Thursday, June 30

Silence: The Discipline

As I sit on the floor of my room lugging my eyes on the screen of this laptop. I wonder, do I seriously need to speak to express myself? Is my voice just another sound among a million others?

Hello everyone. Hope my previous post has been forgiven and forgotten. It will take me some substance to make up for such smack, but I will try my best to bring forth something at least good.

Silence is beautiful gift, a surrender, a sense of control. Silence, in terms is who we are. There is a vast expanse, a sea of humanity before us. We are one among them. Most importantly, we are one among us. But it's no just one, it's many one. A lot of times, we have a thought, and just seconds later, there is a counter thought, and then a third party view!

In my view, it's important to silence that inner noise, bring forth a calm, a serenity, something that's born inside. A better phase of the Aatman. I would put forth an example. A Buddhist monk can practise silence for months. He/she does have a whole monastery of animated life, and is very animated him/herself, but there's a very different, a very natural animation in each movement. These monks are trained to practise silence in the long terms. They have successfully gained control of the inner noise. That's a very real definition of discipline; that which comes from within, not that which has been forced upon us, or that which we do by hindering.

Alright, I know, I know, the practise of silence may also seem like hindering oneself, but when you have taken a vow to be silent by your own will, and can't seem to keep it, I would suggest you to start with a few minutes, then a few hours, and if you feel that there's not a need to talk, or are alone, you may try a day. Just be sensible and think about it, ninety per cent of the things we say in a day are pure buckets of poop. If we poop as much as we talk uselessly, we leave behind a lot of heaps of shit to be acting as manure, and that much of manure, my friends only spoils the crops going on the soil of our mind.

The art is not in what to think or how to think. It's to stop thinking when you don't want to, stop talking when you don't need to, stop all this noise from being accumulated and creating the negative energy all around.

Silence can be best learnt from a musician. They give their voice long hours of rest, train it as much as it requires, but use it sensibly. They know how to communicate without words. Sure, talking is a very good means of communication, but once it goes beyond a certain extent, it becomes an addiction, and that addiction causes mind to wander, to think without desire, to wander, to get lost, to drift, to view, and to form a counter view!

Now I talk of to many people, who are trained, who control, and who are not the old fashioned ne'er-do-wells as ourselves. I'll bring another character, apart from the Writer, my dear dear friend. This dear friend is The Student. She is frustrated, tensed, scared, and irritated like any other student for no obvious reason. Our dear student boards the morning metro, meets her friends, talks crap, goes to school, talks crap, goes to cram school, again talks crap.... What happens about it? She is frustrated because she thinks to much. She thinks too much because she talks too much. And then she gets lonely. Because she is addicted to talking, she needs someone to talk to. She can't be silent. And this isn't just the student, it's your colleague (Sam, I guess), or your mother's dear friend, a mohalla gossip queen (Pammi Aunty). Hell, it's everyone around you!

Why make it a problem? Enjoy being Silent! There's nothing wrong in it. We don't want to be the student, talking because there's noise inside, because there's no space for silence, to place for vacuum to exist in the universe! Imagine how close we are to mental breakdown, to a black hole, to something which not only absorbs us, but also destroys us. Save your dear soul! It's who we are, sentient beings, who have a pure side to ourselves. And silence, being a virtuous trait, brings us a step closer to ourselves.

Peace out!


Wednesday, April 13

The Writer

Hello Readers, lovers and... people(?)

A month waking up after my drug induced sleep, yet calling for another week for a haunted phantasm. Live a life! Nay, can't seem to. The phase is forever transitory. Going from one place to another, without knowing the destination. But life is an ever transitory phase. Guided from one sublime state to another. But it is in the transitions, that glass is half full.

Yes, can say my mood is happy, but can't seem to care. None-the-less. This might not call for a frequent post. No green flag, for all the poles have been broken. As a matter of fact, life is like a flowing river. We can't change the course, the currents and rapids are meant to occur. What we can do is, go with the flow. Rest... nothing better could ever be.

I am currently, working more on the philosopher me, leaving the warlocks of pen and paper to rest, and besides, as a writer I can't seem to get much happiness. Today, I shall introduce you to my dear alter-ego, "the Writer".

The Writer, is a bit of a lunatic. A crazy fellow. Consider, the Writer never combs hair, nor wears clean clothes. Often, the Writer, uncaring of one's vision, finds excuses to forget the use of spectacles (unless very grave call). As a matter of fact, the crazy Writer doesn't really seem to have a sense to differentiate between hot and cold, between clean and mess, between clear and unclear. In fact, the only sense a writer has active is to hear words, remember them, use them, give birth to them.

The dear Writer is a queer fellow. Never seems to be understanding what is wrong or right, but has an own opinion as a measuring scale, covering all of one's own faith count, often revolting against his other messy haired and terribly clothed friends.

A commoner's dictionary may be of 10,000 words but Writer's dictionary is of a 100,000 words and never ceases to hinder it's growth. That is because Writer is not a commoner. Writer never stops arguing, and is most often; a terrible speaker; for could one express in terms of spoken word, one needn't write.

The Writer wants to be misunderstood. It's the only way of proving oneself as the greatest of one's generation. Coming to think of it, any work which has been fully understood is criticised. That's why the Writer hates the one that was just written, and drives oneself sick working on the next. The only war the Writer wages with his fellows is to find the most complicated plot left out in the history to pick up, and the fact that the plot is mostly kept a secret, until published. Once understood, consider the mission to be failed.

The Writer is always told by the "well-wishers" that the vocation one chose is wrong. And that is what makes the Writer more committed to writing. It's one's only chance to be proven the greatest, to be the one to accept the gift of never being understood.

The Writer is always stereotyped. Is it hygiene or just the way one is dressed? Because clearly, the Writer doesn't care of the "fool's opinion" of life and has an off beat view to every minute detail.

The only work the Writer can not criticise is Ulysses. For this one work, no writer for generations to come can figure out completely, hence, the book remains still a hit, heating arguments among literates here and there.

My dear friend, the Writer. If one gets famous, one gets lost in transition. If one fails, one gets lost due to starvation. The Writer becomes depressed due to sudden setback, for one's books were never understood, and hence never appreciated. But convinced, that the Writer is the greatest of one's generation, the Writer celebrates with a toast. The best part, it's not just one toast. The Writer, if a good one, dies. The Writer, if a bad one, dies. In the end, every Writer dies.

So... That was all. I hope you might have appreciated my dear friend to the level one deserves for the hard work put forth.

The Displaced Frequency, looking forward to bring forth such interesting characters to you, time and time again. For, this is the one off-beat track. In Frost's word, "the road less travelled by".

Peace out!


Monday, February 28

A Fusion of Existence: Middle Void

Heys and lows readers and lovers!

The Displaced Frequency is expecting a critic (finally) apart from the appreciators and is hoping for the best, prepared for the worst (I'll get someone to actually tell me about what all I write here, and pretend that they actually "read" it. Counting the fact that I'm not an important writer as of now, and don't intend to be a writer, but just a seeker).

Now, whatever am I to talk of today? Let's see, I've talked of death, I've talked of unrest (and a lot of it), I've talked about the message of hope and faith and love, I've talked about what lies deep down under survival, I've talked of my biggest mistake and the road to self elimination.... What else have I to say? Well, it's the thirst to fill the empty spaces that drives the mankind to a step further. I mean, we wanted to fly, to fill that space in the sky left out by birds, we have planes and helicopters. We wanted to fill that spot left out by moon, we have sattelites. We wanted to fill that space left in this ever expanding universe, we have Space Stations. Coming to think of it, we seek a soulmate to fill the empty spaces left between our fingers and hence, we land up to this queer notion, called love. I can write helluva over the topic of love, but even Rambo has a romantic notion, so whatever we do, it's love itself. Even the love of hate is love.

Today, I talk of emptiness. And no, I'm not kidding.

(Random note: Okay, since I can't find words to start writing from, I open my friend's facebook page, browsing his wall and come across this pencil artist from Brazil. About some time ago, I left a message on the webpage of the greatest writer of Brazil's page. Maybe it's a sign. =) And by the way, if you are reading this, Thankyou. If you're not, doesn't matter. I still have hope to meet you one day, ever since I read The Alchemist.)

Now, nothingness is a very certain void. It's this space we have within ourselves, between the heart and mind, between the wrong and right. Void, is bound to exist. And it is there. The universe consists mostly of vacuum. Consider my uncertain head. I'm obsessed with civilisations and cosmology. No kidding, but it might seem weird, as Stephen Hawking being a religious saint. But somehow, the Naga Sadhu image of Hawking prevails. He worships the Universal law of Gravity by writing about in in The Grand Design. We may claim to be atheists, but we always have faith in something. Even if we have faith in the Nothing.

I mean, consider Inception (the greatest cinematic masterpiece). It talks of how human beings are uncapable of thinking nothing, and hence, it is easy to ellude them (this is my perspective).

There's a very popular chinese legend, that of Yin and Yang. Now, Yin's this feminine aspect. This really thoughtful energy. She is receptive, lying horizontally (in an obvious curved way) to the earth, absorbing. She is calm, moist, resting smooth and flowing. She's cool. Yin, symbolises earth and water. According to the legend of earth, the Earth is seen as a holy mother.

Yang is the masculine side. He's active, in a constant action. The process of evaporation, the vertical, stable and dried warm in the sun. Men are less receptive to feelings, Yang, evaporated is less receptive to all the factors it might affect. It's meant to rise.

It is due the fusion of them life begins; and they begin, from what lies within them. Between the two lies the void. And empty space. The Middle Void. Even in the perfect fusion, there remains a nothingness. Nothing is complete without it.

I'd like to quote Rumi on this:-
Outside, beyond the right and wrong, there lies a vast field.
We'll find each other there.
Let's get absorbed in this field of nothingness and find each other after losing ourselves. After, the surrender has manifested itself as a silent miracle, filling our hearts with peace and serenity.

Peace out!


Tuesday, February 22

The Surrender: The only Road to the Suspension of Self

Hello Everyone,

How are you? I have (somehow) managed to take out time these days (whoever studied for English?) and got back to who I am. As in, blogging, and writing, and preaching, and selling faith. Actually, everyone sells something for some price, I sell my ideas at the cost of peace. I mean, I feel peaceful after letting my mind be see through.

I'm going to tell you all something very very weird. I was supposed to be dead by September 23, 2009. It is on that day when I got so tired of life that I had slit myself a little too deep. Yes, I was an emo kid, I used to wear black, I used to hate life, I used to hate living, I used to run away from everyone who loved me. I was an emo kid. Rather, a Gothic kid. A typically furstrated emokid. Anyway, I was supposed to be dead on that fateful day. I had almost died on that day. I had slit my vein so deep.

Why did you do that? I can hear you say.

I couldn't live with myself. The reason what everyone has to take such a step. Now this might seem quite like a paradox. But it is true. I mean, once in our life time we start to acknowledge the existence of this self, and we need to eliminate this prospective. At that time, I didn't know the difference between the I and the self. But when I had taken that step, I felt like I had fallen into a deeper hell. My loved ones trying to save me in some way or the other they intended to help. In that timeline when I was (supposedly) dying, I asked me the reason and had given the same answer, "I can't live with myself." But if I couldn't live with myself, that means there are two of me. But since I'm always addressed as a "one-piece", it's only one of them who's real.

Then I was gripped violently by this realisation, as if I have been taken by storm within me to a sacred place where I was being healed. I mean, I'm not aware what was going physically around me (my wounds were rather medically healed) but I am aware of whatever had been through my mind. By a sudden violent, but careful force I had been absorbed into a vortex leading to the void. I embraced light. I had an awe in my eyes. Seldom do people regain the innocence they lose in their life time, I had regained it at the right time. I saw the world like I have been here for the first time. I used to cling to my mother as if I'm a newborn. I never acknowledged the value of this woman in my life. I paid attention to each and everyword I heard, as if I'm just getting the meaning. I had started my life from a rather basic age again.

And that was it. I had started the process of elimination of self.

Now, how do I recognise the self?

It's a quite easy process actually. The self has worldly knowledge. A child is innocence only to the age of 5 (and this age is ceasing day by day, I fear). Then from 5, the process of schooling (something I totally sympathise about this modern age of Kalyuga) starts. We see friends (newly), teachers, homeworks and this self sprouts as a zygote, a nebula,  an embryo. This self begins from childhood, wanting to be something, to come to notice, to get a star, to learn counting, to learning alphabets, to winning in a race, to showing a certificate to mum and getting words of appreciation.

Then comes the prepubersent age of 12-13. The self becomes obsessive. Wanting to be a rebel in the eyes of other, wanting to do something different, wanting to stand out, wanting to see impossible dreams, fighting for subjects, arguing with parents, complaining about the system, suggesting the changes (which cannont be made).

When adulthood comes, this self wants a house, a car, a life, an identity and serves tooth and nail to have an idea of "class" (the self has been around to realise what it means to be in it). The self works day and night to earn an idea. This self gets married, has kids and then goes on  working hard for a "future" (which is actually beyond a human effort).

Finally when this self has retired and when we're left with the induvidual (the I) we realise that it's too late, or I am nothing. Many have realised that there was no point in being a cog in the wheel.

(Note: I am NOT saying to go to the Himalayas, be nude, make love or do drugs.)

I went to realise the self a little before the age came (thankfully) and set out to eliminate myself.
So, I sent out some men to fight,
And one came back at dead of night
Said he'd seen my enemy
Said he looked just like me
So I set out to cut myself,
And here I go...
No, not my words. But a basic introduction to fight the self. This self has expectations. I'm not saying that the self is doing wrong. The self is right but what do you think?

What do you mean what I think? I mean, it's a paradox!

Okay, do you have control of your brain? I mean surely, it's your brain that has control over you. Now this might again be a paradox, But it's your brain having a control over you! If it's impossible to believe, let's just have a test. Can you stop thinking? No, you obviously can't! I mean, maybe for a moment or so, but not completely. You can't surrender yourself to the moment. Even if you are silent, the mind is continuously thinking and if someone asks, "what are you thinking?" This self intentionally suspends the thought, knowing that the expression will bring out the induvidual and suspends it by saying, "nothing" or something that the person would want to hear (or a self assumption).

The Suspension of self. A thousand yogis, a dozens Paolo Coelho-s, a hudred Eckhart Tolle-s, countless spiritual leaders (including my personal favourites- Budhha, Osho and Rumi) have taught us to overcome the self in their own ways and we follow their ways but we fail to realise that the induvidual is prime. The induvidual is pristine. It's an innocent child. The induvidual has the capability to eliminate the self, but no two induviduals can counter the self in the same way. (The exact reason to why two astral travels are never alike). We need to work on our own path.

We buy a particular book, read a particular article, keep track of a particular blog to keep the "self" fulfilled that the induvidual is satisfied with this outlook of the world being presented, but the induvidual never got a chance to grow beyond 5. The induvidual needs to be brought out of it's cavern of solace. The induvidual needs to draw out that final sword in it's enemy, to cut out it's self.

The other day I was talking to a friend and the same ranting continued, "dude, I can't score marks."

"Leave that be, what would you do of marks anyway? We only need to get through this class. For a college, there's always the ol' faithful board."

"But my parents have expectations."

"And what about you?"

"Me too, obviously!"

"Then why did you highlight your parents' before your own?"

My friend is silent. I go a step further asking,

"Moreover, why do you expect?"

"Because I have the caliber."

"Then why didn't it come out by now?"

My friend doesn't like this attack. The ego of this self has been hurt. Now, here's the best way to identify this self: the induvidual has a rage; the self has an anger, the induvidual has a sexuality; the self has a perversion, the induvidual can't even cross the road without being awestruck and appreciating the miracle of life; the self won't mind stepping on a bug or two...

I can't really help people in the process of fighting with the self. This is something that only they can do. I can only be Pester John's mirror, reflecting upon them. At the end of it what I have to say is, don't be this or that or any of your rants. Just be. The process of being is the prime supremacy, the surrender, the suspension of self followed by an even longer and harder process of elimination. At the and of it, you will realise that it's not "I am with me" or "I am for me". It is that "I am." No trail of dots, no trail of thoughts and no absurd words, I am.

Peace out!


P.S. Desperately wanting to do a crazy experiment with the blog, could use suggestions.

Thursday, February 17

The voyage

BY THE LAKE PIEDRA I SAT DOWN AND WEPT IS ON A VOYAGE! A copy of this book is on it's journey. WRITE YOUR NAME IF THAT PARTICULAR BOOK COMES TO YOU. (You'll know it cuz it has the link in it).
First name: Neetu Datta (Me)

Sunday, January 23

All for a change

ey everyone,

The Displaced Frequency will be undergoing spring cleaning soon. So just give me the CRAZIEST ideas for almost anything. Layout, title, my profile photo!!! I'm willing to follow almost any idea that comes to me as unique. How about ideas for some new posts?

Right now, I'm suffering a brain-drain. No thought in my head, no idea of life, nothing! So... this is what I suppose I'll do. I'll write a short story that I had written once (I guess last year or so...).

The weirdest thing about it is, that it ain't got nothing to do with the title. It's a fictional narrative about this normal person's friendship with a weird person, it's called, Goobye Enya:-
I met Enya today. It had been quite a while, almost 2 years. She had changed, evolved. Despite our friendship for 7 years and the fact that we were living in the same town, she never cared to let me know her adress. The other day I recieve a text from her to see her today evening, also saying that there might be no other chance. Naturally, I was bewildered. The girl never cares to let me know where she is. And she calls me her best friend. But then again, I always seen her in another world: drawing something on her wrists, writing away in her diary, using a camera to capture any damn thing, singing something to herself. She was so normal in her own weird way.
Her face is the most outrageously ferocious one. She has always been the wild child of the wind, hair scattered over her face, so like the clouds over the sky. In anger, her face flushed red like the big hard sun. She could pick a fight with anyone and end up winning it all the time. But life had won over her now. Enya, was calmer, quieter and and more peaceful. As I enter her apartment, her playful smile and "waddya want?" expression in her eyes greet me.
She never wanted to leave the place she so loved. I hold her hand, assuring her as only a friend could that everything is alright and she just nods and gives me a no-worry-on-tomorrow smile. But despite that hard attempt, those piercing eyes and weird piercings, her features had kindled to a great extent. She wasn't the same Enya who had pushed me during that buji jump. This newer Enya couldn't even step on a bug. How would she pick up a brawl?
She starts packing again. She has packed everything except for a pullover. She said she'll wear it at the airport tomorrow. As I look at the pullover, it's the same as I had given her once on one of her birthdays. She kept mending it for years while I knew that she was there. I'm shocked she still has it. She wears it again, despite that perfect Massachusetts summer, looking directly at the Boston skyline. She seemed to be promising it of an unfateful return.

"Why are you going there anyway?"
"To know where I came from Mimi..."
"And what do you know about em'?"
"Nothing?!?! Well, how the hell can you be so comitted to people you don't even know?"
"Mimi, they're my family."
"A family you don't even know?"
"Mimi, bloods in your veins. It just is there. It don't need to know food. It just takes it in."
"Enya, sometimes I don't get you."
"Honey," she hugged me so sweetly for the first time in my life. Her voice seemed changed, more polite and inclined to a weird sweetness. "You're not the only one."
"Get your hands of me slop!" I say as she would've said if I ever hugged her. "Does Angelus know?" Angelus is the man she loves.
"No? Enya! You LOVE him!"
"And that's why I won't tell him. That would just make him uspet!"
"Kill me... What's gone into you?"
"Mimi, you won't get the gist of it. We're peace. So be us."
As she ignores the details I ask, tears start filling in my eyes. She had changed, softened, became more fragile. I saw her in anger, I saw her in despair, I saw her bewilderment, but never her fear. And she was beautiful still in her fear... She was the beautiful I needed to be to have the world beneath my feet and hold my head up high like her. But this new Enya... The world wasn't below her feet and our heads were at the same level, her still bowing lower. I remember her wildness, her craze, her gyspsy features being overtaken by domestication and making amends with life. The tears start getting more intense. I am crying now. I can't cry! I'm too young to give up. I rush out of that apartment. This isn't the Enya I had befriended. Rather, the one who had befriended me. There was a different girl and I said to her... Goodbye Enya.
The END! Now... how'd you like it? Yes, it's original, it's mine. So OPEN TO CRITISISM! Let me know through comments and stuff. And NEWS ALERT: There would be no entries in February! I repeat: no entries in February. What? I have a life too you know. A life outside blog, outside facebook, outside cellphone! So, I'll check in for the comments though (keep em' comming). And do suggest me something whacky.



Sunday, January 16

Death: A Dear Friend

A very morbid title. Isn't it? Nay, not so.

 By the way, Hello Everyone! Hope that I've reached you all in good health and good time. I don't have much free time these days, and definitely no time to mourn, my life these days is a total celebration, full of jive, color, love and music. No time to look at all that makes me sad but then again it's the perfection of thought that is imperfect, and that brought me to this simple communicating device.

A Very Romantic Death
 About death, really the thought isn't frightening. What are we going towards? Why are we aging? What is closing to our ends? It's the same dear friend that has followed us time and time again, warning to touch us at a certain time, till when we are alive. But nothing lasts forever, why is it so frightening to feel something so real after which there will be no feeling left?

I somehow tend to talk openly about the topic of death, and hence, am taken to be a depressionist. But that's rather a realist statement. Nothing is so real and so true as death for it is destined to meet us in a good time and at a good day. There's nothing depressing about it. Nothing is so fearful as death because that's the basis for every fear is death itself. For example, fear of dark prevails as there might be death closing by anytime unaware, the fear of thunder because you never know where it might strike. So like death itself. But the angel of death is our everyday companion. Even when a stranger has assured no harm, the fear of death always remains to be and the fictious world of reality seems to be dreamier than a dream.

Many a times we complain how nothing is going right in our lives. But yet we are too frightened when death shows it's presence. No matter nothing may be right in out lives, our love for life is just as great as our complains from it. We want to rise time and time again to a bliss that we still exist. No person, no matter how much of a daredevil remains so after they have felt that the hand of death lies nearer than the cellphones in their pockets.

Is there a life after death? But then again, is there a life before death?

Many mythologies (Aryan, Egyptian, Greek, Babylonian) talk about a life after death. The Egyptians left the riches as they might come in handy in the life after death. Some others talk about a cycle of life and death going hand in hand. We are born the moment we died. And hence in this life, we only survive.

The angel of death roams behind us in the loneliest of our times, it's hand intervening with that of God, possessing our time, all that is there and all that is not. Leaving little to imagination, it isn't cruel or brutal, it is just doing it's job. It is ensuring that we live each and everymoment as it comes. The only music in my life yet is a lecture and the colors come from the covers of textbooks. But I celebrate each moment as it comes. Smiling and thanking God for each breathe I take. I don't leave the few joys to be done till tomorrow: apologising if I have offended anyone, accepting a grace, giving a smile, thanking anyone to whom I am to say so...

I belive that thanks to the fact that there is a death, I live and love my life as it comes. Now as I risk the fact of choking on the delicious food put up in front of me (by the grace of my dear mother) I bid farewell to everyone. Much love!
Peace out!

Saturday, January 8

Rumi and the true Story of Faith

Hell-low under again Folks!

The DisplacedFrequency's been going under duck-loads of displacements off-lately and less time to post, (dear readers, don't take it as I'm DEAD!) and have also been unactive for past two months. Reason? Well the rest of November went with my Ma's birthday, my own stuff, the month of December went in tests and the month of January went in celebrating New Year BUT... January ain't gone as the displaced frequency's born to a new life. Hey, that's why I'm so awesom to ya folks. ;)

Jalal-ud-din Rumi and the mystics
 Jalal-ud-din Rumi's my favourite mystic of all times (along with Bulleh Shah, Waris Shah and Osho). Now why do I like his poetry? Clear as crystal, it's nor far fetched, it's sufi, it brings a person a step closer to his/ her own heart and it really doesn't need a language to be spoken out. The words of Rumi are the words of our own. The only language Rumi ever spoke wasn't Persian or Arabic, rather, it was the language of love. Rumi taught us the Passion to Live.

I don't know whatever brought me to read him, well it just did, I just read him. As a personality, I endorse the fact that there's a God. I believe that there's a destiny. I believe that Life is. No, it ain't a struggle or a celebration, it just is. And that's the clearest thing Rumi taught us. God is. Love is. Rumi and his words are eternal and have lived through the ages. Even in this world of race between a heart beating and a system procession, Rumi's words can melt  silicon.

There are many incidents, stories to "why" did Rumi ever start writing. One of them's my favourite version, the one I am to narrate:-
 Rumi became a scholar and a mystic came to him when he was sitting with his pupils and his books by the side of a pond. The mystic threw all his books in the pond and transformed Rumi's soul. Spiritually, the process of transformation includes exchange of spirits between two bodies. No, that LITTERALLY ain't the thing that you might be thinking. Transformation means that when there's a true connection of the soul. When you've crossed all the borders and boudaries and reached a stage where noone needs words to talk. But when his mystic friend died Rumi became hysteric and spun for ages and poetry bled out of him (Litterally, that's a mental illness. eg, Schizophrenia is always described as the world dissolving, and the poetry bleeding is obviously the poetry being recited by a "madman").

The first verse I ever ready by Rumi was:-
Come, come, whoever you are,
Wanderer, idolater, worshiper of fire,
Come even though you have broken your vows a thousand times,
Come, and come yet again.
Ours is not a caravan of despair
And it's in this first meeting that Rumi took me with him by surprise. It's clear as crystal and easy to understand. Rumi is who we are. In fact, Rumi is the originator of that spinning sufi dance (the stage of his hysteria, he spun for an eternal age).

These stories about God, about those who had faith, might seem weird and far fetched. For example, when Bulleh Shah was a child, his mother told him, "if you pray, God will give you jaggery." And the lad prayed for the sake of jaggery. But when his mother died, the whole town knew that it was to be the day he was going to lose his faith.That day, after he was done praying, the entire room was filled with jaggery... Wierd as it might seem, but Faith is. Nothing you can do to help it. It might be there, it might not be there but it just is. Were words enough, to be there we wouldn't really need eyes to see and hands to feel. All the broken hearted and all the open wounds need some faith, sometimes a little more than medicine to heal. In fact, that's why I write mostly spiritual that there would be at least someone who'd read it and think about it, reflect upon his/her own life, and choose life time and time again. There's no point in sufering with our own self. Let's all spend a moment to take a deep breath and rejoice over existence and all that Rumi taught us. In his own words:-

I died as a mineral and became a plant,
I died as plant and rose to animal,
I died as animal and I was Man.
Why should I fear? When was I less by dying?
Yet once more I shall die as Man, to soar
With angels bless'd; but even from angelhood
I must pass on: all except God doth perish.
When I have sacrificed my angel-soul,
I shall become what no mind e'er conceived.
Oh, let me not exist! for Non-existence
Proclaims in organ tones,
To Him we shall return
I have been an atheist, I have been a disbeliever, I have been a satanist, and then I met God. His path is the simplest to follow, and the easiest to believe (that's why people find it hard). I am not eternal, but I am. To me, my faith is my headstone and my destiny is my smile. I fell in love with life all over again, and now as I write this, I thank ALL those who have ever read at least one post of this blog to give my words a tinch of importance. I think it's destiny that brought us down to this bottom line that we are connected by this little proof of existence. Thankyou all, really it means a lot to me. =)

Peace out!