't know where you are going, any road will lead you to it in some words or others. Even to the extent that you can not change the direction of the wind, but you can change your course to suit it.

How do you reach "IT" when you do not even know where you are going. Is it a simple case of the aimless never getting lost. Would you trust the invisible force to do justice? Do we own our lives or we are just a medium through which a hidden director films a bigger picture? Can you simply hang yourselves on someone Else's words or in this case, unheard scripts?

I have felt at peace and eternal bliss when i have let the script run its course. Somehow it has felt better when i haven't tried to control things that have happened but rather enjoy them unraveling itself in front of me. I felt in sync. Sync with simplicity and easiness. "No more money, No more fancy dress, the other kingdom seemed by far the best, until it reveals the jaws of incest". Why does Jim Morrison say, he had to set us free, since we will never follow him. He knew something, the magnificent and well read poet that he was, but he couldn't tell it to us. He had been through "The doors" and often come back to leave us clues. Clues that could only help us. It was his job, as a shaman, to help the erring fools bound by material gains.

It was so vivid, lucid and omnipresent, yet unnervingly beautiful that we wouldn't have understood its cardinality. Until and unless we ourselves are the discovers, it has no meaning, no emphasis, no importance, the lesson has lost its meaning.

Jim Morrison poem.

Moment of inner freedom
when the mind is opened and the
infinite universe revealed
& the soul is left to wander
dazed & confus'd searching
here & there for teachers & friends.