All philosophers true to the study will go mad some day.
But then again, it is Normal that defines Mad.


This was something I found in a notebook of mine when I was flipping through it. I obviously can't finish it now because I don't know what I felt then to write it, so here goes my half-baked poem.

A moon so pale never was
So bright in the early night
Overpowering the stars so weak,
Overpowering the Sun, its fading light

Bright in the sky, bright in mind
This pale crescent did bring to me
Memories long banished from self
A bittersweet pain in my eyes, you see

I long stared at its golden haze
Reliving the Past in its warmth
That warmth that soon turned to heat
And burnt to ashes the joy that swarm'd

That moon did witness that first kiss
That passionate and devouring kiss
That burns my lips even today
As I think of he whom I miss...

I so want to finish it. I'll look around in my life and get back :)

Within the Darkness

Through the dark and curly black,

He eased himself through the hair

That strew itself over skin so tender

A slight tickle, warmth I felt

As he waded through the moisture; searching

For that hole through which he shall pierce

The hole that shall sustain him and his kind

All of a sudden, he stood still

My heart skipped a beat; this was it

A second later he was in my hand

I did not let him pierce - relief

Instead, I felt him in my hand

Throbbing with life

Another second and there he lay dead

Bleeding my own blood; helpless

On the white speckled with black

Amongst the rest of the dead lice.

The Condemnation

It’d been a long day; a very long day. That was behind me however. Right now, a hearty supper and two glasses of wine later, I sat in front of the roaring, warm fire. Smoking my usual pipe and in my red robe and fur lined slippers, I sat down in my usual chair and heard the church clock strike eleven. Nothing surprising, this was my routine; one that I adhered to, almost consciously, every day for the past five years. Yes, almost consciously.
Most days I find myself forcing my days to work according to schedule so that my routine goes unchanged. And by this routine, I shall sit in this very chair for an hour more and then proceed to put out the fire, climb up to my room, lay awake in my bed for another half hour till sleep takes over my conscious self. What I do in this hour? Well, it depends on my mood. (Doesn’t everything?) One day, I might look through the old photo albums, might try my miserable hand at the daily crossword, or browse through the one of the books in my large, oak wood bookshelf. Tonight, I was too tired for any activity. I could’ve fallen asleep right there. Yet, I wouldn’t let myself. Routine. So I sat there, looking at the fire, glowing and orange.

Why I don’t break out of this routine? Well, I guess for the same reason you don’t. Safety; security; the illusion we like to drown ourselves in that as long as we avoid change, things will be “fine”. Ha. The comfort we find in illusion is almost laughable- almost because I look for that comfort too, as does everyone. Of course, we do welcome that change in routine that happens once in a while. Even that however, has to fit that bigger routine. It’s almost unbreakable, this routine. Why, even our birth, schooling, graduation, marriage, widowhood, death... routine isn’t it?
I was sweating a bit now, don’t know why. I instinctively wiped my forehead with the sleeve of my robe. Suddenly, as if Routine knew I was talking about it, the bell rang; thrice and shrill, tearing through the earlier silence. I stared at the space in front of me as if it would reveal the identity of who stood outside my door at this dark hour. I slowly got up and made my way to the door. A slight fear grew in me but curiosity, as usual, won the argument. (What was that line about curiosity killing something again?) I pulled open the door and there I saw, with a bottle of wine, my brother. Not unusual that he stopped by but not very usual either. Michael, he was two years younger than me and as sharp as a tack. We often had a nightly chat.

“Come on in Mike. What brings you here today? You were here just a week ago. I daresay you’ve anything else to say already”
“Why brother! Must I have to say something to seek your company? I have a bottle of the best wine in my hand as do you in your shelves. Why not we pour ourselves a glass or five and rant? I assume there are enough problems with humanity for us to talk about over wine.”

I sighed deeply. I could tell that the bottle in his hand wasn’t his first of the night. By this time, we were back in the living room. I was back in my usual chair. Mike had gone off to find glasses to drink out of. Considering the collection I have and the perfectionist he is, he’ll take a good five minutes to find the ones suiting his present mood. I reverted back to my thoughts and the fire and my pipe.

Presently Mike walked in. He places the glasses and his bottle of wine along with a bottle of my best wine on the low table in front of me, pulled his arm chair closer and nestled in. A glass of wine later, he began, “So what runs through your mind today?”
“Nothing. Just reflecting on routine.”
“Ah. The ever prevalent cosmic Order”
“My thoughts were more on the lines of why we never broke out of this routine. Why we found such security in order to be precise.”
“Maybe because it is but impossible to break out of it.” , he declared, slightly pompously.
“Eh? What do you mean?”
“Have you ever wondered that it is impossible to break out of this order? That there is no way out?”
“Are we talking about destiny here?”
“Destiny? No. Let’s not trivialize it brother. I’m talking ‘bout something bigger than that. Much bigger. Everything that happens is merely a part of the routine. The atom bomb over those countries, the birth of a son to Mrs. Smith across the street, my being here, your having studied law and moved into ecology, the fires in a city in the other hemisphere, the snow in Alaska and the disappearance of Atlanta, everything is just a part of this humongous routine of things.”
“Something like everything happens or a reason?”
“Something like that”
I got the flow of what he was talking about. He made sense. He got me thinking as well. We’d been through three glasses each now. It was sinking in, you could tell.
“Let me see if this is right. So, you’re saying, that everything that has happened, is happening, and will happen is all a part of a predetermined order?”
“No. Not predetermined, but that will be determined according to the present. It’s like, this Order knows there is an end and what the end is. It also knows that there are various possibilities to that end; infinite in fact. It will play with each of these possibilities every second.”
“Hmm, so it will lead the world and life and everything in it to this final end, whatever it may be, changing its course at its will”
“Yes, something on those lines”
“Impressive. Ever thought about what that end might be?”
“Alas, too many possibilities crowd my mind when I put to it that question”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the end could be everlasting life; immortality of a super human race; extinction of all life in the world, universe, the swallowing up of all physical existence- the stars, planets, solar systems, universes, everything into a black nothingness”
“Hmm, I see what you mean. But you made me think of something else when you said that, unrelated as it may be.”
“What would that be?”
“Well, ‘everything be swallowed into black nothingness.’ Why must nothingness be black? Why not white, pink? Imagine, at the end of it all there would be but just pink and nothing else.”
“Ha ha. I see what you mean. How long do you think that pinkness will last?”
“Hmm, I have no idea. What do you think the end of all time will be? (if there is such a thing)”
“I don’t know. Have you wondered why we’re all so concerned about time?”
“I suppose it’s because we’re limited by it all the time. At all levels, whether it’s a deadline, an exam or our existence, we’re hounded by it. I believe that’s why we may define ourselves as thinking entities that are given a physical existence that exists in time and space”
“Well said, well said. The wine’s all out, brother. Have you any more?”
“No more wine. Check for whisky in the cabinet next to the spices.”

And he went off to get the whisky and, by practice, the glasses that suit the drink. I got up, fed the dying fire with some coal and old paper, sat down. It was two in the morning by now. He’d kept me up. He’d “broken my routine”; or stayed in the routine of breaking my routine every once in a while – you can put it either way.

He came back with the whisky and the glasses, poured us both a glass, downed his, made a weird noise and poured himself another. He was pretty high on the intoxication meter by now. I could tell. The two of us have been on binges together, some that lasted weeks, so I could tell.
“Are you alright, Mike?”
“Who? Me? Yeah, yeah just give me a minute.” With pleasure, I thought to myself. (his speech was slurring a bit)
We sat in silence. I thought about Mike. He was a pretty handsome chap, still an eligible bachelor, had been in the army, intellectual- a pretty good catch for the average girl. I think he felt my gaze over him, he looked up.
“Wassa matter?”
“Nothing, nothing. Just thinking.”
“I know what you were thinking. You think I’m the perfect li’l boy, don’t you?”
“Who knows? You might be.” I said.
He cocked his eyebrow and looked up from his whisky. “..and I thought I’d drunk too much!”
“No no, thought that IS true, what I meant was, why do you think you’re not perfect? Maybe what you are is actually perfection? What is perfection but an abstract attribute anyway?”
Now, I was blabbering, I knew it.
Mike looked up, “Brother, you prove your blood is mine” and he stood up to shake hands and promptly tripped and fell back into his chair. Enough was enough.
“Alright, Mike. It’s time you go home. Lord knows how long you’ll take to recover from this hangover. You’ve already ruined one night of mine.”
He exclaimed with surprise and a bit of alcohol, “The lord! Ha ha. The Lord knows, does he? Well, well, well.
“Alright, alright, I’ll take you to the door, Matt’ll be here soon, he can take you home. Now hand me that bottle, Mike.”

I was tired by now, we’d been up all night. Matt the milkman will be on his way soon, and can take Mike home. Relief. I stood at the door, with Mike propped against my shoulder. Matt was just coming down the lane from the gate.

“Good morning, Mr.Wilkers, how ar..My my is that..? Well, someone’s been downing a drink or ten, hasn’t he?”
“Yes Matt. Could you do me a favour and take him home, please? I don’t think he can walk anmore.”
“Gladly, Mr.Wilkers. I say, where has he been all night, then? Here? Not one of your usual nightly parleys?”
“Yes, Matt. Quite right. We were talking and the more we spoke, the more we were haunted by our thoughts.”
I sighed. Matt took Mike off my shoulder and on to his.
“Well, lucky me then. I slept soundly and I’m happy about life. Ignorance is truly blissful, ainnit, Mr.Wilkers?” he said. “Well, good morning and have a nice day, Mr.Wilkers. Don’t worry, I’ll get him home safe.” With that he turned around and left.
I was left staring at him and reflecting on his last words – ignorance is bliss. How right you are, Matt, how right you are. Ignorance is bliss and we are condemned to think, us poor bastards. I sighed, took in the morning air and went back inside for my hour of sleep.

The crescent

Early morning, I come out
From in between the sheets
And walk to the glass so stout
And look

I see what I see
A golden crescent against the pale
A thin curve standing out
And wisps of black brought by the gale

A smile creeps, my mind does sing
“Oh, I love my new nose ring” 

:p Thought I'd just do a nonsense poem. Cheers ;)

Of the black headed visitor

He came to me, with his wiry moustache
Coming closer, inevitable was the clash
Gullible fellow, he was my second of the day
Closer, when he was at the end of his way
“ZZZZTTT”, score for the Pest o Flash.

Cry of the Estranged

I feel surrounded-surrounded
By Satan himself; I see him
An embodiment of cruelty, I see him
The glee in his eyes tainted by pleasure
As they watch me writhe in pain
His fires rage on my every side and feed on me
Like parasites sucking out my humaneness

Desperate like the Boy
Who cried Wolf a time too many
I cry out to my nearest ear,
To be answered
By my Echo, fading away

The want to be lulled to tranquillity
Overwhelms my eroding mind
Eroded by the flow of Misery-
A poisoned river of thoughts

My strings of Sanity gave away
I neither fall nor float but rise
Not to stare into empty darkness
But there I was-blinded
By light; by realization

Satan’s fires are burning with my own
The anger and the agony mix
And rage to burn all reason.
I see everything through a madman’s eyes

I mull over my seeming insignificance
In life and Life, both vague
A tear mattered no more
As did anything, in alienation

An effort I did make,
Trying to keep up the pretence in vain
That I was indifferent, oblivious even
To every occurrence that affected
My frail Self- an outright denial

As the fires burned down, I still remained
A formless cluster of lifeless thoughts;
An unquenchable thirst for understanding;
An insatiable desire to be wanted

I live thereon off what Satan’s fury left behind
Morbid thoughts and hopelessness
A strange bliss it may seem, it was all I had;
My own fury left nothing to salvage

Author's note: I do not call this a poem a work of art or a piece of literature. It's just a collection of thoughts written in a frenzy.  

Random scribbles 2

1.So yeah, I look at my friend's blog. She's written poetry. She calls it poetry. I call it poetry. Generally, people call it poetry. She's written truckloads of it. Wait, that's probably not the proper word to use - truckloads, but yes, that is what I find apt for it. She just scribbles around in class and comes up with a poem. She sets a target like one in a week or something.
Now, I'm not commenting on her practices. No sir, that's not what I'm here for. She's pretty good at what she wants to be good at.What this got me thinking, strangely, was -what is poetry?
What I came up with, it's usually a set of broken lines; fragments of sentences that are generally enough to give a shape to the meaning. What that meaning is, well, it's up to you I guess. I've written poems myself, right? And I thought to myself what made my poetry "poetry" and that's the answer I came up with. O_O
Weird, ain't it?

2.Saarang 2010 began and ended. I found it, well, not so great. I enjoyed myself though. I guess I expected too much out of it. Like that "Schokolade machen workshop" (chocolate making workshop, I just like saying it in German), I expected the same you would expect. Well, at the end of the day, I re-learnt how to pour melted chocolate into a given mould. And I paid 50 bucks for it. Honestly people, get a life!
Like I think I've said somewhere in my blog, ( :-p) expectations really ruin you once in a while. Honestly, sometimes I don't even see the point in remaining optimistic anymore. And yet I begin my day with a hope that the shower won't be too cold.

3. Sometimes, I feel it childish myself that I believe that anything that happens, happens for the greater good. But, so far, it's always turned out to be that way. You can ask what about global warming? Well, maybe IT IS for the greater good that the human race becomes extinct. Who knows? On this note, I must mention, do watch "The Age of the Stupid". Really.

Here I shall stop my version of "Nameless Ramblings". Desperate to write something "read-worthy" though.