Boredom

There is not a punishment of greater agony than a man of passion catching a bad case of boredom.

Boredom is a malady, more pernicious than jealousy, more damaging than pride and definitely more addictive than any drug known. Boredom is that poison that goes first for the mind. And then, from the mind, it descends down upon the body. It creeps insidiously in its slow, serpentine flow and settles in your joints. It sits heavily on your neck, then on your eyelids and before you know it, it has you in it's lethargic spell, in it's torpid daze.

But it is boredom's addictive nature that is most harmful. Like a narcotic, after a point, you start wanting it, knowing fully well that it's fumes are systematically turning you into a vegetable, or a piece of furniture. A chair, for instance. A chair that stands all day in its place in a room. All the change in the world outside - from the discovery of electricity to the iPad- could not move the chair from its place. It just sat there all day long, long dead.

Things get all the more difficult to bear when it happens to a man of passion, of desires, someone of ambition. A man who, for some reason, explained or unexplained, has relinquished his grip on the reigns. A frustrated man.
But, here's the truth. His agony, often, owes not to his frustration alone, but to the inroads boredom has made into this frustration. Its the hand that twists the knife.

So despair not if you are frustrated and rest assured that it shall come back. But never, ever let boredom slip into your frustration, as it is then that the wheels of your death shall start turning.

Gobbledygook

It always wins, with me, it somehow always wins.

Peeving, annoying little bastard, that guilt. The Bugger managed to slap me out of my somnolence, grab me by the scruff of my neck and drag me to the table. Astonishingly strong, it arm-locked my neck and pushed me down hard. A dirty breath close to my ears began whispering. It ordered me work those fingers, quick, punch in the characters and get in...

I stood at the door and cupped my hands around my eyes and peeped into the desolate, dusty insides of my chronicle. After looking around a bit, I decided I wanted to stay a while. And if the fancy seized me, write a little. Add a little more Gobbledygook.

So Gobbledygook it shall be. Gobbledygook, as it has always been, you may think. Mindless, incoherent ramblings of a mad, directionless man. A tangled head full of dualities. A mind lacking equanimity, wreaked by a stimulant induced torpidity. Stimulant, material and incorporeal.

But answer me this first, has anything that I've ever scooped out of my heart ever made any sense to you? Have you ever been able to understand your heart, fully? Can one ever articulate, with the precision of a surgeon how one feels? Have you been able to, to the last detail, describe the exact extent of your hurt or your longing? Have you? I think not. You may memorise dictionaries, climb the Himalayas in a quest to awaken the inner eye, you may self introspect all you want, but you can never ever, to the fullest, truest extent, describe some things. Know why?

Because, they are not meant to be understood, leave alone describe.

They aren't meant to be articulated. They are yours alone to feel, to suffer, to enjoy.

Hence the Gobbledygook. A squishy-squashy, splodgy, mush of clumsily gathered words that can only hope to convey a feeling.

Want a second helping? There's lots to go around, there always is.

The vendor of flowers

The vendor of flowers lay on the wayside pavement
his flowers strewn about him
they adorned his lowly bed and each night transported him
to a land where metal lacked worth
at the altar of Marigolds and Roses
where sleep was slept under an aromatic jasmine moon
and days spent in meadows of Lavender
to a land where counting petals was occupation
and impregnating the earth, worship
Where buzzing messengers from above
came seeking the sweet Manna of His


The vendor of flowers sleeps alone tonight
his flowers strewn about him
as the wayside pavement, his beloved’s bosom, lovingly cradles him
The stars tonight shall take him away from this wicked Nadir of Noise
Far away to his cradle land to her honey- sweetened voice
Away from this abyss where pieces of metal bought dreams
away to her address in the clouds where tender love held supreme


Tonight in the Nadir of Noise as the living dead bustled in haste
The vendor of flowers slept in silence, redolent and chaste

The Lulling Last Tune

The Pianist’s fingers waltzed daintily on the black and white keys of his Steinway and out came tumbling the lilting, honey drunken notes. Clear as crystalline dew drops, warm as dreams of loved ones, grey as monsoon clouds, now fast and confident, now shy and reticent, now slow, now breathless, now angry and gurgling, they told his story to the looming dark clouds, they sang his lore to the crying winds outside. From the stream of whiskey that snaked from the bottle that lay on the carpet, to the revolver that lay by his side, his material and immaterial audiences sighed and listened intently to his lulling last tune, their tune, swaying violently to the turbulent winds that rocked his little dwelling by the brook.

He played for her tonight, he played to her shadows, he let his fingers translate the dictate of his heart as the notes searched for her in the empty, desolate corners of his existence, searched for her beautiful voice in the dark, dusty air of his dwelling. They wanted to reach out to her, to tell her of his dark madness, to remind her, that one last touch of remembrance, of a loving kiss kissed, of a once earnest promise promised, of love that had once been and of a fragile mind that has lost to the heart in the race.

Elsewhere, she knotted her rich finery, bejeweled with her present and future with someone else’s. Yet, as she rose, a listless swan, to walk after him, around the fiery, holy, flame, an inadvertent song sprang in her heart and sweetly, she sang with him his lulling last tune.
His one hand rose from the keys and groped for his gun. Still playing with the other hand, he picked it up and rested his forefinger on the cold metallic crescent inside the ring.

As a thumb bloodied itself with vermillion, her song reached it’s coda, she knew she loved him, and for this folly she’d die anew everyday. Oh what a colossal folly. The time was now to act, to undo what was being done…
Two clear shots rang out amidst the windy carousel that night and her breasts exploded in a burst of red. Amidst all the hell breaking loose around her she fell in a flurry of flowers and jewels, her knot broke with a snap. The retreating, panicking well-wishers split to reveal the Pianist in the crowd. The silvery, wispy smoke from his gun coiled and hung low in the night air as he strode up to where she lay.
Her forehead bore no sign of red, the thick garlands, she had broken and the sacred, nuptial necklace followed a snaking, winding course of gold and black beads over the flowing red river.

“She was on her way back to you, you fool, on her way back to YOU…” cried someone.

For a split moment a crimson, ruby spangled crown formed on the fluvial stream of blood and disappeared immediately as a salty drop dissolved in it.

The air was split by another deafening report.

Beams of light from an early morning sun ushered in numerous tiny, illuminated particles of dust that seemed to come dancing all the way from the skies above like little blessings. In his bright, little chamber the Pianist cradled her in his arms lovingly and gazed into her auburn eyes as little songbirds chirped heartily at his windowsill. The little dwelling overlooked a luscious, green meadow by a busy, bubbling brook whose cool waters cascaded onto little terraces of moss covered rocks and formed playful concentric currents in the soft shadow of ferns growing on the edges of the water.
A pair of hands descended gently upon the old Steinway’s keys and drummed out a familiar allegro. At length, they were joined by another pair, dainty and small. Her demure fingers almost instinctively trailed his tune and played a subtler melodic progression to it and suddenly, they felt, they had known this intro. This faintly sweet melody, now fast and confident, now shy and reticent, now slow, now breathless, now angry and gurgling, a lulling last tune… their lulling last tune?

In some past life, perhaps, in another earthly existence.

And so sat the Pianist and his love painting the air with a lovely sonata, now fast and confident, now shy and reticent, now slow, now breathless, now angry and gurgling, a lulling last tune, their lulling last tune!

What a fucking travesty albums can be, you stick memory onto them...

My mind's an album too but with a difference. One day it captured eyes, her eyes...the one memory I could do without but no, it wouldn't go away, just wouldn't go away, especially when I am in the higher rungs of my consciousness, her eyes would stick there. Even if someday I went insane, they'd fucking stick there, fucking annoying.

The hearts a picture book of images one doesn't need, burn it

Its only alcohol baby, wouldnt kill me
although I wish it did
....sometimes, not always though
they say it benumbs you to your pains...


bullshit


you cant feel your limbs, your face or your eyes...
cause it leaves you alone...
isolated with a buzz in your ears and an ache in your heart
it leaves you alone
you and your heart, alone
you and your mind, alone

Alcohol is your estranged love, another bottle please.

As he soared skywards, strains of his mother’s voice surrounded him, her sonorous voice echoed in every unit of his physical being and he for the first time felt safe, safe in the cradle of her voice.

His heart, which had drummed ceaselessly inside him ever since the attack was announced, was allayed now.

His mother was there, with him, right by his side, as he, gripping the throttle, pushed it forward.

As his battle chariot took to the skies, he briefly shut his eyes.

“Ma, shed not your tears? Rejoice, as I shall soon return to you, as the bright rays of the sun that shine on your beautiful face every dawn when you rise, as the young flower that you tend to in the garden, in the sweet waft of your puja incense, I shall visit you as heaven’s drops that sweeten the wet earth, you shall find me in the cool morning air, ma, you shall find me in your arms every time you think of me, crying, bundled in white, you shall find me sitting by your bedside every night as you shut your eyes, you shall, find me in the eyes of my brothers who fly today with me.”

As he fell, fell from an alien sky far away, his mother arose and smelled the morning air as golden rays from the sun washed her beautiful face.