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.