Ode to Dust

I am envious of you
Ha
I am jealous of you

You the mistress of my love
books, clothes and memories
The blanket of yours done
into the skin of things
freeze time to a pause
movement turned stillness.

I see

A moment and its purpose
marked by its mere existence
and the translucent form
given by your presence.

Let the Eyes Speak

The noise fell down. Cacophony turned into a collective sigh leaves silence behind. The sky above, (there is only one sky right? or are there many? like one in the ocean, one in the rain and another in my eyes?, leave it, that is a different story altogether)hung down and breathed out clouds. Anticipation and desire mingles and churns out perspiration. Days of theory and practice converged in a single moment. Under the gaze of the mankind, an attempt to perfect the human will and capacity. He kicked the ball. Remember how Lampard looks at the coach when he misses a goal? Eyes meet where what is and what should be freeze.

Eyes speak all language. They the ultimate truth potion hard-wired in your body.They know what you have been seeking all your life. They understand your passion. They own us. 

Apollo and Dionysus

This moment is so dense for me that I cannot weigh eight 

years of trust, love and companionship with a few hours of magic, romance and lust. I do not know what I miss the most. Is it the confidence of a long-term companion or the ecstatic breath of a short-term lover? When the former was a Trojan humanism, the latter presented an orgasmic experience with a young orient god.

            This is a dual between a human and a god, between time and timelessness, an epic battle between right and wrong. A combination of contradictions which had their epicenter in I. Ah! The time I was in a conflagration of beauty!

            The lover who smelled of everything forbidden failed to find in me anything dangerous but poetry. He swam in it until he could take no more. Time, like the hungriest tide, devoured us.

            The friend who is of reason and righteousness holds me when I give myself to the evil depths of pleasurable fantasy. Truth is the carbon of time and I am the firewood.

The First

Number system, with its amazing abstraction, always fascinated me. Teaching arithmetic functions to a little kid must be a Herculian task. Numbers!

Culture differ with space and time. But I cant help but wonder whether all the cultures have this obsession with the no.1. The first is always fresh and new. The first is always the best.

Spectator

I want to be a spectator. Yes, just a spectator. Not even a receptor of 3D movie experience or a bum on a gallery chair. I wish to be a spectator positioned high above the realms of experience. I want just visual and auditory spectacle not that one which penetrates in to your soul, if there is one.

How would it be to be not a ‘feeling one’. How would it be to be completely insensitive to the outer world, hmph, even an inner world.poof! Is there anything like that? I want to look at world, beyond the Brechtian estrangement technique, without wanting to act or react. Yes, I want to be a robot. But I do not think I would love to receive some doosh’s command. I better take my own decisions.

But, again, I don’t want to be affected by the outer world. So I tried to cocoon within my thoughts. However, I found that those are scarier than anything . After all, I see that I don’t control them. Is it again coming from the outer world. By the bye, what is outer and what is inner? Inner or Outer or Inner-Outer or blah blah.

In short, I just want to be a spectator not a participant in the great human drama.

The Return of an Adolescent Dream

Eight long years of invisibility is broken by the waves that move like time. I moved out from the mirror which blocked my existence by the true vision of his life. Now I am there for him. Not as a love, not as a friend but just as a comment on his web page.

How little I am and How great longing is!

The New Game

Ha! A new game begins.It was for the first time I was kicking a football. wrong move. But it gets better. That is usually how it is. I wish I had a coach like N while I was struggling with my Basketball in school days.

Playing a sport again is really hard for me. I have to detach the traumas of earlier gaming experiences from my reality. The embarrassment and humiliation the school Basketball tournaments inflicted on me is still an open wound. It was only later that I realized BB is not my game. But yea, you move on gaining strength and May-the-Devil-care attitude.

I hope football will be a new chapter. Wow, now I can really enjoy the game of David Beckham...something more than his looks.

While you are sleeping

At the cost of sounding mushy, let me tell you that I love the way you sleep. Your brother-in-law was sweet to post a picture of you sleeping like a teenage-girl dreaming far-away island with a tower touching the lightnings. You seemed like the darkness in my bedroom corner.

Social medias bring you stuff which you have no control over to see or not to see. I never wanted to see you again. But how can I stop looking at that picture.

Mushiness aside, let me analyse why I liked that "harmless" picture so much. The amateur frame captured the 3/4th of your bed on which you were lying keeping aside you wallet, laptop, mobile phone and all your worries. The things were not scattered as in my bed but kept in a line as a schoolboy would arrange his Ben ten stickers.

Your sleeping posture tells me you are warm and possessive. The way you were holding the pillow whispers the coziness i miss. The composure tells me why it is the same girl who turns your world around since you are 13.

The only girl I am jealous of in the whole fucking world!