Rejection of humanity

I remember, those days I spent with Her. Though a glance of a memory they might be reduced to, I still remember the hidden smiles.... the looks of longing....as they tried to pull me closer trying to bound me into a sense of famliarity. To make me human.

The disconnection I have always felt She brought out to the forefront. It was some thing She wished to remove and pull me into the worlds She lived in. An attempt at making me more human again I guess...

I do not blame Her...

I do not remember Her this way...
I remember through what She once tried to tell to me out of a sense of finality, that I couldnt grasp just then as I watched Her walk away....

Yet I do try to maybe glance back to try to understand Her....and maybe just try to explain to Her...
To make Her listen...

Humanity doesnt come easy to me....
It doesnt suit me...

Yet....She made me human....She made me what I lacked...

If only I could tell Her once.

The River Styx

Two coins be the worth,
Of a Soul unheard.

Whispered welcomes,
Darkened stares,
The Beyond beckons
At the end of the Stairs.

The sound I hear, I once held dear,
A River that flows, is the music I hear.

The Waters are dead,
Not for the absence of life,
But the absence of hope.
A River so black that even my Soul would dread.

'Tis not Water that flows,
'Tis not Blood.

Nor is it Darkness or other Things untold.
I see a glimmer as I come to recognize,
What was once a Dream
To my now tired dead eyes.

A Promise unfulfilled now hits the Barge,
As The boatman reaches for the coins with hands large.

I pay the Price as I board the Boat,
Another broken toy tightens my throat.

Every Dream...

Every Hope...

A Wish forgotten,

A Desire lost...

To me they are the true cost.

A burden They may seem,
But there is a joy to this Darkness I gleam.

'Tis the River of The Dead,
And all that They leave behind.
In this Styx, My last dregs of Life I find

A Shadowed Door

I remember walking out for a phone call. I tend to get irritated when people call and talk about irrelevant things that make me want to hurtle the most inflamed profanities at them. These calls often get long and loud so I walked out of the room to leave her in peace and continue reading undisturbed. The time had flown and the call finally ended and I walked back in. 

The only lights were in the room she was in. The door looked like this partly illuminated gateway from some play not staged, bright and dark all at the same time. I could see the edge partly drenched in shadows. Her movement s inside shifting the light and making the shadows dance across the door frame. Then I heard her voice. It was beautiful. I walked to that edge and looked inside. There she laid on the bed, diagonally on her stomach. Her legs bent n swaying to and fro in the air to the tune she sang. Her hands delicately turned every page, the rustle of which somehow perfectly played into her voice. I remember she was reading Calvin and Hobbes. I remember the song more clearly and painfully so. She was singing Yellow by Coldplay. Not a big fan must say but she made my pulse quicken with that song. She always told she sang that song completely and often and even many people have complimented her for it. She sings well in not too many words. I knew she has sung that song for others, be it to strangers or friends, lovers or family. To me it seemed everyone had heard her sing. She sang for everyone but me. I never asked and she never sang.

So I stood and I listened. But I didn't want her to see me. So I turned and hid in the shadows next to the door. I remember smiling in the darkness as the shadows completely kept me out of sight. I remember taking that breath finally as her voice washed those words over my soul. She sang the whole song while waiting for me to return. I waited in fear that she would stop the song. I waited and I listened, with my head bent, maybe in silent prayer or sheer joy. Her voice in that instant was pure cocaine for me.

Her voice was still echoing in my head, my heart still beating to her song that I heard her call out my name. I turned and smirked my usual smirk for her. I told her about the call and laid down next to her breathing her in as i held her close to me. Hoping against hope that my heartbeat won't give my secret away.

She never knew.

She never noticed.

It is still one of my favourite memories of her.

I still can hear her voice and I still hate that song for it.

She never sang for me.

But I still heard her.

The Reader is dead. Long live the Reader.

Long live the Reader.

I have often wondered why people write. I don't think its to tell a story or sing a song, or comment on a place or a bite barely swallowed. Sometimes I think that people write because the can't talk, or are not able to. But then again the sheer absence of mute writers makes my point null and void...quite like their vocal chords. Must be a vocal thing then.

I am never a polite speaker or much of a fan when it came to rather concise and non abusive writing. Maybe its an acquired taste. Or maybe I lack that part that makes such communication possible.

Look at us. Look at our generation. How many people read? Or even pretend to nowadays? If no one is reading then why do we write? Who is at the other end of the rainbow?

People make writing sound like a fairy tale. Every time they tell me that I should write down what I just said its simply too profound to be lost in a drunken haze and crushed under a hangover the next day, I ask why? You wont read it. I said it so i wont read it. Sure as hell no one alive will read it.

The reader is dead. That is the fact I hate the most about this world. No one reads. Even literature has now become a fad to be made into an app and enjoyed on the next I phone. Which few will buy so again the reading app is pointless too.

I sometimes fear that one day I will never be able to feel that page, rough and smooth in the same touch. I will never read the words that shape from the coarse to the refined and brought out in the world on that page. The book with a cover that might hint or guide or blatantly sell through the love, sex and rock roll ideology sold by songs that now once in a while roll around in the background of our favourite new show or movie.

God I will miss the comics.

The Reader is dead. Long live the Reader.

And Ashton Kutcher replaced Charlie Sheen on Two and a Half Men and remains running even in season 10 of the show! So maybe even the viewer is dead too.

We are a doomed generation. Dreadfully so...

Dreams Part I

I once walked this Path,

That now lies forgotten...

I have just my faith.

Pushing me forward,

Like a pained Wraith...

It's not a god I seek

But a Soul to redeem.

Let me bleed,

Let me weep,

In the end I shall have my sleep...

I once walked this Path,

That now lies forgotten...

A breath away,

I watch my life pass.

Day by day...

As Time stands still,

All I have left is my Will...

I find my feet and stand up.

Yet not ready to give up...

My Life fades to Past.

The future beckons,

Like a die due to be cast...

I once walked this Path,

That now lies forgotten...

I take a step,

I feel a breeze.

My dreams surround me with ease.

Like a child I look above,

I seek a problem to solve...

I once walked this Path,

That now lies forgotten...

With a plunge I lay awake.

To live my life,

For my sake...

Dream

I Dream a Dream.

I Dream a Dream of You...

Every moment I lay awake,

I Dream a Dream of You...

A Breath.

A Life.

A Soul.

I give it all.

When I Dream a Dream of You...

A Life lost.

A Memory forgotten...

A Thought so soft,

That You be besotted...

A Path I walked.

A Road I quit.

Your presence I sought.

Yet Your faith departed...

A Place I seek,

To rest My Soul.

A Voice I crave,

To purge My Sins...

Long awake I have been.

A Dream I need.

A Dream unseen....

Begone your memory,

My Past be forgot...

A Grave I deserve,

For where I shall rot...

Forever now,

My fate shall be true...

I Dream a Dream.

I Dream a Dream of you....

Acedia

I feel it burn.

It cuts,

Deep...

Not a corner left.

It cuts even through my soul.

I feel the sorrow,

Yet it cannot contain.

The pain i feel is deeper than a taint...

I feel the burn,

It grows in me...

Deeper and deeper,

It cuts through me...

I pull it out.

I hold it in my hands.

I wield it as my own...

A sword to others,

To cut them with...

A weapon for many,

I wield forthwith....

To me it shall always remain,

The same as it once was....

My Despair....

My Acedia...

And me its Forsworn....

Night

The Dead walk,

The 'live sleep...

'Tis the night,

And that its magic....

Behold it.

Fear it.

Love it.

And like all before you,

Await it....

'Tis the night,

And that its magic...

A Home lost...

Living in a city all this long, 23 years to be precise and never spending a day outside the city a person like me forgets the true value of it. Yes we may call a city a modern version, a metropolitan creation. even something that has been born out of the post modernization of humanity.

Yet a city is not that different from what it was a hundred or even a millenia ago.

The hub of an area, where politics, economics and humans mix in an ungodly concoction of lust, power and corruption. The city was always doomed from the start. It was always about the price here, never about the worth.

I remember living in Bombay. Old as it was, the people were from such disconnected corners that it amazed us all. We were lost, forgotten and yet alive in a city where we came for our dreams and for people like me, we were born into our dreams. It was Bombay then. A place that gave you more than it took from you. Yes it took who you were but it gave you a part of it in return.

Bombay made you not who you wanted to be but who you should be.

It is Mumbai now. a cosmopolitan, a metropolitan or as i see it, a Hellhole.

The people are different, the values are lost. The worth has been replaced with its cost. Now when i walk there i feel lost. I see new buildings where i never hoped to see them. I see people walk in looking like they own the city. When we walked down those hallowed streets we walked like we belonged there, yet it was not ours to own.

They walk where we wouldn't. They drive where we couldn't.

I saw as my city was taken over. Helpless i sat and even helped them see what my city truly was, hoping they would leave it as pristine as it was.

Yet cities cannot escape their fate. They will be invaded. Our city, so beautiful and perfect, was invaded and over crowded by those who did not understand it. Like we once did, they inadvertently changed it.

There was a time i called it her...

That time has now long gone. I walk the same streets now yet they feel empty and forgotten. The people who walk are strangers, the heretic to me.

They have desecrated the holy ground.

Yet i must accept it. What was once my home is no longer so.

Like the homeless I walk this world, looking for what i once lost. Through it all only once thought was there in my mind. I lost my home to a city. Someday this city will be lost....

Afterall...

Cities are not built,

They are destroyed.

I will await the day I can reclaim my home from that city.

Someday They will return what was lost.

a few lines.....

What is the cost of living?

Why it is Death of course.....

It is something that most of us fail to accept or just plain ignore it. Death awaits us all and it is something we should be looking forward to. It is at Death our life is measured, our value understood, our work recorded and our end consumes us all.

It is after Death that our life is remembered, our memories forgotten and our work appreciated.

It isn't life we must look forward to, not our present, not our future, not our glory and not our heritage. We are just working towards our Death and that is where our life is measured while it is consumed, that is where our legacy begins. A man is nothing without his Death. He is no different than the air that he breathes that returns to where it came from, taking with it the breath of life that we just lost.

I wouldn't fear it, yet i wouldn't welcome it. Death is a fate that awaits us all... Death is a fate that is avoided by us all.

We must succumb to it.

We belong to it.

Yet we receive the most from it.

After all, a memory lasts longer than a lifetime....

But an idea lasts even more....

Be that, be something more than a human. Achieve it, work for it and someday die for it. you will be mourned and you will be missed. The most important of it all, you will be remembered.

Be more...

Death awaits you in the end....

But an idea can cheat Death....

An idea can make you immortal...

Yet a memory makes you more valuable...

Choose your worth, live your life. Death awaits in the end whether you want it or not, you will die. Either as a human, a piece of earth that will return to where it came from. A memory cherished, yet eventually forgotten. An idea misconstrued or even lost, but never rotten.

Choose your end.

Live it all.

Work for immortality.