Saturday, October 6

Nature of Events

Perhaps the greatest bafflement to human civilization is “what now” but it’s a rhetoric question. Isn’t it? Hey, people, hoping you all are as awesome as you’ve been. I am at the moment too lazy to make up an excuse for my lack of posts. But then again, I couldn’t be a little less nonchalant (I prefer the word honest, though). That and I doubt if serious issues are within my range of thought to cover. So, lately my life has been a decent dosage of some minor education, and a lot of learning going on. Perhaps, it’s a superpresence in the experience again which makes one more aware, and thus results in more learning.

So, today, I came across one of those Mad Men episodes (God bless YouTube!), the one where Roger Sterling (the white haired immature funny twack) took LSD. I always found the nature of drug use peculiar. I mean, okay, say what you like, but the basic reason as to WHY people take drugs remains just a very basic “want” to experience previously unexperienced dimension. Look around the 60’s (the best time period, and all who existed back then and lived to see Woodstock, know that you have my envy) and you will see the fact that the basic essence was of a revolution, creation of ideas, Athenian/ Bohemian lifestyle. Any idiot was free to move around reciting poetry or doing something as peculiar. The fact behind that was a deeper introspection and a demand for social freedom. Now, to experience the fact that it “could” be there, the Utopia that they wanted, the basic freedom to be independent of systems, and requirements… that wasn’t there, but they wanted to know what it was if it “could” be like that. The need was to experience the “what-if” moments.

Besides the forbidden nature of what I would comprehend, drugs also resulted in some of the finest music/ artistic/ literary/ poetic/ philosophic bits of that particular era. One favourite that I would take the trouble to talk of, is Jim Morison. We know his heroin addiction and his glorified death at a very young age. But then again, he experienced what wasn’t there, also, there was this lesser known Doors song “Heroin” with the kind of background music which would glorify the affect of the drug. Jimmy Page, is another example. I do not mean lyrics, but he spoke a very different language altogether. If one goes by the nature of the movement of the strings, they can meditate upon a very personal dimension that influenced him. Page had a history behind his bits.

A funny thing was, that these people took drugs to understand the nature of what could be or what would be. They took it, they made artistic and intellectual contributions (that have been attributed to them under their Wikipedia pages, and the pages of their respective biographies), but then again, there wasn’t much of a contribution to the general society. I mean, that time period did bring a huge idea into existence, which has already been practically applied before, but also it brought about a separate idea into being that one can make much of a thought. Also, a thought which was pretty useless in the long run (debates upon the topic are welcome).

Somehow, the nature of drug usage doesn’t hold much appeal to me. I would like to put forth my views to the readers about something that isn’t permanent. Now, what I feel normally about these things is, that drugs can take you on a wishful thinking of the perfect paradise, but it doesn’t keep the paradise, and when you’ll snap out of it, you’ll see that your perfect palace in the air is standing on a cloud, and now that it’s time to rain, your palace HAS to fall. That’s just not it what the basic existence of your paradise is about. No! Your paradise is yours. And it has the right to exist. Especially in your own dimension. If you need an external crutch to place it there, it’s just not being fair to your own self. Think about it, if the nature of thought isn’t strong, how can it be an opinion?

Mind is a very complex device. It thinks, it understands, it interprets, it forms and yet it is also being present. But, the thought and an anxiety of wanting to feel that again, it kinds of cut you out of the present world, and that’s when you question yourself. “Is this what I wanted?” “Is this alright the way it is?” “I don’t like, I don’t have to live with it.” “I do NOT have to live with it.” “Is it even real?” “Is that really me?” Your philanthropic castle suddenly encloses you in its gates refusing to open, and you literally pray for the storm to come and blow away the cloud, so that you can jump to the abyss, except for, this abyss won’t take you higher.

I do not believe in fiddling with the mind. That’s being unfair to your own thought. Think about it, just how self focused you can become in a way that is self destructive!

I never tried drugs, nor do I want to. But I have known people in my school to indulge in drug usage (though they were very much too-young-for-it) and the other things that I didn’t understand the reason behind. Part of the reason why people go to drugs is the lack of education. We say that, this is heroine, you shouldn’t take it/ this stuff is forbidden/ it’s off limits/ it’s addictive/ it’ll kill you. Well, even Aspirin is as lethal. But instead of giving them reasons on why they shouldn’t do it, it’s better to say what it is, what effects it has, and why it has a certain effect, a positive effect that it can have, an alternate way to have a similar positive effect without the side effect (which I will mention). That way, you give an individual a choice, that way, and let them know what it will be rather than having them to dwell upon the “what-if”.

An alternate to drug use is meditation. Well, the reason why they are consumed in the first place is to experience bliss, or a previously unexperienced dimension. If proper meditation is conducted with all the means and measures that it is meant to be done with, you can understand a wider reason to what a short lived fantasy is about. That, and your castle in the air will get a chance to stand on a firmer ground. I mean, as I talk of it, I myself have underwent a meditation program which is a seven day program followed by a forty days progress cycle by the IshaYoga. (Yes they are commercialised, but at least they have something to offer that can help. Damn capitalists!) They call it Shambhavi meditation. I tried one of those modern meditations, but then again, their effect is very short lived. These people give you a very Vedic meditation which is (in my opinion) a longer lasting effect, and also, a core changing point. Also, to each their own. You can go for self hypnosis, or one of those recorded journals. Either way, their effect is to register your thought and have it noted. Not controlling it. We control it in our day to day life very subconsciously. The only way is to let itself free, but still know what you’re doing. That’s what you’re trying to do through drugs, Jodie. Let yourself free!

This timeline, the 2012 period of the century we exist in, has given a lot of bizarre events. Probably, most of them is what public hate, the disagreement between generations, everything going public, nothing being personal anymore, that there is not a corner on this planet which is remote anymore (at least the landmass, we still don’t know much of the oceans), and the only thing that we don’t know is the nature’s camaflouge (she has “problems”), and all sorts of unimaginable things. Thanks to the modern technological media, we know that everything is connected to everything else. In fact, we are moving too fast in time, right now, and we don’t know where this cycle will end so that the next cycle of events can take place. This particular time period is pretty much like the spreading of continents looking for lands to occupy different lands. As if, now that we have the knowledge, we might just as well as take whatever we want and define boundaries between us and them, and we are facing nature’s resistance, and some out of us telling us that our forced control is wrong. Soon, we’ll fight among ourselves for power and resources, after which there will be a huge disaster and a meltdown, thereof. Coming to think of it, the economic crisis is directly in resonance with the event of establishment of empires in foreign countries, also the melt down which initiated the First World War. So, in this one year of awareness, we are torn apart between a conservative outlook of privacy and a modern pull out of openness, and we are existing in the middle path of this even. While some are struggling to maintain the conservatism, the openness has more theoretic takers than the practical ones. The psyche is weaving a thread of thought around convenience and that’s where we are, what we want. It’s a castle in air that we are very consciously placing on clouds but not on our clouds, on someone else’s. It’s always easier to fall on someone else, isn’t it?

I am not elaborating upon the mechanism of working as of now because the nature of the thought is very much of a long and boring diatribe, also, it is very much still unconstructed. But as far as I can think of it for now, time is moving in a symmetry to itself. The universe is moving in a symmetry. They say Woodstock is a once in a lifetime event. Look at Greek Bacchantes, or the Indian Shamans! There have always been replications at different time periods, so what we consider as a once in existence phenomena is a recurring thing. It has happened and it will always happen, because that is the nature of working. Just the nature of observation is alter, because, one hadn’t experience the event in those ages, so they took it for something new, just as we might. But that’s the nature of human thought! That is the way mind works! It has always been there, and it will always be there. Period. The existence is a very recurring phenomenon which is always beginning and always ending. Some might consider it never ending. The modern physics still struggles on the nature of time, though.



Tuesday, April 17

Circus Of Fostered Notion

Usually this isn't so stressful to think. Except for moments like now. No. I'm not talking about an emotion, a feeling or a joust. I'm talking about rapture. Stark. Naked like expression, flowing in the wind, roaming about frenzy in a will to be embraced by any damned that extends his hand.

I don't have any idea what to write of these days (on blog). Social commentary, no matter how raunchy and interesting, but still becomes lifeless. Moving over to short story, well mum says that my sense of expression (streamline of thought or a cynical diatribe) is a bit too dry (as it is meant to be) and hence devoid of the true essence of expression, which she believes is emotion (I do not agree to that, though). So, I think I'll start commenting about random things (that's what I do on twitter (@NeetziDelta. if you'd like to know), and it works there) and silently wait for criticism and judgement.

I believe we all have an idea, which is from an external factor. It influences you, ONLY if you let it become an inspiration, if you let it enter your mind through other ways. It's like those few things which you can't get out of your head. As if, this child possesses a key to your house and comes and goes and roams about his/ her own will.

Once, in the middle of a concert, such an idea came to me. That band (my favorite, POTF), had put up their show, but as usual, they spoke in poetic yarns, and most of their songs focus around carnivals, circus, and wonders (in a diatribe of the kind of lives we lead, moving about a yarn for our own selves). So, that's where the idea of circus was firmly planted in my head. Coming to think of it, a similar experience was there when we were studying this poem by Shakespeare, "All the World's a Stage". A minor character, Touchstone gives this jest where he compares human life to characters of a long term play.

The poem was somewhere when I was thirteen and the concert was in November '11. But, that feeling, that eternal carnival remains... I don't know. I wrote two poems on it (I never share poetry on blog, so don't even ask), I wrote a diatribe (not really worth a post) and went on about a rant. Now, I think I'll rant about an eternal circus here too. PAY CLOSE ATTENTION!

GREETINGS my audience and I your humble entertainer, the light above me shines brighter than my own bright tone of adress to you! And Jesuits, among other bards, you are welcome to be entertained as well! Yes, step right up folks; be prepared, for everyone's on to be entertained!

Here stands the Ring Master! THE ONE WHO HAS POWER O'ER THE LION! The Circus works at his command! He is the one, and the all, his pride and his noted over the top laughter!

If you look over that corner, the world is feigning with laughter (and delight), the mirror of madness, and colorful tresses of the clowns, the jests, the fools! Ay, no show can beat that wonder of the clowns, my friends, and hope you won't agree more...

There's more to today’s evening, as the clowns proceed, to your entertainment, the mimes have agreed! Devoid of color and full of expressions, yes dearies, they are the meaningful dementia! They move silent and rampant, among you in riddles, figure-it-out or what? They are the moral sins, for how quiet and deadly and addictive they are... A ROUND OF APPLAUSE!

But look above and look up wide! The acrobats, my audience! Yes, up there, doing wonders, and down here, twisted and bent and smiling, and pleasant and full of awe they are...

Together this circus puts up a great show...

It's just like any other conversation, right? Waiting for someone to decipher it. Got the guts, my audience?



Friday, April 13

On Feminism

Step raaaaiiiiiight up folks, we got some business coming up. Don’t miss this show for anything cuz you’re eyes are all there to see the clown with the poise, NEEEEEEEEEETZI!

I kind of like circus and clowns. =P

Hello folks,

Why I like clowns? Because they are entertaining, they don’t care how ridiculous they are and what not? So, a friend and I were having this conversation. She was kind of sad that I’m on my writer’s block side, again. Of course, it’s the lack of content that drives me to this side of the line. So she says feminism. Alright, the first thing which comes to my mind is “female chauvinism” because that’s the take it becomes at many annoying moments, but yes, this issue is still strong.

I mean, well, I’m not a feminist. In the lines of the gender race, I don’t support anyone. I’m supportive to whose write, because everyone has a right to a valid opinion. In fact, in most cases both are right. However, it’s kind of exasperated. I mean, let’s face it, women get raped (even nuns!) and monks are forced to see disgrace. Things are on for both sides of the gender. More vividly and more sad for women, though.

It saddens my heart to see that people don’t care anymore. Bad things happen and there’s nothing we can do about it. I mean, we spread awareness for an issue, and damn, all those who can read/ write/ hear/ see/ understand/ feel know what they have to know, yet there are some goddamned things we cannot help. In many countries women don’t have right to vote. In my own country girls are killed the moment they are born.

We live in this world where women are taught not to be raped instead of teaching men not to rape. And IF it so happens that a woman gets in trouble, there’s this excuse that “she asked for it”. Well, okay, if she was outside a nightclub passed out, and in the red light district, maybe she shouldn’t be that drunk, but what about that Buddhist nun who was raped in Nepal? And here’s the heart of religion, she isn’t allowed to be a nun anymore!

I live in Delhi, and I hate it (more than any other place in the world), because they say that I’m safe if I get out of house before eight in the evening. After that I’m on my own. So, which means, If I’m out at seven fifty five in the evening, my safety is taken responsibility for, however, at eight five, it’s not. Isn’t that actually kind of the local security force?

My childhood passed in tranquility and peace of all the goodness in the world. My parents didn’t commit that crime of telling me fairy tales. They kept me on extremely kind and real ground level and I have been brought up under the goodness of the kindest of the moral obligations. I’ve been taught that look at the moment, the feel and then take my own decisions. I was never given a book of rules commanding what’s right and what’s wrong. Somehow, the fact that I’m in the world’s greatest democracy, and I’m only taught to be “in my limits because I’m a girl”, isn’t quite right.

I never support feminism, no matter how many atrocities are committed upon women. I have a valid point. Women suffer because they want to. They never raise a voice. They never set the limit, in the first place. They entertain a man’s ego and foster the damned beast. After all, why do they allow themselves to be dominated? Her idea of love becomes his idea of dominance and thus, the world goes on. She fosters the monster, feeds his ego, waits till it becomes a balloon, leaves him rampant on other women to suffer, and then cries silent tears on her own servitude gone waste. She wouldn’t leave, she just can’t. She has moral obligations, parents, society, kids. blah. The bottom line is, she’s NOT willing to take her own damn stand, and that’s where the feminist workers come. Really women, why do you have to be so insecure? Why can’t you just kick those nuts in the first place?

Anyway, I know this futile argument always trails off here. But here’s my last line, “you do NOT have to live like this. Period.”


Tuesday, April 10

The Broken Cinderella

Here's poetry. I wrote it sometime back. I'm going to... bore you longer with what's to follow. It's called "The Broken Cinderella". I'm going to present it as a prose piece. Do tell me how it is.


She was happy, she was blessed, and she was elated. No one knew Cinderella was there, but she had no one to turn to, except the ghost of the father. Oh sure, it's the diatribe of the wretched ball: The "Royalty" and its morosity. But there was a desire, deep deep down which was a result of the haunts of a submissive rebel. No one to turn to, but the witch who spake of a spell, that would last till midnight. Her company all these years were the animals she had fostered with love, for no human would love her for who she was. Her insecurities, despite just how privileged she was, in terms of looks and intellect. Financial insecurity was a cripple.

She allowed all her life to be dominated, but this one decision she took on her own. She dared to defy the stepmother, the step sisters, their ever surpassing glory, only to fulfill her selfish desires. ONLY to shine, because she knew she couldn't. But deep inside, Cinderella was a crystal doll... a shattered crystal doll. Here she had nothing to carry, save the magic of the blessed witch, her rags, which were elusive to the coquettish as fashion, and rare and very aesthetic glass slippers. However, something had gone wrong with them. They were weak; they held a silent promise to break any moment.

No regrets, thought she. I’ve been brought up in isolation, and the regret has been borne far too long. I was a rebel, and I stand at the same spot again, I won’t let my will be shattered by my glass slippers.

And the music began, along with the rants of many women who were there. It became a comfortable tension, something she could take. Inner peace. There was some magic in that moment, and the music started, inviting the dance.

The music changed its course. Soon it was waltz, with an elated heart; she surrendered to the music, and swayed with rapture. However, a crack was sensed. Why did I come all the way? Thought she. The dress developed a minor rip, memories of the past and loneliness and death had come down to haunt her, and the glass slippers had developed a crack, all on the same night. In her heart she was beckoning to her prince, to seek her out, to accept her for the poor wretch she was, for she had not a penny to spare in her dowry. How dare she dream beyond her social standard?

Further movement is likely to cause damage, she realize that she should stay where she is without inviting any more trouble. She was looking her best, she was alone, but she was glory. She had finally bloomed. And in her gorgeous attire, no matter how frail may it be she loved the feeling of being herself. At this moment, more than ever. Suddenly, music went a few notes higher, but Cinderella was served by a more lucrative desire: the handsome Prince. His grace spoke of a more prominent language only royalties could.

Came an idea, as genuine as inspiration, as genuine as love itself. She started fostering the belief, that she shall meet him, sooner than late. She felt no compunction upon allowing her heart to be overpowered by infatuation. The tender Cinderella had fallen in love. And true and unbound as this desire, she was ready to fare him well, for she felt that if her love is true, it’d come back to her.

Began the waltz, and the Prince turned his eyes around the room and saw someone breathtaking. The dressing sense spoke of glories and fashions, her shoes spoke of frail antiquity. Her petite frame, big eyes and prominent features... Of course, who’d choose a town maiden, when there was a royalty present all for his eyes to see? Began the endless waltz; in that familiar tune; leading further still to the remnants of an endless continuum. The cracks of the glass slippers grew, and with each step Cinderella took, the shards started spreading its way across the floor. Hear this tale of the fleet of glass, and the blushing floor.

Silhouettes of the haunts of the past lives danced in the ball, in a mechanic infinitum, the world suddenly was drained of all the color, spare one.

A beauty with tainted grace and ever prominent patience, Cinderella bore the pain, only to be led by desire, only to give into sin, only to surrender to pleasure. The prince was charmed by the redness that surrounded him, that wide Carmen smile, which healed all the pains that the similar red of a… A carminative. What did the word mean, anyway?

However, Cinderella was haunted deep under that entire dazzle. The witch had already told her that the spell would last till midnight. The afterhours of madness had held both of them tied together.

Carminative… It seemed so wonderfully to describe that sensation of internal warmth, that glow, that physical self-satisfaction that came only by the taste of the lips of a sweetheart. It was intoxication, as true as the true wonders of alcohol, Carminative held the similar meaning. Carminative, the prince looked to meet the lips of the beauty he held in his arms, he held her by the threads of charms and chasms in a moment of frenzy, in the true glory of waltz.

Alas the fairy tale has lost its charm. She was ready to let it all go; it was just a mere fantasy. Carminative, each and every syllable of the word rang clearly in his mind. He imagined vaguely… it had something to do with carmen-carminis, still more vaguely with caro-carnis, and its numerous derivations (oh! The royal education, the barbarians!), like carnival and carnation.

Cinderella shrugged, but smiled, for all the Prince cared to see her lips flushed red with carmine dye.

She broke away from his embrace with a smile, and only looked over, to memorize each and every feature of that grandeur of his presence. Carminative--there was the idea of singing and the idea of flesh, rose-colored and warm, with a suggestion of the jollities of mi-Careme and the masked holidays of Venice. Carminative--the warmth, the glow, the interior ripeness were all in the word. Instead of which... At this point, Cinderella broke away from the embrace, for the clock had gone twelve, and the shards of glass had already gone inside her feet.

Sadder still, the true meaning of the word had hit the prince along with the abrupt leaving of Cinderella, the true meaning of the elusive carminative had hit the prince like a sledgehammer. Windtreibend. Strange, the charm of this one woman, who drained him out of logic. A mere attraction? No, it was genuine love, or an idea as appealing. But not a glass shoe left behind, not a trail of the strange visitor. But committed was the prince to find this new beloved of his.

 Every house in the Town is knocked; hopes to find her prevail, still.

The memories of this diatribe shall be rendered by isolation, motivated by regret, in hope of every moment, never to be back again.

Monday, April 9

Just another conversation

This blog consists of poorly written first drafts, secondaries which are meant to avoid, grammatical errors and many other things. And it makes me feel rather grand (in an overrated way) that I’ve still not been corrected. That means my material is so strong, that the style of writing is ignored. Well, can I be a good writer now?
Anyway, I had read this fact somewhere that while writing our brain processes at the rate of five hundred words per minute, while talking, it is a hundred thiry five (or some such) words per minute. Thus, best conversations (in my case) happens in therms of texts.

So, I had this conversation with someone on an open forum:-
Koj Toa: "Neetz I though you gave up two posts ago. But in order to clarify things around here I shall say this:

Every person is unique in his or hers own way. This is true because everyone of us (humans) has a different life experience and looks at life with a certain view. Even though views can be categorized (optimism, realism etc.) every certain person is very very different from the next one. We may do the same things. But we don't do them with the exact same mind-set. :)"

Neetzi Delta: "Кој Тоа I allowed myself to be judged/ categorized/ whatever-ed. To think I'd do something like that? NEVER. That, dear sir, is a crime against my own being."

KT: "Neetz Fedora D Well of course people are going to judge. It's in our very own nature to do such things. Look at it this way. We are nature at its finest; we are nature that has become self-aware. Can you understand the implications that this attitude will bring? First among many, trees are like brothers to us, because when it all started it was one organism that spread and went on separate paths. And life on this whole planet came into being from just one organism that evolved. So it’s safe to say that we are part of this organism that is the planet and all life on it.

Dear lady, the above text might not mean anything to you. But, understand this. People are going to judge... Why you might ask? Well it's really simple. When people judge, they are judging themselves. They are describing themselves to themselves. When you say that someone is mean or nice or whatever. You are expressing whatever is inside you to the other person. But mostly you express it to yourself. As you will soon discover that every word you say during your day is of great help to bring about greater understanding of oneself. So actually it's okay to let people judge you or anyone else, because in that way they can realize for themselves who they actually are. Hope you enjoyed reading this."

Neetzi Delta: "Кој Тоа You got some wisdom. =) One word in reply, but after this diatribe: Writing (as you might know) is my fortay. Off lately, I've been trying to follow this trail called aniconism. But, here's a twist. I'm not judging/ describing/ doing anything to the character, yet readers make an extreme mindset (which is correct as to my imagination) that what the character looks like. It's fun, really. I don't write for a specific audience or something, neither am I perfect in my art, for art holds no pedestal known as perfection. But yes, describing detail without describing it needs vast knowledge of expressions and feelings and insights.

Word is: Jung. This one guy, told us to rise beyond judgements inorder to focus on what "eyes cannot see". Bible mentions that the blind can see. What they see is a deeper insight. I'm not Christian, but knowing things gives a vast scope of application. Without judgement, we only broaden our horizons.

In case this prolonged diatribe curtails further conversations, I wish you well."

Anyway, I haven’t checked that bit yet. But I enjoy a nice conversation which involves some thought. Really, I don’t know why I’m sharing it. But yes, it’s something which was cherished at that particular moment. I mean, all right, as I describe diatribes, I believe that they curtail responses. I say so, with a valid reason: I lose the gist of conversations while leading a general path to the forbidden foray. Since vacations have brought an obvious writer’s block, all I have to offer is this conversation, and begging for some ideas: WHAT TO WRITE? Really, any bizarre, obvious, weird, not-all-that-weird advice SHALL be taken. I’d accept all challenges. ;)



Sunday, March 11

Psyche: An Introduction

Hello folks! I'm just showing off my writing skills. Do tell me what you think of the idea. Now I don't know what it is. And plus not all of it is in compilation. But here's what I can provide. I have been forming this idea for some time. Waiting it to be big. For more on the same, check out my post, Smoke: A chapter preview. It's pretty much part of a same. Apart from The Writer, it's another one of the narratives of my alter egos. Hope you enjoy it.
She took two steps back. It was the familiar pain. The usual peanut butter textures. After all, it was an intelligible thought to not stop for water… But she had an excuse. Training one to be self sustainable wasn’t easy. As long as it was possible, it won’t stop her from trying. We are caught in a time which is the doom. The earth is paved with the remains of once silicon kingdom. Human race degraded its intellect much before than it was supposed to. Why was she left out? She loved to indulge in this stream of consciousness while doing her usual rounds.

“Hello, what do we have here?” she stopped at a sign, of a usual diner.

Her stomach made that peculiar sound again. “Okay, okay. Be quiet. I’m going,” she spake to herself in a manner as one would to a nagging persistence. She went in a diner. The diners of this era are pretty much of the diners as known in the twentieth and early twenty first century. Except for the services are robotic. Under the new law, only robots can be in service lines. Humans only do programming. The law was aimed to stop the corruption of robots and also to avoid the imperfection of human kind. But there wasn’t any law for the hooligans to stop behaving stupidly. How she hated life.

This one robot was primitive. A head which was pretty much like the television sets of the earliest kind, bearing a photo of someone she read about… a certain Martin Luther King Jr. What she could infer was that this robot was one of the recreation projects. She ordered a glass of water and a loaf of bread, gave a payment of a hundred scores, took a book from her bag and started reading it. A gentleman, with looks of a student, noticed the book.

“Excuse me, but what is this?” asked he.

“A book,” she replied without looking up. She wasn’t interested in conversations, especially not with strangers, especially when she was out on business.

“What is a book? Never have I seen one.”

“In earlier human times books were prominent. They were a means of transfer of knowledge, and things.”

“Such massive size… it must contain quite much!” he commented upon the length and breadth of it.

“On the contrary,” she smiled, forcing herself to a conversation, “just a little amount of what your reader can provide.”

“NO! Really?!” he spake in amazement.

“Evolution of information didn’t take place in a day,” she said. Finally, this conversation could close.

“Can I touch it?”

“Alright,” she said, handing over the book, adding, “be sure not to pull the pages or force them to fold. It’s very delicate.”

“Yes, I see,” he said, observing the mechanism of turning a page. “It’s strange. Didn’t they feel that sliding, or some such would be easier?”

“They did have scrolls back then… But they were too cumbersome. Books were easiest to carry.”

“What is this made of?”

“Trees,” she replied. The moment she replied, she could feel the pain of being plunged to another conversation. Now she’d have to explain what trees are.

“Trees… I have heard the word. It’s the first oxygen filter… Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said, “they also had other uses.”

“Maybe that’s why they were cut down…” he could sense the stupidity of human race. “I’m Vincent Von Taylor,” he introduced himself to her.

“Psyche Von Fedora,” she replied telling her name.
And such is the streamline of thought. Waiting for criticism.



Friday, February 24


I didn't attend it. Ah! Hell. Low.... folks. =)

Farewell... the last of school.... blah! I didn't attend it. I had better plans. I had a trip. I enjoyed (much more than what I would at school. So. This is what I wanted to say at the farewell (but didn't say, because I wasn't there).

Good morrow to the Principal, Vice Principal, School In-charges, Teachers, and my friends, this is it! No, not the greatest tour by Michael Jackson, and none of my terrible jokes, but our farewell. I believe that nothing can be a better lesson for ones’ life as discovering ones’ own philosophy. It’s like this one set of values which will be the roof over head no matter how hard the rain falls. Of course, we all need to stand strong in this big hard world, because what they will tell us time and time again, “shut up and sit down,” and if you’re lucky, “get down to business”. You will eventually realize that all the fairy tales were the protection we grew under, and the illusions we fostered in dream. The writers of these fairy tales were overgrown children, but they had lost the protection. I daresay none of them is an illusion. Especially not “A Picture from the Ramparts,” by Hans Christian Andersen. If I might get some attention, may I begin?

"It is autumn, and we are standing on the ramparts round the citadel, looking at ships sailing on the Sound and at the opposite coast of Sweden which stands out clearly in the evening sunlight. Behind us the ramparts fall far away steeply; around are stately trees from which the golden leaves are falling fast. Down below us we see some dark and gloomy buildings, surrounded with wooden palisades, and inside these, where the sentries are walking up and down it is darker still, yet no so gloomy behind yon iron grating; that is where the worst convicts are confined. A ray from the setting sun falls into the bare room. The sun shines upon good and bad alike! The gloomy, savage prisoner looks bitterly at the chilly sunbeam. A little bird flutters against the grating. The bird sings to the good and bad alike! It twitters softly for a little while, and remains perched, flutters its wings, picks a feather from its breast, and puffs its plumage up. The bad man in chains looks at it; a milder expression steals over his hideous face. A thought which is not quite clear to him steals into his heart; it is related to the sunshine coming through the grating, related to the scent of violets, which in spring grow so thickly outside the window. Now is heard the music of a huntsman’s horn clear and lively, the bird flies away from the grating and the sunbeam disappears, and all is dark again in the narrow cell, dark in the heart of the bad man. Yet the sun has shone into it, and the bird has sung its song.

Continue ye merry notes! The evening is mild; the sea is calm and bright as any mirror."

For some time, I fostered this belief, that we all are mirrors. We give to others and we get from them. But with time, and maybe through this extremely short story, we eventually realize that the process is vice versa. The meaning of all that has been said is still unclear, but what is clear, is the fact that we all will be someone before somebody. Love and cheers and best wishes for the future that awaits us!

Anyway. All the best for the boards, everyone! Let's hope we all do well.

Monday, January 23

Smoke: A chapter preview.

Hello Folks! Off lately, I've been kind of preoccupied. In a way porcupine(d). Anyway, bad jokes apart. It's been some months since I have written anything at all. Lets see what all have you guys missed out. My travel, my remnants, a few ramblings, a delusion. In short, you, my dear audience haven't missed a thing! Currently I'm still too busy to give my best work as of now. But I know what's it gonna be like. Here's a glimpse of it:-
Smoke. The deep vapour. Light and heavy. Inside and out. Something like myself. Smoke. I remember seeing you in November, diffused in the mist, playing hide and seek. I remember you, clear as I remembered myself this morning. Smoke. Part of you lies in my veins. Mingled with my tension. Smoke. Part of you is in my head. Covering my mind; a cloud of delusion. My blanket of comfort. Smoke. Save me the winter that never seems to end, I've been here all along. Fighting my way in and out of emotions. Sometimes, there's an occasional knock on the door, and yet I don't care to answer. After all, there's nobody home.

Once they all lined up to see me. Smoke. The cruisers back in my hey day were more likely to be the ones dropping me home than the occasional walk. I remember as a child, once I felt light when my parents would toss me in the air only to catch me again. Guess I've been high ever since. Smoke. My head always feels twice it's size if I go out without you. But I swear, that I'm glad it feels like something at all.

Once I met a man who would want that happy news that I never gave. I guess I've got my set of things to regret. But, hey! Didn't they all want a happy news? Smoke. They still do, you know. But I'd choose better than to stick around. In my country home, the roads are more welcoming than in that bustling beast of a city life. Fast lanes are not for me. I realised that years ago.

It's always about mean reds, bad hair days, some people you meet (most of which you forget), and yet the rants of seclusion continue. Non je ne regrette rien. No, no regrets. Just smoke.

You burn out now. Smoke. Faster than myself. Heavier than what I can ever be. Smelling like who you are. Fire. And out of my window. This streamline of thought. And I burn in you all that I have got. Smoke. Smoke rising from the remains of the diaries I've written, from the life I led, from the person I was, from the one I run away, from the questions I refuse to answer, from pictures of old flames (now enveloped with flames), from... Smoke.

He did say,
"Happiness is a thing of a past, and a hope of tomorrow."
And after I've killed my own past, it's the high that rises higher than the smoke itself.

And who thought that you need a cigarette to smoke?

And such is the streamline of thought. No, I'm not doing a female version of Ulysses. Things like that are best respected unrepeated. Do rate and comment. Till then,

PEACE! ~_^