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

Random scribbles

"The more one says about oneself to the world at large, the less likely it is that any of it is true.

What your Orkut profile says about you is merely who/what you want to be, and not really who you are."

So said my esteemed friend's Orkut "about me".

And esteemed he was for this boggled my mind.

Is everything we do and say pretentious? Is nothing what is really there? Am I who I think I am? Or am I something different? Is what I'm writing my actual thoughts? Or am I writing something I want you to think I'm thinking? Do I introspect? Or do I WANT to introspect? Which me is real? Is there a real me or a real you? Is anything real?

Then it popped.

What is real? Is what we see real? I didn't think so. If you were walking in the dark and saw a rope and mistook it as a snake, what is real? The snake or the rope? The rope? But for the one second that you thought it was a snake, wasn't the snake real? So what differentiates that which is real? What makes the rope real and not the snake? Is it that, later, everyone told you it was a rope, hence the rope? Then if today everyone told you you were God, is your being God real?

Or is it the constancy of the rope being a rope and the snake having been real for a very little time? Is it lifespan that defines reality? In that case isn't everything unreal?

back to the first question. Am I really what I think I am? Or am I something I want to think I am? Does anyone know who anyone is?

But again we think what is real and what is unreal?

No one really knows.

A girl's day out

Out she came from behind
The cloak of darkness dropped
Emerging into the world
Her Sun kissed her morning
And felt her soft cheeks
The sky looking upon
The trees bow low, their flowers fall
Quick to reach the ground below
Lest her feet tread upon earth
The breeze, to her it rushes
Embracing her within itself
Caressing her hair and comfort
And as night descends upon her world,
The moon gently smiles,
Breeze unwilling to let go
She looks at the sky, the stars
Give her the twinkle in her eyes
Before they close and hide her
Again, forever.


I was on a road, on a journey
The world my companion
A lost couple, a decided few
The rest in blinding oblivion

Among the lost I was, and haunted
I felt, knowing there was a place
There are ways, paths plethora
Not knowing which, to that place, takes.

To the past I was chained,
To the Future, addicted
To the Present but blinded
And in confusion I had drowned

Lost I was, no doubt
Lost I had been, no wonder
For at a point of paths three
My instinct did but stutter

The path first seen was
That well trodden, well defined
Respected was he who travelled
Upon it, that place you reached

Second the path was wide
Less trodden upon it had been
Respect it commanded, though
A survivor yet to be seen

For this path though wide,
Was an infant in age, with none
That had traversed upon it could
Claim of having seen the sun

Whether the traveler would
Fall into that pit of looming darkness or
Reach that place of light and joy
Was beyond our knowingness

And yet travelers it had, a select few
For knowledge was necessary
To guide those curious, chiefly for respect
Some for pleasure, some for reasons arbitrary

And then there lay that path other
That which capture my heart and mind
That lay unworn by foot steps
For respect was not its kind

Overgrown it was, weeds of ignorance
Lay strewn, underneath lay the way
The few who took effort, broke their backs
Uncovered that path, feebly seen to the light of day

That the path that lead you to conquer
Self and other, mind and manner
That the path that enticed my curiosity
Challenged my mind and captured my wonder

At that crossroad did I stand
Looking at those pathways three
Looking behind at the people dazed
Looking again at my choices free

Hands that led me till here point down
To that road new, that road infantile
For they found comfort in my walking
On that road at least a mile

My fingers urged my feet down
That path overgrown, mysterious and alluring
Brave I was to think it a choice, they said
For apparently that wasn’t my calling

Amidst this confusion was a hand another
Knew not to guide me but comfort
A silent promise it bore, either way take you
Holding you I’m there, t’ was curt

That the hand was there made
No difference to my strife
But that the hand was there made
All that difference in my life

Too long I stood at those crossroads three
‘Cos down was I pushed that path new
Respect, said the pushing hands
I was pushed, ‘tis true.

Now I find a way strange, so different
From the rest, alienated felt I
Swallowed by loneliness but deserted by tears
The hand that remained saying, don’t cry.