Phantoms, Sleeplessness, Ashes

Zurich.00:35am, on a rather usual and unusual monday night.
Just finished a movie I wish I hadnt wasted any time upon. Have opened my window to let the cold freezing breeze flow in, I am kind of sweating for an inexplicable reason.
Phantoms and sleeplessness, are so entwined, as lovers in a deathly embrace seconds before consummation.The question as ever remains is it the phantoms that chase me or am I doing the chasing. But today is not a day to delve into that.

I saw a lonely horse once, smoking a cigar sitting on a man of some years and riding away to glory. Then the other time is was a famished thin really thin rhino being chased on the streets by a man with one horn, right between the nose and the upper lip. I call these phantoms.
Often when I lay down on my back and wait for the sleep to come, I see or rather feel these phantoms. Sometimes they kind of disturb me, today is one such day.

What is it that my metaphysical sense communicates through these vivid pictographs. Is it that they carry a meaning in the womb or are they just another bastard child of an over conscious but hitherto restless mind.
I thought about the rhino phantom, well a rhino being chased by a horn, makes sense, cause I have often been a victim to my own inherent strenght. but why the famished rhino, I wonder. I guess it is about loosing your inner strenght and then finding a ravenous part of my ownself running for dear life by demons who scare it by visions of its own uniqueness.

Do i sound incoherent? Well somehow I have always found my lucidness of expression and ideas, disappearing when I indulge in a soliloquy.

Sleepless, I am often enough to call my self an irregular insomniac. Self indulgence and a few smokes and my eyes wouldn't just catch a blink into the early hours of the morning.
Ashes, well thats the one which binds the phantoms and the sleeplessness together, from the ashes of many dreams arise the phantoms of my sleepy conscience, the hurts and the unknown would have beens, conjure a strange cocktail of these logic less visions, making my mind a vaudeville slave and my heart the fluttering wings of a dying cricket.
I have no particular end in mind today, I just want to ramble on for a page, hoping that inbetween these senseless lines, somewhere I will stumble upon my enstranged lover and she will like old times,take me in her arms and carry me to the morning.
Alas, I dint find her,even in that shamelessly metaphorical and elaborate a sentence!

Continuing the incoherent flow of my thoughts, I want to talk about a nice little leaf I met today, I was as usual strolling alone on the streets, trampling the melting snow and deriving an unknown pleasure seeing something so white turning all muddy, when across it came.
It was quite the usual leaf, with a brown complexion and twisted back, being blown away by the picking wind. and then it came and just stuck it self on my chest, and said lonely stranger, why do you look so frustrated and morose, you think you got the short end of the stick? Well here I am flying uncontrolled, driven by this crazy wind who kicks me around so much, and still I am happy.
Well I said being blown around aint my idea of happiness, flying is good but being blown around, eh! I hate the thought of being driven by an all conquering hand, I only steer the courses I choose.
The leaf looked deep into my eyes and said well you know the small river under the bridge, it thinks it chooses its course too. The leave winked,just as the wind came and blew it over and so happily it soared on the coarse thrust of the sullen wind , while leaving it laughed and said, you know what you need, go down the square and fix yourself in the usual dark corner of that dingy bar and quietly down your crazy blues.

Brook and the valley gorgeous

Up in the lonely woods there is a dreary creek, where not a bird would ever sing, between the mountains oh so high and mighty, crashing on the heartless rocks, tumbling on a road to nowhere is me, just a small little brook.

I am a spectacle for some, trying to capture a moment in their lives and squeezing me between their cheery smiles, for them I care not, cause many shall come and gaze from afar and be so joyous just to see me twist and turn, shout in pain at the thrashing rocks and then just flow on.

But who am I? An endless beginning, to a vagabond journey. Why is it that I flow so, the mountains stand still and mock at me, the trees they never move an inch, but me I am just tumbling on. Why this endless churn, what is it I am trying to chase, where is it I want to go, whose shadow is it I try to catch only to find it another step ahead.

Once I met a wise old fish, she said oh little brook, why cant you see, you are just meant to flow. While parting she whispered about a thing she said she hate, it was called fate. Next day I slowed to catch my breath and there I met this drooping tree, while he joked how he trashed me dirty with his rotting leaves. I asked him what is fate, the tree grimaced and said to me it’s the chimera we conjure to give solace for what we can not accept. So I learnt that day that fate was all a lie, a falsehood that could never explain, why I had to flow on so. Some say I flow because the mountains are high and the valleys low and its called science. Well I say to hell with them, why should I flow because of them.

So you see, me little brook I know, destiny or science they don’t make me flow.

I flow for a reason, a reason I got to know.

Some time back I fell down a rather steep cliff, all in shock and spinning head, I felt a strange nothingness. Nausea of irrepressible churn burst through my heart, like that wolf I saw, dive on the hapless rabbit under the bush. Hate, love, pain and longing I never felt them all at once before, but ever since the sudden treachery of that pristine meadow made me fall, I lost the trust I had in the earth below. Well I know, most would say have trust in sky above, but me I see no one in the sky, this earth I feel and touch day & night, I had a trust in it but now it is gone.

All frothing and spewing I emerged from this fall and for once I saw the treachery of it all. I flow because I am made to flow, oh how I loved that mountain top, I would have stayed for ever more, but for this endless flow. I thought the mountain knew I had to flow and it would come along with me. But one thing I learned being a brook in this world, alone and alone is how you always move.

Once I thought, what are the maladies that trouble me so, interminable movement, restless soul and a brainless heart! Of them all, I know the worst, is the brainless heart.

I wish my brooky heart had a brain; which would put some sense, in now so gloomy and now a spring in the step, this meandering heart of mine. Oh stone hearted mountain and the misty meadow, how I long to be with you, but me I am just a brook, a fleeting someone, one moment I shine and then I am all gone. Will you even remember the small brook, who so touched and caressed you all, while you slammed and twisted and threw me around.

Strange are the ways of this world and stranger still that I got to flow, endless, endless, endless I flow. I know there is a reason for me, will I ever find that key, and will I ever see through the dark , when my soul will rest at last.

Ah no more of this ranting brook, for here it comes, it seems she beckons me with open arms, oh my valley gorgeous, if only you will let the small brook stay.

Bench under that tree

There is a place on this earth, where I so have been fixed. Under a small rolling hill, under the tall tall trees, there I am a wooden bench. I watch the seasons as they come and go, the green gets brown and sometimes white. and then they come in all colors and sizes, happy and lonely, crazy and funny, just jostle around under the trees , walk the trails on the hill and then come and catch a breath on me, under my old friend tree.

Some would say well what a life, you have! Stuck at a place, mute and dumb, sitting out in cold and sun, just watching the people scratch their names on your back and sit for a while, we guess you wait to rot and be at last free.

Well yes I am dumb and mute, so I can't refute. But I know sitting here under the tree I learnt so much from just watching thee.

Motifs and names engraved on my skin, by lovers and freaks, just wiling away their time. No they never had a grudge, but I guess just had to fidget, and leave a scar to remember them by.

Sitting under an old tall tree, on the edge of that small rolling hill, yeah you will find me rooted to the spot, mocking the rain and scorning the sun. I stay put like a sentinel of constancy,in an effervescent world. This low under bush that so tickels my legs, with crickets and birds perching on my head and aimless leaves of the passing autumn finding a moments peace lying on my face, the flying moments of a dying day and the burning red ball of the sky getting devoured by the land, I watch it all, with bored eyes, cause forever have I watched these tricks, been around for some years now, sitting here and seeing it all and still saying nothing to top it all, well cause no soul would think that me, an old wooden bench, also got a tale to tell.

For often have I touched and felt the beauty of this life, for many maidens have come and sat on me just shoeing the breeze, and I have sat frozen and fascinated staring at their face's every crease

The tresses of the lovely hair and gentle touch of the playful nail, oh how often have I fell in love with a passing lovely maid.

Guess you think I only saw the beauty and missed the beast, but both I have clearly seen

I wonder why god chose to make something so pretty and still ugly within,for all the maidens I have seen, somehow selfish they all have been.

But for this groovy heart of mine, I would have better been a cask for wine.’ cause wine would give the cask some pleasure and in turn take my color, these maidens you see only longing they seem to give, woods also have a fate, some end up being a cask of wine and some just benches destined to whine.

What next?

So what next?

- a personality make over?

- a make over of values?

- a dreams make over?

- an attitude make over?

a hardening of will?

a clear, cynical, self first approach?

A wild flower's reminiscence of an evanescent butterfly

10.15.2006

A small buzzing stream and its chlorophyll green banks; the golden yellow sun and not a soul in sight; I hide beneath canopies of mighty pines; the air is abuzz with sounds of myriad creatures and the trickling waters of the shallow pristine stream. In moments like these my mind it wanders and I reminisce like only a wildflower can.

This is an ode to a beautiful butterfly I met; I haven't even seen it again for so many years, but the memory of the colors of its plumes will forever send these shivers of longing in my soul.

For most she was just another butterfly,pretty and vibrant, colorful and haughty, vagabond and restless, but for me , ah it was the color of my very soul, the singular touch that brought sun shining through the grays of a clouded existence, like bright yellow splashed suddenly on a old dusty canvas.

But then this is not about what I felt for the butterfly, it's just an ode to that beautiful creature, I wish would have stayed on my petals for ever.

Oh, my lovely little one, where you are now and how you look, have you grown old or are you still the same, I know not. But in my consciousness I still can see you spreading joy and beauty in this world.

The spring in your foot and your restless heart,how a petal would know that to hold you near forever all that was needed was for the petal to stay bright and beautiful. But as the things in this world go, the petal thought the only way to make you stay was to hold you near and obstruct your flight. So I closed my spread and unknowingly became so jaded and dried.

So the petal it made two mistakes, one it lost its brightness and warmth and two it suffocated the butterfly, which was born to fly.

Not long after it was a final goodbye; just a silent parting glance through a watery glimmer in its shiny pearl eyes; the eyes they seemed to say ' wanted to stay for ever in your colorful plumes , but you have lost all your charm, if only you knew that this butterfly would fly and frolic and spread joy all around and then come back tired just to feel your warmth'

And so it flew away..

Oh my butterfly, I know wherever you are, you must only be spreading joy, and I wish you summers and flowers, clear blue skies and cool breezes, cause in this ugly world, only a few souls like you spread some beauty and sunshine.

Live long and carefree as ever.

10.15.2006

Alice: But it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then

from dusty notepad files, found again in years old piles of data

--Directionless rambling---

Ask any man, the fondest memories of love will always spring from childhood, about that lovely girl from the younger years.
The tragedy of life to me, is the fact that of the all the men on this planet a percentage tending to zero, would have actually held on to those childhood loves.
To be honest the way of living of humans hardly provides the opportunity to continue to hold on to these childhood loves.
The family might move, you shift homes, you change school an endless list of external factors conspiring to just make sure that a man looses probably the only thing worth holding on to.

As a child if you remember, liking some one wasn't really thought through, it wasn't a step of logical deductions by which you learn to like people as grown ups.
Its also definitely not yet about sex, for obvious biological constraints, for a man can surely fall in 'love' with any woman, in a moment of pure 'lust', well yes in childhood we all are free of this beautiful feeling of 'lust'.

So that brings me back, what is it that trigger love in our hearts in childhood?

I wonder, with no forthcoming answers really, other than a few cues and deductions.

Was it that you like a girls face, or may be just her voice, no it cannot be that superficial. There must be a larger design to falling in love when we are all children. for we still go soft thinking of that one childhood sweetheart, if it was so shallow a feeling, you wouldn't even remember it forget feeling nostalgic or warm within.

I have read/ heard it often, that as a child you are closest to god, and then with the growing up comes the distance between god and you. And we continue to drift apart, until every person at sometime or another reaches a cross road in life, where you feel alone and forsaken.
Sometimes, then begins the process of understanding and reaching out to god all over again, just trying to reduce the miles growing up had put between god and us.
But by then we have lost the plan of life, it has merely become a series of choices we make, sometimes turning out to be good and sometimes not so good.
But all in all, we have lost that reason for which probably this life is there.

In this complex universe, I would have also had a plan, something I was supposed to achieve, someway I was also supposed to make a difference. But the assembly line of society has made me just another product of the factory which is running overtime to 'condition' and manufacture people. Now some of these products turn out better than others, some worse. But if we look at the mass of humans, what deviation are you likely to find out in one person from another? for such a large set, statistically we would find so little a variation between people. Shamefully,its a proof of how we have all managed to loose sense of our true destinations, reasons for being born,in this moribund machinery of living.

-----Inquisition-------

Dusty winds and the simmering heat,
sweaty palms and a cold shiver down my spine,
its judgment day again;
I twitch and shuffle,
mumble and grumble,
unable to face my souls inquisition;
Stand like a thief caught in the act,
eyes downcast and shoulders drooped;
its time to answer for all I promise ,
and fail to keep,
those promises to myself;
My inquisitor stares,
a smirk on his face,
and an underlying sadness,
that's quite hard to trace;
This pregnant silence between us,
hides a story of its own,
he is waiting for me to blabber;
And let go of a string of excuses,
but the excuses have also excused themselves today,
the brain is numb,
and the lips wont move;
silence lingers as the inquisitor ponders,
waiting for the second ruse,
for whenever i haven't got an excuse,
fate i would abuse ;
But this time abuses are also hard to come by,
for forever have i made excuses and abuses fly,
guess I am no longer shy,
to accept the faults within,
rather than everywhere around;
The inquisitors expression,
changed from sarcasm to anger,
as he boomed when did u learn to cower?
for whatever was your fault,
cowardice it never was;
For years i have seen you stand,
each time empty handed as ever,
but defeat in your eyes i saw never;
So speak up and tell me when did the fire go out?
I answer in a tone so low,
ears couldn't hear the sound of the tongue,
i tell him, now with each punch I take,
it becomes more hard to stand up again.