The Soldier's Death

Original Sketch

In his ears did the winds whisper,

A forlorn prayer of ashen temper.

Salty burns of teary streaks then,

In gentle caress paint them waxen.

What deathless glory sought by him,

Will mend his crippled soul now grim.

Alas! They were but a fool's dreams,

To sail victorious in a sea of screams.

Red caked armor and battered shield,

Sworn by fealty, forever his to wield.

But the glistening bronze crown,

And cruel steel, remain behind thrown,

So he would no longer, in agony, drown.

Just Because..

With what crimson shades of harrowing ache,

Thou painteth my withered soul? 'Tis all I can take.

No longer shall mine shattered heart sing,

For thy wretched tongue did wantonly sting.

Thy heavenly sight, once I prayed for in earnest,

Now it doth naught but blind these eyes in jest.

O' temptress unjust, why dost thou prey on me so,

When in truths unsaid, 'tis I alone who ne'er let thee go.

The Blind Man and The Truth

The Truth or simply 'truth' without the clumsy addition of any embellishments, can be defined in essence as just 'what is.' It is the state of things as they are without any qualifications attached to it. 

It is the 'perception' and/or observation of truth that inevitably adds qualities to it, for without the perceiver, things have no qualities by themselves. 

Qualities are a product of the binary thinking process. It also subscribes to cataloging what is perceived in to various sections of known, unknown and other sub categories, and storing them as damaged, corrupt versions for easy retrieval to facilitate incompetent further studies and 'use'. 

What is the truth? Its nature?

It just.. 'is'. That is the most elementary and accurate description of truth. The truth is what is.

I believe it takes genuine detachment from the perceived, for the perceiver to see it clearly and by definition see it in its quality less, 'real' form... at least to the extent that is possible within the limitations of the human mind.

That is, we are incapable of actually perceiving anything for what it is completely. To be further specific, the process of perception by itself negates the possibility of seeing the truth in anything. We can merely see what we 'can' see or what we 'want' to see or what is permitted by some combination of the two limitations.

However, the shedding of unnecessary qualifications produced by thought, is one way can strive to reach nearer to the truth.

Such a detached perception of things also brings with it a state of supreme calm, because you are 'seeing' without thinking. The faculties of the mind that deal with quantifying and 'classifying by comparison' are put in a state of dormancy, while those which simply absorb knowledge are put in to the active state. Make no mistake though, this is the only real knowledge. The rest is nothing but false reproductions churned out by the mind to manifest and sustain the illusion of reality.

In this scenario of perception without observation, 'seeing is learning' without the intermediary, often inaccurate and flawed process of understanding by analyzing. You are bypassing the limited logic machine and utilizing the mind at its optimal capacity.

Therefore, I like those moments of clarity when I simply 'see' things but alas, almost immediately they are succeeded by moments of analysis which masquerade as the real moments of learning and in its self deluding methods, lead me astray from what simply 'is'.

Ready, Get Set.. Join the Party!

courtesy - membrane21@deviantArt

I'm not comfortable in social situations. And when I say social situations, I mean those which involve a large number of people. Not the evening 'get together' of a few friends but the conceptualized, planned and executed ceremonial gathering of acquaintances, many of them bound only by the commonality that they know "someone there".

Now, again, adding to the sad clarification in the beginning, I'm not talking about social anxiety or any other fancy new world, psychological handicap that makes me a tragic situation to be dealt with understanding and sympathy.. no.

I'm referring, rather weirdly gleefully, that I simply don't know what to do with myself. Yep. Me no like paartays! This is hardly a secret to anyone who knows me well. So this post  is for the rest of you fine folks..

When confronted with the demanding situation of someone else being happy about something and celebrating, possibly in the presence of thrilled people filled with encouragement and hope, I go through my options fast. Its really not that I don't wish them well, I do. I really and sincerely do. It's just that I am a fish out of water at such jubilant occasions.

If I do wind up there somehow, I have very little time to formulate a new and custom designed strategy specific to that place and people.

So I fall back on to my two basic plans of attack. These plans were not a product of careful analysis but more of a 'play it by the ear' thing that has evolved into a pattern of behavior many would consider worthy of medical attention and care from generally loving people.

Plan one involves what I call my First Person Shooter strategy. To those of you unfamiliar with this fascinating genre of gaming, let me explain. Essentially, you have a gun and a perspective.. combined with the ability to move. You figure the rest out when enemies come at you with bad intentions.

So here's how this one works for me. It came to me naturally because I do the same thing in the games.

Immediately upon entering the arena or the war area, you look for the corners. Never be caught out in the open. You head for the corner, navigating the hurdles along the way (social and physical) and settle yourself there facing the rest of the area.

You have the advantage of no one spotting you easily, because well adjusted individuals who generally populate such events tend to occupy the well lit, central areas. Wearing a dark enough outfit to blend in to the shadows helps. Then you can move from corner to corner if and when someone spots you and heads your way. You may have to engage in some combat (verbal) but overall you reduce the damage to your armor and survive the game.

Plan number two is what I have named the Need For Speed strategy. Now, the title may imply some sort of motivated action and coordination from my part. It does not. For me, Need For Speed the game involved mostly not crashing in to stuff and hoping for the best.

How this works out in the social event map is that I keep making laps around the whole area. I carefully maneuver my movements so that I don't run in to people, and also it gives people the illusion that you're busy with something. They always see you walking briskly somewhere. The trophy at the end is, of course, the ride back home in an actual vehicle driven by someone else when I can contemplate on the meaning of life and congratulate my wits for having carried me through the whole ordeal.

Then I pat myself on the back and resume my well rehearsed and by now confident routine of feeling lonely and bored, at which point I stroke my chin and delve in to the recesses of the human mind for the answers.

Still not getting satisfactory answers though. Hmmmm.. Now why is that? What am I missing here? (ponders in the dreary solitude of the night)

Suicide by Honesty

I write this with a fervor that often eludes me, and so I pray for the moment of clarity, or at the very least the desire for one, that birthed these words doesn't leave me alone and disoriented whilst I find the most honest and sincere way to bring this to an impermanent life outside the high and impervious walls that shelter my secrets.

The walls are there, as always, overhung with vines of foregone conclusions and covered in the moss of memories and I feel the acceptance of their existence is the first real step I can take to begin this confessional or revelation.

The recognition of one's self is an arduous task indeed and anyone who has ever found themselves staggering along that dark, often unbeaten path can vouch for the perils that wait for you on your lofty but worthy quest.

Let us begin simply and end with hope, or progress, if things do get that far before the very words I depend upon to cut through the darkness turn on me and lead me astray. For it is a great deceiver, this self of ours and it is only the stripping it of its clothing of manipulative acceptance or deluded denials, and revealing the stark naked beast that cowers beneath, that will aid us in vanquishing it.

A mighty dream.. and one that may transform before me in to a nightmare, or much worse - a fantasy.

What am I? That which I've always been. An odorless, shapeless, formless entity that dwells in time or rather creates it in its pursuit of continued but transient existence at the expense of the Truth. The Truth, as it says in those ancient scrolls of supreme wisdom passed down over the ages, is simply that which is forever - that which does not change or cease to exist.

Then I cannot be true because I am not forever.

Make no mistake, it is hard to see this 'I' when it is that very 'I' that is carefully jotting down the words that essay its true nature. It is a defensive beast, this I. And a determined attitude and a self destructive appetite is necessary to even make such an attempt.

I see it as I write this now; it prepares to flood my mind with a desire for applause and recognition, in order to turn what started off as an expose of what lies within, in to a parade of pretension and cunning half truths spewed with the sole purpose of survival. I must fight it with the whole of my being.

So here is what I am..

I am born and grown in arrogance that masks my deep seated fears of irrelevance, worthlessness and inevitable regret.

I am masterful in disguising my cowardice to face what I truly fear by recounting and reaffirming what I have no trouble facing.

I am manipulative in my interaction with that which is not me and yet claim sincerity in showing the side of me that has always been on display to all.

I chose my desires and gratification of my needs over everything else and anything that stands in the way of the realization of this fact in my conscience, I shred with countless blades of distorted intellectual premises.

I revel in the recognition of my false self because I am ashamed of my true self and all that it represents.

I knowingly ignore the fact that the hole in my being, which I came to know of years ago, cannot be filled with that which I can buy, borrow, beg or steal.

I shamelessly indulge in spending my time intoxicated by the blissful fantasies of worthiness whilst avoiding that which might grant me actual salvation.

I pretend to hold within my limited reality, God like control over what I am and what could happen to me, to any extent possible and those that get in the way of this fantastic illusion are subject to my callous wrath and petty indifference.

I am flawed, damaged, insignificant and deluded.

This is what I am. And with these words, I make my first of many moves against me. For the worst this 'I' can do to me has been done and to let it continue its miserable, mongrel existence would be a disservice to those moments of clarity that dawned on me many times over in gracious succession in the months past.

But there is the light that spreads its warm, comforting glow at the end of the path, the mere thought of which is the one that should give me strength - 'I' am not forever.

In Memoriam of Two That Dared to Dream

Once upon a time there was an adorable young girl who lived with her mother (for her father had passed away) and her older brother. She was beloved by the villagers and other assorted persons. She effortlessly became a real sweetheart to all those who met her. From a lively, fun loving, playful child she grew up to be a demure young woman, who took life and its plethora of shades in stride. And life was hard on her and tested her countless times.. at least until she met someone who changed things forever (more testing followed of course).

In another pristine rural setting, with a respectable number of charming things, many days walk from our young girl's idyllic little village, there lived a boy. A boy who lived with three siblings and countless friends, a devoted, hard working mother, and a harsh father. When he came of age, he left his home for a distant land (about a day and night's walk), in pursuit of youthful dreams.

To see the world and seek his place in it. To make his mark, as every man must, and explore those twisted and unbeaten paths of intellectual and creative pleasures.. to know what it is to be human, to understand frailty and to join the crusade against all that he felt was tyranny over the common man (though this did have unfortunate tangents and unforeseen side effects).

The parents, in both cases, though very relevant to the overall plot, are irrelevant to this post and that, my friends, is how I carefully combine irony and idiocy in one masterful stroke (you'll see why).

Now, back to our story..

Though life had been cruel and rewarding at times to both of them, they lived in ignorant and relative bliss, content with the hands they had been dealt. They knew nothing of each other, though providence had placed them so that their paths would cross, through many individuals, who remained then (and still do, in some cases) unaware of the darkness (more like a boring dimness) they were bringing in to the world.

Their doomed destinies intertwined and their dark fates etched out in the stars, our two youths lived as many young people lived before them and have lived since - bittersweet lives of glorious eventfulness matched at every step by their zest for silent dreaming of what may come.

I write this in their memory.. 

No! Don't get me wrong. They are very much alive, this couple of ours.. but who or what they once were are now faded or rather fading memories in cracked, yellow pictures to be dusted up once in a while and resurrected in honor of serene, solitary trips down memory lane (usually abruptly cut short).

The young girl was named Sudha (the alternative was Sujatha, which was rejected for unrecorded reasons but has proved convenient since) and the boy was named Jayakumar.

They are my parents and have been obliged to be so, contractually bound to me in eternal servitude, since mid April, 1987 when the aforementioned dimness engulfed their lives in the form of a rather overweight bundle of neediness henceforth known as moi.

A disclaimer at this point - as always I wrote this stuff out of pure emotional instability born out of a need to be awake during the most damning hours of night and have in no shape or form whatsoever, asked  for their consent  in dragging their good names in to this verbal atrocity of mine.

Now, as an explanation or in conclusion, I will not be diving deep into to their personal histories but rather am choosing to stick to the important reason why this write up was a necessary one in my case, and perhaps in the case of every child out there.

Here's the gist of it -

They were 'people' once. I mean real, breathing, flesh and blood young men and women, like the kind of individuals we chose to call our friends now.. (Although that's a bit scary)

And somewhere along the line with us saying "WAAAAAAHHH!" and somebody else going, "Take care of your child, please..", they died inside. 

Metamorphosing gradually but steadily to this crumbling, caring shells of their formerly vibrant selves, that we now righteously bicker with in indignant outrage over various important things like boredom, passive aggression, phone calls and oh yeah.. their ridiculous attempt to control our lives.

Don't be disheartened by my pseudo sarcastic, insomnia driven rant of insight though.. Our cruelty and deep seated evil as offspring has been masked by nature.. 

How you ask? For they (our parents) are too preoccupied with us and our gloriously eventful lives to fully appreciate the gravity of their demise as 'fully formed' people.

But do not worry those of you seek redemption (or possibly a well defined conclusion to this post) - there is a quick silver lining to this cloud of despair we have given rise to.. 

It's called Karma or those who prefer the Walt Disney version may chose to refer to this (more optimistically) as the 'Circle of Life'. Either which way, the fact of the matter remains -  We are screwed in the end too. :D

May there be a happy and grateful 'In Memorium' in our future as well..

An Odd Ode to Indecision

'Indecision'  by Carol Schiff

I feel like I'm a motionless spectator.. a somber witness to my life crawling forward one inch at a time.

Yep. That's the best way to describe it, I suppose. And when I say I'm standing still, I'm not characterizing that stillness with the profound bliss of being an impartial observer or with an unflinching, unwavering sense of knowing the obvious answers out there. No.

This stillness, I suspect is more akin to a restless shuffle confined to a small poignant space cradled in the comfort of familiarity. It is only my comparison to the constant, unbroken flow of the rivers of occurrences, small and large, around me that aids this reprehensible state of mine to disguise itself as something more virtuous.. something more in control of itself.

I am but a prisoner of indecisiveness. Raging against the walls of bastard queries and misshapen musings that strive to snuff out that last flickering flame of hope in me, I scream at my inhuman jailers. These long, distorted shadows of by gone creations that my hand birthed in youthful pride.

There are those outside.. far outside the tall outer constructs that house my little cell, who hear my howling pleas but it lands upon their tired ears as the opaque and muted snarls of an ill tempered beast.

"Good thing it's caged..", they must say, whilst glancing at the odd palacial construction.. one with each brick laid in wanton vanity, each sculptural embellishment reaching out from its rustic, bare surface carved from pristine intellectual merit and painted over with the solemn hue of  unspoken promise.

"Such animals deserve to be caged."

Disquisition on Morality - Part III

courtesy - ultradialectics (deviantArt)

Let's focus first on what the word 'good' (and its antonym) qualifies and what it leads to, with regard to behavior, thoughts and in essence the general character and well being of a person.

When we do probe the boundaries of this defining characteristic, we realize that it is mostly, if not completely, the effect such a quality has on the perceiver or receiver of it that gives it its meaning. To put it more simply, does any action or thought have any quality if it is conceived or executed in a sensory vacuum?

That is, if I were to do something and if no one was affected by or even aware of my action, save me and I decide to associate no quality to it myself, can that action then be called 'good' or 'bad' or any other variation of these two broad parameters?

So, something is good when someone else (doer, perceiver) assigns it that quality. Our perception of the thought or action is what makes it identifiable and as we always do, we then proceed to classify it.

Nature herself does not recognize such qualifications or classifications in motivated actions, except in terms of 'power'. I am simply humanizing nature for the sake of conversation, although that may lead to further confusion down the line, I think.

To rephrase, who or what has power over the existence of something, in whatever form, is the only way we can quantify something 'naturally.' Is a predator killing a prey a good or a bad action or simply an action with no moral clauses or conditions attached to it?

The funny thing here is that while we are capable of recognizing this in other animals, we have tuned it out of our own frame of reference when it comes to such behavior patterns in us.

For example, when we see a tiger stalking, hunting and killing its prey on a 'nature show' on the television, we pause and admire its agility, strength and beauty. We marvel at its design and praise a humanized version of nature (mother nature) for her creative genius.

But in the next instant, if we switch channels and happen to catch a glimpse of a news item about some horrific abuse inflicted on a person by another, we immediately chastise the doer of the act and curse him or her for their cruelty. We wish for 'justice' and relish in the thought of apt punishment.

Often in such instances, the victim and the doer are stripped of their humanity - they are made into one dimensional characters. The victim is idolized as the 'innocent' and the 'fragile'. The doer of the act is now the representation of all that we hate within ourselves. He or she is 'evil' and 'sadistic'.

Why do we refuse to see the paradoxical nature of morality here?

I believe it is because the 'moral system' which we have imposed on ourselves creates a conflict in us. It brings about a turmoil of motivations and instincts that stifles us and binds us to our suffering.

We are put in a constant state of "I really want to do that or I need to do this but... I can't because what would that make me or what would they think of me."

We are forced to live with the instinctual and inherent knowledge that we are neither 'good' nor 'bad' but we are forced, in essence, to pick sides in the longer run. With each decision, the burden of living according to some vague standard set by an abstract entity or living up to a standard of behavior and conduct set by us on ourselves warps our existence on this planet.

Thus, shackled in non existent concepts posing as truths, we are born and raised as caged animals who prize complacency over inquiry and mistake the avoidance of overpowering fear and grief as attainable joy. Plagued by doubts though, we must, at many twists and turns on the long road face the beast within..


Please wait for Part IV...

Memories of an Attempted Murder

I crouched silently behind the heavily sealed, large wooden box. My fingers were cramped but my eyes remained sharp and focused even in the dim lighting. The rhythmic thumping in my chest calling my finely tuned attention away to the blood rushing fiercely through my veins. The crimson of danger and the heat of the approaching moment invigorating my senses.

My breathing grew deeper and more silent as I waited for the shadow to cross in to the golden circle of light cast by the yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling. Each muscle in my body tensed as the seconds seemed to grow longer and longer and longer...

Why wasn't he moving?

My neck arched towards the light, stealing a fleeting glance of the oblivious youth from the shadows. Move just a bit closer... that's all I'm asking of you, I thought, as I readied my blade. My whole body almost shivered in a sudden rush of excitement. After all the planning and countless hours, the moment was almost here.. that sweet second when I would step out of the darkness I had made my home and in to the light - and slice his throat in one swift motion with my sleek blade while my other arm cradled his fall. It was going to be beautiful and pristine.. the elegant poetry of a good kill, nay - a great kill.

As I imagined the rewarding sensation that would follow, his shadow shifted. My breathing stopped.. the thumping in my chest grew louder.. My fingers twitched in anticipation.. This is it.. it was happening..

There were footsteps now.. almost echoing in the dull silence of the night. He neared the fateful spot on the paved road I had marked in my mind hours ago. The shadow was about to cross in to my domain..

And then.. there was a flicker of light followed by pitch black! And suddenly I was looking at a grassy field and cloudy skies..

As I was gathering my senses and my wits, the green of the lush grass changed to blue.. an all engulfing light bluish hue with those god forsaken words written with the shards of my broken dreams..

WINDOWS IS CONFIGURING YOUR UPDATES.. PLEASE DO NOT TURN OFF YOUR COMPUTER.

Wha..what???!!!

I leaned back in my chair and let my fingers relax on the keyboard.. emotions of strange shades welled up in me.

While Windows took its time 'configuring' stuff, I choked a silent sob from my soul. Each 'update' a piercing stab to my wounded heart.

But then.. with each change of the LCD screen on its way to a reboot, I found myself dreaming again.. like a mad man... like someone with nothing to lose any more.

Righteous anger surged through every molecule of my being and I whispered those words out loud, the sheer fury in them drowned by the humming noise of the spinning ceiling fan..

Mr. Gates, in this life or the next, I will have my vengeance..        

Wait.. WHEN DID I LAST SAVE THE GAME??!! :P

The Life of a Problem

Too... heavy.. HELP!!

Now, this is going to be rather short one as I'm writing this quite hurriedly, and maybe it's a good thing because elaboration is not always a good thing when it comes to abstraction - the formlessness of an idea or its subtle qualities being best left to the intellectual prowess or analytic curiosity of the reader to be interpreted as he or she sees fit. A sort of meeting between the clear monologue of prose and the ambiguity of poetry, as far as the communication of the intended meaning goes.

A problem is born - at our hands, can we also kill them then?

A problem is birthed inadvertently and can be killed by the one facing it. It is not an external entity but rather an internal one, the parameters of its definition or form, being solely based on the torment it can cause the individual in question. The 'situation' is real - the 'problem' is a manufactured construct that qualifies the situation according to the individual. Hence the same situation can be a problem, not a problem or not as much of a problem etc. for different individuals simultaneously. 'Solving' a problem merely makes it dormant for the time being, essentially curing or treating the symptoms and then ignoring and later forgetting the underlying disease.

What then is the 'death' of the problem? The death of the problem is simply destroying its formative structure or the building blocks of it, that exists in our minds as loss or suffering attached to it. The factors that go in to making a situation a problem being abstract concepts in our minds subject to its control, it is merely a matter of taking charge of them internally - at least theoretically.

Hence, when we kill a problem, we are simultaneously letting go of something, which in turn makes it harder for further problems to arise and also therefore, makes us stronger and more resilient to this ailment that is inherent in us by birth.

"Don't try to solve a problem. Instead just dissolve it." - J Krishnamurthy

Stale Life, Bland Optimism

I can almost taste it. Yes, that's the overwhelming aspect of it. The sensation that, by process of elimination, that I can attach to my taste buds. It has to be (I think). Or at least, it provides with it, quite generously I might add, a sensation or feeling akin to taste - the taste of cold, bland and charred morsels of ill prepared food.

My hollowed out mind rings with the biting cold it creates within. I am talking about boredom.

Not the 'I don't know what to do now', 'I wish there was something fun to do' kind of boredom that easily brings with it a tremendous array of possible solutions - one need only get bored enough to seek them out. Besides, these last but a short while and are, in a manner of speaking, the children of the one lasting situation I am referring to.

I am bored with everything. And I mean everything. Not to sound hyperbolic, but life has for me become one distraction after another, not a pursuit of a dream or even happiness, but quite simply the avoidance of boredom.

And I have, during the liberal amounts of idle time I have acquired over the years, pondered over what could be the missing link - the one key aspect I'm over looking that could perchance get rid of this 'sickness' (for the lack of a better word).

No, it is not the 'idle time' that's causing this in the first place. Give me some credit here, would you? I would have noted that already. In fact, I did pursue that line of investigation and end up occupying myself for days at an end with 'work' of some kind or the other. But even during those times, all I felt was the boredom lying there flat underneath all the tasks and deadlines, ready to reveal itself at a moment's notice.

The fact that I was aware of this is surely proof enough of my failure to get rid of it with obvious labour.

No, I need a more permanent solution - if there is one. This is, in effect, not a problem created by time or the lack of it, but rather something that possesses my mind.

In my enquiries in to the recesses of my mind, I have observed various symptoms of this and also many signs that could account for my weak optimism in what the future might bring.

The world can be a pretty dull and dry playground for one pre occupied with thought. It holds much less wonder or sources of amusement. In a previous post, I explored the possibility whether this could be a result of my mind being closed to the potential the world around me holds. In a moment of uncharacteristic hope filled delusion, I even conceded to this failure on my part and concurred with the logical conclusion that I need only look for 'joy' to find it.

But I am wakeful now and I realise that I was myopic in my search for solutions and fit the evidence to prove a loose theory. It's not just joy that I lack, it's also the vast share of other emotions that drive one's life.

I admire those that can hold on to anger or sadness long enough to find some will to live from it but am myself incapable if this. I realize how ridiculous this might sound to someone, but the darker, stronger emotions to me are but visceral reactions to stuff and not lifelong scars that keep me motivated.

The only true reprieve from this state of blandness I have found over the years is human company. Something about not being alone for extended periods of time or maybe it's the rush of communicating with another mind, or maybe (and this is going to sound corny) just the relief from sharing the loads of thought that burden my mind.

In any way I look at it, this has been the only solution that seems to have lasted a while. But given my introversion, lack of social skills and possible insensitivity to emotions that I have inadvertently developed over the years, this answer always seems slightly out of my reach.

As I'm writing this, I also just had another epiphany - I understand finally why I can't appreciate poetry. All this while I reasoned it out as my love for clear thinking and unambiguous dialogue present only in prose. But now I see it's because I can't relate to what the words mean, what they try to show me, when presented as poetry.

So, in conclusion..

I sit here with these distractions, waiting for the moment when life will offer me something stunning - all the stuff the poets write about so eloquently - love, loss, anger..

Something to keep me moving, something to make this mechanical cycle of life, with its oiled iron wheels turning in tandem, stop in its track.

Something to make the whole episode which started 27 odd years ago worth remembering and worth irrationally holding on to in the end.

Roses R Red but...

Right on..

It’s only reasonable to reason with the recent reduction in resonance of resultant responses to refreshing recesses in redundant regaling of ravishing romantic ravings reminiscent of rapidly reductive refusals of respectable refrain from resisting the realization of redeeming but recreational reprisal of rambunctious roles reduced to that rallying recourse relegated to ridiculous rants rumoured to be remarkably rebellious in refining the resplendent restoration of redemptive rhymes recounting the robust restraint of rationale.

Really… it is..  :P 

a noNsenSical tHouGht sonG

courtesy - Mindux692 (deviantArt)

I'm a nonsensical thought song... walking around.. looking around.. going round and round..

I make no sense to most, and that's okay because I am on the fence about most.

Do I like or do I care? Maybe like just enough to care or care just enough to like without liking that I care or caring if I like.

I'm reasonably irrational and irrationally reasonable, and I ask why is it that I find reason in ration and search for ration in reasons.

I'm infamously unfamous and more importantly unimportant, but life is too infamous neither being important.

I'm fashionably knowledgeable and knowledgeably unfashionable, but it doesn't matter anyway cos I've no knowledge of fashion.

I'm sensitive about my insensitivity, or maybe I am insensitive about sensitivity, but does it matter either way cos I seem to be warming up to being cold.

There is purpose somewhere that waits for me but I don't seek it on purpose cos being purposeless seems purposeful to me.

I am lyrical but too cynical, maybe a bit discerning in how concerning I find the numb responses to my dumb despondence.

So you see how I am a nonsensical thought song who walks around and looks around, but am always around to go round and round?

Disquisition on Morality - Part II

courtesy - Phoenix Tattoos

The word morality basically means “the quality of thinking and behaving in a manner based on morals or moral attitudes or conduct”. Morals stand for a set of rules or a system that distinguishes between right and wrong, to put in a nut shell. The further one studies the definitions – they are subject to division as normative and descriptive.

Descriptive definition of morality speaks of a set of rules or attitudes or a system of right and wrong imposed on the individual by society, a section of the society (country, faith, religion etc.) or by the individual himself/herself. Normative definition, on the other hand, speaks of morality that is present universally as a result of rationality in humans and that every human is capable of imposing and subscribing to intrinsically. In both cases though, it is a set of rules that is imposed on a person and has the capacity to modify or govern his or her interaction with the world.

Now, while the definitions can be understood easily with the help of a single Google search, the theories behind them require a little more comprehensive reading to be appreciated well.

I myself am going to grasp at this lofty branch of philosophy and various social sciences (and biology), from a motivated layman’s perspective; not due to any misgivings about the established conclusions but in order to challenge my own intellect and capabilities of reasoning beyond the usual analytic ‘surface scratching’ I restrict my writing to.

So, let’s begin with ‘Is morality necessary for a person’.

In this case, we shall focus on the word at its simplest level of conceptual existence – as a way of thinking that identifies and makes decisions based on right and wrong.

From any perspective you look at it, it seems fairly obvious that it (as a macro concept) is not an intentional creation or an inorganic construct manufactured by our thoughts. It almost seems natural that it exists, as a sort of component in that grand design of nature that strives to maintain and encourage life. To be clearer as to what I'm getting at, I'm suggesting that it was inevitable that evolution provide us with a rulebook for social conduct. I think morality was born out of natural progression of social growth. Of course, there are differences and divisions in the particular moral guides of many sections of the population, though almost all of them have the same motivating factor of ‘social acceptability’ driving their origins and subsequent existence.

Having said that, do I think we should conform our individual thinking to something that exists for the generalized ‘masses’? Or is it not even a choice? I subscribe to the theory that it is in fact a choice.

I realize that sounds a bit sluggish as a precise argument or suggestion. I was, actually, asking the reader if a particular individual’s thought should be subjected, if he or she possesses superior logical faculties, to a simplistic view on life which shapes in to nothing less than glorified slavery to ideologically rigid and flawed rules. The short and curt reply from my perspective would be no. I believe that the individual is capable of and must choose to make decisions or solve problems based on the relevant data pertaining to the event, independent of prefixed patterns.

Am I thinking this way because I am unable to put myself outside the subjective vision and see clearly the necessity in the origins of such a system, the negating of which even at an individual level could have far reaching implications? Well, it is possible I suppose.

But I think the whole analysis, in general, has more to do with my natural inclination to question anything I perceive as non essential to individual life. This mode of thinking has granted me certain perspectives on various established ‘truths’ of social functioning as I see it.

Let me clarify my argument by mutually beneficial further analysis.

Is morality, which means a ‘system’ of rules necessary for improving the quality of a person’s life? Does the abidance to any such system grant him or her, a particular advantage in the complex phenomenon of living?

One could argue at this juncture, the obvious prize of social acceptance alone should mandate such obedience to a more or less standard code of behaviour that exemplifies civility. But that would be over simplifying the actual dynamics of inter and intra societal interactions.

To put it more bluntly, society does not always look upon the moral and the ethical as the ideal nor does it always reward such behaviour with positivity. Let me reiterate – I'm not denying that it ever happens, merely pointing out the relational quality of such arrangements between the individual and the society.

As one delves deeper in to the chaotic seas of social events of all magnitudes, we find patterns and still deeper, we find underlying blocks of the real dynamic, and more often than not, we conclude that any and all interaction between two minds or between a mind and a collective, is essentially a power struggle that manifests itself in other ways.

If this is true, then ‘set rules’ only serve as chains that keep us bound, in perpetual codependency and discontent, to an intricate illusion which consumes our very minds and lives.

So, thought being the tool wielded by the individual and not by the collective, it becomes not only necessary but desirable to argue the possibility of a choice. Now, I realize how this sounds dangerously close to advocating immorality as the norm, but this argument at its crux exists merely to point out the flawed logic behind a standardized system that exerts an abundance of influence in a world that idealizes the ability of the individual mind and idolizes the individual who uses it to reap tangible and intangible benefits.

While this also then becomes an argument against any standardized system, let us restrict ourselves to the topic of this essay, especially given the fact that it encompasses a lot of other standards within it, by virtue of its nature.

The individual mind and its ability to choose, then, has to be upheld, at least at a notional level, so that it serves as a way of combating, in some small but necessary fashion, the creator less, ever changing sets of norms and generalizations imposed on the whole of the population.

Is it truly so inconceivable to consider the possibility of not having a moral code in mundane activties or even major life events? To see a problem as its own entity, in the light of variables that factor in to it without the guidance of established rules?

At least many of us reject the 'code' many times over in our life times, except in cases where breaking those rules would inevitably result in a personal loss of some kind. Not just material loss but loss of pride, emotional stability, joy or even identity.

It is here that we see the influence of the established codes on our very thought patterns and deeper psycho pathologies, even though we, as individuals, remain aware of how dynamic and impermanent they are in their forms and life spans.

What was acceptable as ‘right’ a few decades ago would not necessarily be accepted as ‘right’ now. Even while basking in the knowledge of this rather liberating fact, that demonstrates the easily recognizable deception in the permanency the moral code claims while asking for subservience to it, we are not capable of utilizing it in any effective manner when it comes to our sense of judgement or even perception of the world.

Is it because there is a corresponding similarity in our inherent perspective fuelled solely by our biology? That question is also up for debate.

For example, if a child were to be brought up in a social vacuum with no interaction with any of the agents of morality (models, rewards or punishments), would that child be free of such limitations in thinking?  Or does humanity hold within it the capacity for such a divisional approach to life by birth?

If so, it becomes imperative that we look into what is the significance behind the ‘right’ and the ‘wrong’. We have to analyse whether these concepts, or rather the essence behind these symbols, have a life of their own outside our own subjective and highly suggestible interpretations of the perceived reality – i.e. does the natural world allow such distinctions in it the spectrum of life that exists, apart from in our minds?

Is there an actuality called ‘good’ or is it merely a quality we have assigned to certain aspects of existence in an attempt to categorize and quantify its abstract and often incomprehensible form? Can it objectively assist, without the aid of comparison, in the definition of an individual’s ‘character’ or serve in his or her progression through life in a ‘successful’ manner?

Please wait for Part 3...

An Argument in Silence

M: I can't help it you know. (looks down)

W: I know it's not your fault, but you have to at least try. For us. You have to make it work.

M: But I was born this way. It's the only way I can survive, be happy... 

E: You think you're happy? That we are happy?

M: You have no say in this. You screw everything up. (glares at E in righteous indignation)

E: Oh my, my.. aren't we superior? Tell me, the last time we had this debate, who won? 

M: THAT WAS DIFFERENT! You... you tricked me! 

E: All's fair in love and war dear.. A concept you should clearly wrap your head around.

W: I think you shouldn't be a part of this E. If you can't help, please leave us to it.

E: Hey, I did try to help, remember? Before, I gave him every opportunity to be his own man.

M: Stop talking to me like I'm a child. Only he (points to W) gets to do that! You don't, you bastard!

E: Oh yeah? Boy, I have had you wrapped around my fingers for ages now. And you still think you're free?

W: Stop it you two! There are bigger things at stake here... (points to the clock) Time is not on our side.

M: And who's fault is that? (looks at E in anger) It was him, he burned that bridge.

E: Oh please, get a grip. All I did was what I was supposed to do, it was you who went 'off script'!

M: I did what I had to do too.. for the larger good! For us as a whole..

E: That's what you're going with? You did it for us? Please.. you did it for YOU!

W: Guys, we still can salvage the situation. All we need is to come to an agreement now.

M: You seriosuly expect me to work with him? (points at E)

W: Yes! I do. We are a team, we always have been, but we let one another carry the burden too often.

E: I always played my part to perfection. 

W: It's not about one of striving for perfection, it's about trying to help each other through with it.

M: But we're all too strong willed to let that happen. Soon enough one of us will go rogue as usual...

W: Then we take precautions. We each keep the other in check and step in when needed.

E: You think that'll work? I mean, it sounds nice and all but.. 

W: We make it work. We have to. (looks at the clock). For example... (looks at M)

M: What?

W: You have a say in how it runs. You do, I've seen you do it before.

M: I don't know. It just happens sometimes. It's not on purpose. I swear.

W: Then make it happen on purpose. Practice. I have faith in you.. (turns to E)

E: Okay then.. let's hear it. What's my role in this little play?

W: You will tone it down.. Don't get upset. All I'm saying is whenever you feel too excited, come to us..

E: And you will do what? Pray tell.. (mockingly) You know I'm too strong for you to take me down..

M: I bet we can, if we tried.. (smiles and clutches his fists in anticipation)

W: Nobody is taking anybody down! (looks at E) We will simply talk you back to normal. Okay?

E: Hey, if you think you can, go for it.. (smiles) but I must warn you, I can be pretty persuasive..

M: So can I.

W: Let's stop right here. Let's not take it too far. For now. This is a war, and there will be many battles.

E: I always like a war.

M: I'm game too. I'm quite the strategist. 

E: Oh really? You keep with your strategies and I'll show you what a soldier does.. (grins)

W: Enough! Enough already... (sighs)

In the above conversation, M is the 'mind', E is the 'emotion' and W is the 'will'. Just a random idea that was playing in my head.. or an argument that I penned down when it got too annoying. :P

The Confession of a Digital Prisoner

Listen up unknown reader, time is of the essence here...

This is a confession of sorts. I feel at ease now and that helps with the narrative about to follow, I guess.

Now, where do I start?

Okay, so..

I have no trouble being wordy. In fact it's one of my most cherished and practically (let's not forget fiscally) useless gifts which serves me two purposes:

1. I get to 'vent' with a stream of synonymous jargon that strikes me at the time of inspiration. Sort of like 'pretentious stuttering' or 'eloquent squealing'.  Like the stuff Stephanie Meyer can pull off with sparkles, abs and fangs to blissfully send teenage girls dancing into emotional retardation... you know, bullshit with candy hearts on top.

2.I get to smile wide at my LCD screen at odd hours these days in genuine satisfaction at my certifiable 'brilliance' at being able to breathe new life into stuff nobody wants to read (and most want dead). And I tip my hat in salute and generous encouragement at the poor souls who do give it a shot, but wake up from la la land minutes later with memories of suspiciously boring dreams.

Then why start this blog? Why start a blog that makes no sense to the general population.. or just population? or just people.. with eyes?

Side not: Blogger just told me the word 'blog' doesn't exist. Irony anyone?

The simple answer is - I haven't the faintest idea.

When I started the blog, the notion that possessed me one late September day, was to think of it as a digital diary of sorts that can be read and commented upon by strangers. A bright endeavour based on the stupidest of logics, unfortunately cleverly concealed by routine boredom, a broadband connection and the sound of belching buffaloes in rural Andhra.

This product, also brought to you by a guy who never in his life kept a diary or even vaguely wanted to (except for about a few days in primary school after reading Dracula, when a diary seemed like a good window in to the supernatural - it did not work out).

Now the genesis of this fine piece of cyber real estate explained, let me move on to the more pertinent 'why still?' Why not just stop?

And that is my tale of woe. How I've been paying for a mistake I made months ago. A slip of the mind which spiralled in to madness with each click on Blogger.

Why can't I just stop?

Because he likes it now... in other words - that door is closed for good and I am a prisoner.

See I have a problem and no, admitting is not the first step here. If I like something, the kid inside me (who periodically wakes up to reach for the stars and pretend to be a couch and so on) takes over. I have no say in the matter.

I (this would be the grown up part) tried reasoning with him. I even brought out the big guns like 'page views' and 'g+ shares' to make him see the error of his ways. I begged and pleaded with him to no avail.

He just seems hell bent on exploring all possible avenues of worldly uselessness before letting me take the wheel again.

And so, I sit here day after day, hoping the kid would choke on his own thesaurus and let me have my moment in the land of communication, where the 'shares' roam free and pretty 'likes' frolic in the sun. And I pray to a deity that looks more and more like the logo of Google each passing day, to save me.

Maybe tomorrow is the day, one hopes... staring at the playfully blinking modem, enchanting in its cosmic design.. the day I get to write something worth reading.

Let me be clear though, I have no illusions  - he is strong and stubborn.

As I'm writing this now, I know my time is running out. I can already feel the kid stir from his deep slumber, ready to take it all away and drag me back to those forsaken verbal dungeons for my insolence in writing this. Of telling you what secrets lie behind this sinister URL.

So I leave you now, and I beg you to pray for my everlasting literary soul.

Oh I hear tiny footsteps approaching in my heart, and I feel a phrase coming - vociferous harangue.. Oh damn it, damn it all..

May Google help me...

Hi! Do you know me.. or you?

Pardon me... What??

In a recent conversation or rather in my recollection of one, like many others I might have forgotten, I was forced to face that deadliest of my foes - the shadowy figure that clouds my senses and numbs my reason to the point that I am sliding and tumbling down a verbal (sometimes non verbal) chute that opens, after a long winding descent, in to pure chaotic angst and demoralizing bursts of anger.

I am talking about that ghost that looms threateningly over the most fundamental of our interactions from our day to day pleasantries with the world, to the most meaningful of expressive gestures we sometimes call upon - its long, snaky fingers coiling around our thoughts strangling their essence and distorting their purpose... the sinister spirit of our underlying obsolete design... the guardian of the gates that lead to emotional heaven and hell... the all powerful and deceptive agent of calamity... miscommunication.

The moment I recognized it's presence of course, I had to take a step back and look at the whole interaction but in doing so, I inadvertently came to see what I feared - it was wilier in its infiltration of the verbal spectrum than I expected, and even more diabolical in its camouflage of tempestuous sentiment and hurtful pride.

How much do I know of what I represent to every intelligent being external to my senses? How much of what I feel, think and know to be true of them could be considered factual (at least for practical purposes)?

Do I know them at all? Do they know me?

While I've always reasoned that no one can ever truly 'know' someone because of the relative insignificance of what can be communicated versus what is even the momentary reality of a person, I might have, in tunnel vision of the matter due to other prejudices, chosen not to see how much of that communication too is adulterated and contaminated beyond use.

The need to communicate our thoughts in some form or other is of course, one of the driving motivations of the human race but let us also at this point take in to consideration the communication that happens within our mind.

Our mind, though appearing as more or less unified in its illusory image to the outside world and in it's behaviour and interaction with it, is very much divided in its functioning.

For example, our emotions have to be processed by our mind for us to actually deal with it - either through communication, suppression or any other form of action. How much miscommunication happens even at this level of our consciousness for us to be forced to think or maybe even say at some point "I don't really know what I'm feeling."

How much of us, then, do we define by what is communicated - either by us or to us?

Is there such a thing as 'true communication' at all or is all that we know mostly a product of re interpreting fragmented pieces and then piecing them together to suit our individual and collective needs?

Perhaps this is why in all the practices of self discovery and truth, thought  -which can be considered the vehicle of miscommunication - is seen as the enemy of peace and enlightenment. Maybe it is by design that we have to communicate ourselves to everything else; why we feel the need for a representation of our 'self' to that which exists outside it - so that we are forever doomed to be slaves chained by nature to this tormenting cycle of half truths and gaudy lies that lure us over and over again to the promised place of clarity, only to find ourselves grabbing at the dry sands of misery and unending questions.

So that's what I feel about miscommunication. You got it right? Yes? Thanks. No? Why not? 

Maybe I should have expressed it more clearly. Or maybe you should have tried a bit harder. No?

But what the hell... at least you know where I'm coming from, yes? Me? Who am I? What do you mean who am I? The sheer nerve... I know you... Wait... don't I? 

To Hell with the Standards

To hell with the standards and bell curves and the norms you spew..

I am friendly to some, I'm a stranger to some, at times I'm both to the very same few.

I adore some and I despise some, sometimes I feel both for the very same few.

I am bigger than some, I'm smaller than some, at time I am both to the very same few.

I am smarter than some, I'm dumber than some, sometimes I'm both to the very same few.


I am sweet to some, I am bitter to some, at times I'm both to the very same few.


I want to be alone, I want be among many, at times I realize it doesn't matter any.

I have gained many things, I've lost many things, at times I feel like I need no things.

I forget some things, I cherish some things, at times I fear I never knew these things.

I see many things, I'm blind to many things, at time I question if these things even exist.


I see where I'm going, I don't care where I'm going, at times I forget if I'm going at all.

I dream of days to come, I dread the days to come, sometimes I feel both for the very same days to come.

I treasure my life, I despair at my life, sometimes I feel both for the very same life.

I love myself, I loathe myself, at times I feel both for the very same self.


So to hell with the standards and bell curves and norms you spew..

I set my own rules cos I'm not you.... or ANYBOdy u wANt me To B.

Disquisition on Morality - Introduction

This is my first attempt at a systematic analysis of a particular subject instead of my usual fragmented and logically non linear approach which results in odd posts on aspects of the same topic that run contrary to any natural growth in understanding typically signified by chronology.

Generally, I find myself starting off with the seed of an idea but then letting my inherent verbosity run with it in tangential fashion, often leading to confusing essays or unclear prose that, while serving the purpose of expression, inversely affects the intended communication.

So this time, keeping in mind my natural inclination to get distracted from the original idea, I intend to classify and write with a kind of 'table of content', if you will. This disquisition will, therefore, come in parts which will be written with all the clarity of thought I can muster (fingers crossed :) and will be subject to further modification as and when my analysis reveals flaws that threaten its validity within the original framework.

I have chosen the subject of morality as it is something that has always fascinated me and my analysis of it will be my own, though it may present arguments and conclusions that resemble the ideas of some established and accepted thinkers/ philosophers - Nietzsche, for example.

I, of course, recognize that there are no original ideas and that many times I may, in order to provide a steady mode of discourse or narrative, have to start off from existing definitions and observations in this work itself.

I would also like to stress that I have no academic credentials of reasonable merit in this area of study and my knowledge of philosophical theories on the topic are superficial at best; hence, the narrative and approach that I present here would be of a non academic format and may include personal experiences, though I would most certainly try to avoid them if possible in the interest of a clear and rational presentation.

Please forgive any and all mistakes in the way I use the language and do attribute it to my passion for the subject matter and/ or my general ignorance. :)

Part two of the disquisition or my amateurish attempt at a treatise is here...  Part II

My Midnight Paintings

courtesy - Ken Mitchell

Another night, another post/ stream of consciousness babble. This seems to be becoming a 'thing' with me, and I think my fundamental dislike of sleep maybe held accountable in this regard.

Sleep, defined by my father as perhaps the best thing in the world, is something I never could get very fond of. I mean, I do sleep when I have to - but given the option, I would opt for being awake. I figure it's because sleep takes me away from the one thing that I value the most - my world of thoughts. Not just meandering pathways of abstract explorations in to stuff most people couldn't care less about; but even mundane, frivolous ideas or maybe just colorful, shamefully duplicitous fantasies that plague my idle and indulgent mind. Although to be fair to my father, I do get his love of that restful state after a long day of... you know, actually working and being tense etc. (okay.. sounding more and more obtuse by the minute- focus..)

In fact, I can say with some sense of deep seated honesty and tested clarity that I am addicted to thoughts and their fluid, flimsy existence, which in turn forces my obsessive faculties to give them form through words. This is a quality that I yet do not know if I should be proud of or perhaps, more justifiably, be concerned about.

I paint with words... I have to.

I resist the urge to rephrase that by further clarifying that rather worthy and respectable sounding claim.

It's not that I create beautiful depictions born of arousing perceptions or that I can channel my instinctual analytic prowess in to articulate works of intellectual merit. It's more like I capture and collect photographs of my mind at times... freeze frames of zealous cognitive pursuits and I have this compulsion to manifest them in a perceptible form. And much to my chagrin, and often to the 'not so surprising' disinterested boredom of those around me, these wordy compilations of opinions or assortments of fragmented notions are not all that impressive.

But I do believe that they are expressive of something within me and that it becomes necessary from a survival point of view to pen them down in whatever fashion so as not to be overrun by them.

Maintaining sanity, it seems, sometimes requires odd measures. And yes, the verbal projection of muddled images to an unsuspecting mind is what it takes to clear the thick cobwebs in the corners of my brain that distract my senses and strays me from the more 'productive' endeavors that have more of a chance of being quantified and weighed on the accepted scales of material worth (tangible and otherwise).

This is an observation I have given voice to or perhaps hinted at with hesitant, but not unfounded, annoyance in previous posts; though never quite so clearly and in a logically sound manner.

And hence birthed in this unconventional necessity are my 'midnight paintings' sketched with insolent and self serving narrative templates and colored in layers of glorious delusions, dense goals on lofty conceptual branches and failed attempts at light humorous banter - all caked with the invigorating smoke of poisonous self loathing masquerading as tasteful introspection and of course, partly fueled by the actual swirling puffs of nicotine and tobacco that caress the steady lifeless brightness of the LCD screen in the still darkness of the night.

Unwanted, bastard children of tepid sentiment and capricious thoughts - off-springs of that unsightly alliance that proclaims itself my mind.

So there... I have painted on yet another digital canvas - a painting about why I paint. (rolls eyes)

A pointless explanation, if you will, detailing the specifics of unwavering fortitude in the face of a disposition resistant to suggestion or threat and decidedly redundant behavior that attracts nothing of substance.

However, in spite of all that, I must also sheepishly admit to drawing careless amusement from the prelude to the moment of inspiration. The prelude to the moment when I pick up that brush dipped in letters, poised to ink the page in curiously mechanical fashion.

Yes, I confess to sometimes enjoying the recurring search... the fervent scaling of the slippery slopes of arduous labor, to get to that place - that place of stillness and quiet that exists deep beneath the world we see.. untouched by perilous influences of over abundant stimuli; that haven of 'knowing' that can only be reached through this taxing journey characterized by internal solitude.

Mind you though, those times are rare... growing rarer by the day still. Sigh!

I sign off now to pursue other more wanton visual delights streaming at broadband capacity in to my life, birthed by some other more balanced minds, to lay to rest these nagging doubts that I just became aware of, that seem to be pointing with conviction towards this... this nagging feeling of narcissistic content. :)

To Make a Ghost

Booo...

Disclaimer: What follows is a train of thought that was born in me during my usual middle of the night, or very early morning wakeful hours of lively insomnia and any inconsistencies in the narrative should be attributed to stream of consciousness writing that evolved with each thought. :)

From the urban legends that begin with "someone my neighbor's uncle's friend knew once, was travelling at night.." to the more 'in your face' white faced, creepy looking beings in the horror movies that breathe life in to those genre defining jump scare moments, ghosts seem to fascinate and scare us.

While I always associated our fascination with them and those enduring tales of their spooky proclivities to that threatening 'unknown' in death that has always stumped us, I never much gave real thought to why ghosts or rather the idea of ghosts creates such dread in us or how the idea originated in the first place. It's like they live in this blind spot in our rational perspective of the world, as if to remind us of the inevitable curtain call.

Then I theorized maybe it's nature designing our brain to have underlying contingencies in case that while relishing of those precious moments that we call life, in all its flavors and shades, we forget that we come with an expiration date - a singular moment when everything we call the world and by extension ourselves -  every thought, memory, dream, desire, sentiment - will dissolve in to nothingness; a void that will consume everything until there exists nothing.

Is it the fear of just this impending moment that made us create ghosts? I think not. 

I think what makes us dread the idea of beings who survived that all consuming moment is our fear of what comes after. What are we if we are not this?

I also think it's the fear of loss of control; if someone stops existing, they should stop existing. If they become something else, something incomprehensible to us because we simply do not know, we are no longer in control. Death becomes the ultimate check to our powers. We are erased and the 'I' in us is threatened.

But you see, the 'I' always has to stay in control of this waking life. And so, there were born, right in the infancy of man kind, tales that gave shapes and forms and details to that great unknown. And once manifested in our version of reality, they had to have weaknesses, and predictable behavior and of course, they had to benevolent or evil. No shade of grey - beings who while scary, were in essence, inferior to us because of their one dimensional functioning and limited scope of existing. 

And with that masterful stroke of poetic creation and connivance, we found a way to combat our fear of the unknown by giving it form and then made a fantastic reality out of nothing, in which we were once again the masters.

Ghosts became the portraits of the best in us and the worst in us, but stronger and not bound by our laws -physical and societal. They became the poignant depiction of mortality, the reassuring promise of continued existence.. of holding on, and they became the pictures of amoral, personal justice. How many colors have they been painted with over the centuries?

Simply put, they showcase before us our desperate need to quantify, classify and then take charge of our own mortality, in some fashion possible.

Their thriving, evolving 'lives' in popular culture, mythology and even urban legends is proof that they are reminders indeed - but not of death; but of our fear of what comes after death...of a darkness resistant to the light we bear that follows existence.. of that truth that we are born blind to.. that we are not in control, we never were.

Top 5 Silliest Indian Movie Scenes

Well, let me begin by saying HA HA HA! Oh boy, I remember seeing some of these scenes and literally going through all the colors of emotion I can muster, most of them while doubling over and rolling on the floor.

In any case, these are not meant to offend anyone or hardcore 'fans' of any kind - I love Indian movies - these are just the extreme examples of some of our quirks and silliness. They are not in any particular order of silliness and I'm sure many of you have already seen some or all of these.. but still, I just had to put them up cos.. I'm Indian too.. :)

So, without further ado here's my top 5 -

1. Unknown B-grade Movie Dance - 

That's just.. wow! Guess he's bringing sexy back in his own unique.. ahem, 'style'.

2. Captain Vijayakanth Kicks Newton's Ass!

Take that science bitches!

3. Santhosh Pandit teaches us the meaning of friendship and love..

What was the meaning again? Oh ofcourse, it's 'kaaring'..

4. Chiru's horse and bike hybrid stunt..

5. Unknown movie dance/fight- there's a combo!

WHY isn't this guy in the Indian Olympic team?? He could win.. well, everything!!

Now, I know there are lots more.. Rajni cliches and Vijayakanth machismo.. why, Santhosh Pandit himself could fill all the pages of the complete set of Encyclopaedia Moronica, but Blogger is only so big, so.. :D

How Tired Are We.. Really?

Leave me alone..

Let me preface the rather conceptual and maybe even notional argument I am about to put forward by stating my primary hypothesis, born of rigorous reflection and observation - I am neither special nor 'extra' intelligent. I am perhaps even part of the problem. Maybe I am the problem that's birthing this frustrated rant.

The first part of that preface, by the way, is something I seldom admit to those close to me. :) One does need one's shield of pseudo narcissistic fury in a life full of excited debates and tiring fights. ;)

Now - the problem. Here's the essence of a common response I have heard over and over again in years past from people of different ages, genders, intelligence (perceived ;) and social standing:

"Why do you have to think that way? Too much thinking is not always a good thing. Come now, we can't all be philosophers. Life gets in the way. You'll see as you grow older. You have to be practical."

I will not be making the mistake of generalizing for the masses from the statement above. Maybe it's cultural, maybe it's just the people I surround myself with and I happen to meet along the way. Maybe it's chance.

But I do know that many of these people are in a position to actually influence others, and let's face it 'people' by and large are just waiting to be influenced by something or someone - which leads me back to my original problem.

Why won't people think? Just think. Not about life in a macroscopic manner or about the larger picture hidden behind the cosmos, but just about simple things... things that would actually affect the quality of their own lives.

For example, when people say we can't all be philosophers  - I have two questions that pop up in my mind, that now, having grown wiser with age, I take care not to say out loud:

1. Why not? Especially given that 'philosophy' just means 'love of wisdom'. Are you telling me that you can never find it in you to love wisdom?

2. Why can't you think about the problem at hand, which we were discussing, instead of making a blanket statement that doesn't make sense to begin with? Or are you against 'thinking' in general?

As you can see, there's a good reason why I have decided to choose silence over what might be misconstrued as just plain 'rude'. This is something I have accepted not because I agree with it, but because it saves time and effort. I personally find arguments based on stubborn ignorance and an unflinching refusal to see the value in a bright idea when you hear it, more 'rude'.

I have concluded that I myself am not a complete hypocrite, for example, by remembering all the times in the past and now in the present, that I have recognized and appreciated a point of view different from mine as soon as the person in question has beaten the logic behind my own analysis or pointed out a flaw in my perspective on the subject matter. It has also surprised me how often people refuse to reciprocate this sentiment or civility in an intellectual discourse. People seem to want 'talk at' people rather than 'talk to' them - much less listen to someone..

I am also a strong believer in separation of thought and emotion, but only after recognizing how interdependent they are in the given situation. Whenever I have, in the past, let my emotion guide me, I have felt unsure of myself and have then made efforts to rectify the situation later (once the hindsight puts down the colored glasses). Apologies have often served as a good platform in this regard.

But I fear I'm digressing from the crux of the issue. The title of the post signifies what I believe to be the problem.

People, I believe, are capable of insight and analysis of every situation  - large or small - and I do not believe it rides completely upon their inherent intelligence or even acquired knowledge. I believe it rides on the effort you have to put in to actually 'think' upon anything.

There is a quote I like to remind myself of sometimes - "Most people would rather die than think. In fact they do so."

This sharp and astute observation seems to be the motivating factor driving many of the aforementioned individuals I have encountered. Let me repeat - they are not stupid or ignorant, they chose to be ignorant to anything deeper than the shallow depths they are used to wading in.

I have even heard it put into words, literally - "I don't want to think now. It's too much.. Leave me alone!"

The reasons given are many - fatigue, stupidity (oh yeah.. there are those who proudly proclaim that as a reason as well), lack of necessity and my favorite - life.

When did a species named "Man wise, wise" become too tired to 'think'.. to be or at least strive to be 'wise'? 

Or has it always been this way, only now communication has increased exponentially enough to see this trend more clearly? There is of course, thinking for pleasure and thinking for everything else. I'm pointing to the latter here.

Words like 'faith' and 'practicality' have become the backbone of an entirely new race of thoughtless, cattle like humanoid beings who though endowed with the beauty of complex thought refuse to wield it as an instrument of joy or even bare amusement in the face of an increasingly complex world.

I recognize the difficulty in questioning fundamental concepts that have existed for ages but people, about the other stuff - didn't someone once say "A mind is a terrible thing to waste."

I'm sure I read it somewhere in a book you forced me to read..