(...)

A fleeting glance of that skin stretched so tight over that perfectly sculpted cheekbone, obscured after as much as a nanosecond by the strands of hair falling over that acid smile.

That was all it took to bring about the weakening of the knees. It took a lot to ease the pain in the joints after that.

And kaleidoscopic dreams played themselves weary in front of my peepholes, induced wholly by that void look of infinity in the eyes of that seamless vision.

The bodily whole stood hypnotized, a puppet staring into the hands of the puppeteer, craving to be just as alive, to be just as capable of having that effect on another.

Veneration was leaking through the breaks in my skin, only just held back by the sheer will to be in control of the surge of vitality flowing through the veins.

The smooth drag of the one aegis on mine, and there I was, taken.

In this feeling lies the path to a personal heaven.

If only I could admit all this to myself.

(The second to last)

I used to be a little intellectually handicapped in that I used to believe that people go through life with some sort of purpose and/or reason to be who or what they are; that they make rational decisions based on knowledge and/or feeling, and that they like to experience the infinity of information.

However, this does not seem to be the case. Everybody has a more important and superfluous agenda. There is always something more decadent to shower their pee over. There is always a little bit left of the last of the dope, always a little bit more of the unmotivated behaviour to be let out the backside. Just another day at the office, sitting there with inherited
opinions that find new heirs everyday through their foul little mouths. Stereotype is a radio station that our dipshitty little heads are tuned in to all day, all night. Remember to say your prayers and go sleep with profanity issuing from your goddamn penis holy Father; and tell them that God sees through all of our sins, but you've got yourself a goddamned motel room right? Because it is the will of God that all of us liberated apes stuff their little poles in holes, for that is the path to heaven and, because God is too holy to watch pornography, and that it is only right that he sit in his little harem of delusion inside most of our heads and watch the show. Oh yes. And pornography is education for our minds. Inflated and contoured, long and stiff. That is what sells the DVD's. That is why they asked us not to look back when we were peeing in
our pants. So we'd be old enought to understand that Freud was right, and that it is okay to driven by the mere desire to desire. So a Pedophile felt me up when I was 12. Big fucking deal. So I was ostracised because I found it invasive to watch a 20 something voicing her orgasm with a snake throwing up inside her. I'm the freak. I'm the victim. I'm good for the
victimization. But no. They're all philanthrophists and with their boundless altruism and the wonder of God, they will erase all my memories and make things better. They will feel sorry for me and they will feel empathy and sympathy and I will cry and hope and cry somemore but in the end I will fall in love with a wonderful girl and she will heal me and rescue me and
coerce me to put myself inside her and then we'll have a kid who will show me the beauty of creation and I will die vindicated and happy with two grandkids peeing over my ashes. But for that to happen, I must talk. I must explain my erroneous ways. I must explain my neuroticism. I must explain why his post is on my weblog. I must deny the fact that I want attention and have them nod in disbelief. I must convince the sceptical.

"Just tell us why"
"Why are you who you are?"
'what is wrong with you?"

Because they're all rational beings who can save me from myself. My parents and my so called friends and everybody else who remembers how happy and content I used to be when I was little.

"You've changed man. You used to be normal. You used to look cute. You used to smile. You used to be able to make friends. why don't you let people in anymore? We're all nice people trying to help you. we'll rub our hands all over your body till you're numb. We'll make you comfortable with your body. We'll come around to fuck you over when you deserve it. Because you do deserve it, man. You deserved everything that happened to you. You deserve that waking nightmare that makes you cry in your sleep. You deserve to be alone because of what you are. You're used. You're stained. You're disposable. And you will be disposed of. You deserve the sudden morbid mood changes. You deserved the delusion that made you tell your best friend all these things 5 years after they happened. You deserved not having the guts to tell anybody for so long. You deserved to have him go away. You deserve the insanity that made you put this up on your whiny little weblog."

I'm a whore then. Except I work for free. Come one, come all. Fuck the freak.

()
I have been thinking about death. Not in a suicidal sort of way, but yes, definitely with a lot of interest. The end of the line. It is an extremely attractive prospect. The blanket of finality, which Life meant to pull over your body all along. The reward that Fate hands to everybody no matter how many babies they made.

Why can't I go there now?

Life is just so old. 18 years. Maybe if I take my pills on time, I'll get to 65. But why? Who am I living for? WHAT am I living for? It is just a tedious, reptitive, insatiable little rollercoaster ride; and at the end of the day, the man at the gates decides that you've come up short and that you're not tall enough to ride anymore.

To hell with you and your ride!! Maybe I just didn't want to ride in the first place.

Yeah. Because we're debilated as soon as we land up in that damned doctor's hands and hung upside down and slapped. Because we don't get choice. Nobody walks up to you with a briefcase and says, "Would you be interested in counting yourself amongst 6 billion other entities, most of which are sordid little excuses for existence? You open your eyes and you see your doting parents smiling at your bloody face. And that's that. There's no redressal column. No complaint box. Everybody who prays to God forgets that God is just Dog spelt backwards. So you land up with Life as a bedfellow, and you procreate to produce more Life and you're doing it because...
...of what?

You are born a slave to a choice that was never given to you.
And there's nothing you can do about it.

But somebody left the escape hatch open. And that hatch leads to death. Do things really get better before they get worse? Because they seem to like being as bad as they can be right about now. So yeah. I could run away. I could procure a knife. Or get a shotgun. Or do a bollywood-esque khud khushi involving rat poison. Then there's always the leap to the gound from 30 stories.

Interestingly enough, there seem to be so many ways to die.
But I still can't seem to find a way to live.

18 years. Barely a life. It seems to happen to me with everything and everyone. Dissillusion is a reiterative rape of my waking perception. I guess it what was just a matter of time before Delusion slapped me across my face in a parting; a clandestine glimpse of the road that lies ahead...just like that doctor who put the summability of reality into that slap he put to my face.
That is all it is in the end. A slap to the face. A slap when you think you can make it through the bullshit to remind you that you are a victim of your own ignorance. A slap to snap you out of all your hopes and aspirations.

I'm cribbing here. Yeah. Well. If you can't expect anything from the people around you, then who do you turn to? I don't have a personal god. Dissillusion tore that concept apart a long time ago. Religion can't be that bad a thing. At least it gives you something to believe in.
I want to break down. I want to stop thinking all these things and go to bed and wake up in a dream. Before that I want to cry and scream and protest and throw up till I'm too sick to open my mouth.

And then maybe I can die in peace. In the solace of a dream. Reality is cheap diluted wine. But it still manages to put me in such a stupor.

I guess that even The Fountainhead wasn't enough. I'm beyond repair.

To everybody who told me they cared, I'm glad you didn't. makes things easier.

I'm not going to die now, though. I still have a couple of things left to do.

So I'll live for myself a little bit.

But just as long as the ropes hold, and just as long as I don't decide to let go.

(The house of 29A)

I do believe that it is time to make an exit.

There is this quote attributed to one Kurt Cobain, "It is better to burn out than to fade away".
I remember telling a certain someone that I would much rather fade away than burn out, and I remember that certain someone saying, "Yes. You'd want that, wouldn't you?".

Well, yes, I would, and, I do believe that I have accomplished that. The certain someone I speak of does not correspond with me anymore. Perhaps it was my fault, but then again, maybe it was for the best. I realize that knowing someone like me can be terribly limiting in an emotional sense. Me and my neuroticism. But no regrets, huh?

In any case, I leave home in tommorow to pursue a higher education in Jurispudence. It is a lot to look forward to; but I can but help to be dragged down by memory.

I hate memories. They are so terribly restraining. I'd like to forget so many people and so many things and so many sordid strains of conversation, and yet, even the desire to forget seems to fall flat in the face of Remembrance.

I went for a play yesterday. It was rather good, I enjoyed it immensely. There were a few people in the cast who I have had the privelage to call acquaintances, and I realized that this was probably the last time I'd ever get to see them. That was a little bit distressing. It was made better however, by the further realization that they were all pretty much oblivious to the fact that this was to be our last meeting ever. The fact that I seemed to be the only one who understood that for what it was turned out to be a little bit of an anticlimax; there I was, sitting there, with my arms folded on my knees, and yet so much a part of the furniture as it seemed. But no regrets. The way I choose to be makes it a crime for me to expect anything from anybody. I have this social handicap to express my care or my concern for anybody I suppose, and that in turn makes it wrong for me to expect the same.

Ah. This brings to mind a quote from the one Maharishi, sourced from one of Dr. Paul Brunton's books-

"When heart speaks to heart, what is there for the mouth to say?"

Unfortunately enough, I have not been able to forge such a dynamic, choosing inhibition and apprehension instead, never being able to overcome the fear of my own inadequacy. If it helps, and if anybody who might care is reading his now, in truth, I cared a lot more than I have ever made known.

I wanted to have somebody to cry on the phone for once in my life. And after everything, after 17 years of not having that, when I finally did, it went away after a year. The only real friend I ever had.

I make it very hard for myself. I know that. But only because I don't want anybody to say that my travesty of a life is not what they had signed up for. I don't let people in very easily. But the few times I did, I guess they had better places to be.

(Interlude)

I have segregated into duality. My other half may be found at-

http://perditionandaday.blogspot.com

PS: I am extremely glad you made it through. I TOLD you so. I am really happy for you. Alive happy, not lively happy :) 

(RE: “Life is a happy place”)

“Life is a happy place”.

Somebody told me that a week or so ago. I don’t remember who it was.

That is not surprising. I get these positive little tenets all the time.

It is rather disconcerting however, that I should remind my self of this in-passing remark at a juncture in my life where the parable seems to have run out of steam. My life is like a book which does not have its last chapter written, and is forever destined to borrow words from the erstwhile hand of a belligerent entity called Fate; and Fate like the vitriolic little prick it is, seems to derive inexplicable mirth in lining the blank pages with the bleakest of inks in order to set out a most morbid conclusion.

But no. Life is not a happy place. Not by a long shot.

“God is in the details.”

“Not mine. Mine is in the process.”

The preceding lines are part of a conversation sourced from a book named ‘The Lost World’ by Michael Crichton. The reason I quote here, and from such a seemingly irrelevant source, is merely to emphasize that the details are indeed, not as important as we would like to believe. To further compromise my train of thought, Happiness is merely a detail, an attribute, and insignificant in its significance.

Life, at least by my understanding of it, is a trifle more than the details, and the reason for that being that there are just too many details to begin with.

There are too many significant things which affect the course of events in any one person’s life so as to hope to learn and breed a conclusion as to the significance of the significance itself, that is to say, there are so many significances, that their summability yields an insignificance in itself.

If I were to examine and analyze the profound events in my life, I would initially be overburdened with the sheer number of such events, and eventually, be beaten down to wallowing about the detrimental ones; the concept of ‘changing’ the things that have happened to you being the chief instigator for such an eventuality.

After all, bitter experiences and memories are terribly difficult to throw in the trash can.

Therefore, in my humble opinion, the happiness and the pursuit, the sadness and the escapism, all these details are collectively responsible for the ill-maintenance of the trackway which causes life to seem like such a thrilling yet decadent roller coaster ride.

I am perfectly capable of finding happiness. But I do not yearn for it, for it provides a very half-baked view of the world. It would be an extremely futile exercise if I were to set it upon myself to wear a smile for the peers and the social meltdown. It would be superficial, superfluous behavior, because in the end, I will never forget the experiences that have contributed to making me the person I am today. And it does not help that they are mostly bitter either. As important as it is to not have your experiences chalk out your life, I also believe that your time should not be spent in pursuing a state of mind completely untrue and alien to what you have felt for most of your life.

I am not a happy person. I am a very angry young man. I have spent most of my adolescence being that way. And if what I go through every day is an indicator, that is the way I will always be. The essential cynic. The detail that didn’t matter in your social microcosm.

Always pulling my teeth on my pseudo-narcotic stick of neuroticism.

Not because I want to, but because it is the only thing I have known for a very long time.

But on the other hand, Life is so much more. It is the feeling you get when you stare into the wondrous wild eyes of your 3 month old niece. It is in the flapping butterfly wings in Peking that cause a thunderstorm in New York. It is in treasuring everybody who walked into your world just to walk out again, just because they took the time to drop by. It is in the stranger you couldn’t convince you loved over the telephone. It is in the pedophile that scarred your perception forever. It is in the mother who cried when she had you, and in the father who was taken by his own creation. It is in the vanity of the pale reflection staring out through the foggy mirror from behind a layer of botox. It is in the lonely little girl who cried her mascara to the ground with her arms around you who you cared for more than anything else, only to have her remain forever oblivious to your feelings. It is in everybody who made you feel inadequate when you needed a little bit of compassion. It is in the bearded twit who shot down ten tourists in the name of dogma and religion.

Yes. That is Life. Not happy. Not sad.

Just unrestrained, unpredictable and experiential. And that is what keeps me going. The chaos.

To be happy is to be lively. I’ll give you that.

But to be alive is so much more.

(Relapse)

Something snapped a couple of days ago. In between long distance therapy and discussions on chaos theory with my father, a feeling of growing apathy towards my surroundings seemed to engulf me.

Looking back on the last few years of my rather nondescript existence, I realized that the world is a very futile and vile place not deserving of more than a passing glance or mention. Society will beat you black and blue in case you choose to defy the norm. It will contort and distort itself just to exist. The entities all around will point fingers when you run around in the rain and make a face when you walk up to them drenched in the nimbus teardrops. They will opinionate about everything from your demeanor to your lack of opinion to your hair to your seclusionary tendencies. There are so many goddamn questions which they seem to want to chuck at you every single minute of your existence.

Why?
What?
Who?
When?
Where?

All the jocks and all the social butterflies will stand around in a circle and perform atavistical rituals in order to make you feel inadequate. And they will succeed. Because you will let them get to you. And then a bunch of these sympathetic, empathetic types will bombard you with advice and ask you to grow some hide. And they will expect you to harden enough to have all the uncalled for criticism bounce right off.

So here’s my question.

Why?

Why is that I have to change to accommodate their sordid behavior? Why do I have to “not let it affect me”? Why do I have to stop being emotive? Why? What is wrong with crying when you are made to feel inadequate? Why is that it is acceptable for a bunch of half-breed little disphit ass-clowns to act like monkeys on crack, while I have to sit there and grow a tank around me? Yeah. Next time them pigheaded twits from the Middle East decide to blow you up, don’t let it “affect” you. Yeah. When you have the bullets stuck somewhere between your heart and liver, walk around singing the Beatles. The next time you’ve bled your skin raw and dry, get back up and clean up the mess with a “Happy to help” hanging from your blasted neck.

The only way around this seemingly endless stretch of pot-hole ridden road is to thrive off it. To accept it. To resign. To submit to the subversion. And that is what I have been doing for half my life. Living off my own decay.

But no more. I don’t care anymore. It is not that it will not affect me. However, in the end, the only reason why it doesn’t matter is because of where it comes from. From intellectually-handicapped dolls with aggregate opinions. From the frustrated adults with non-existent issues. From wayward little adolescents. From social butterflies with two pounds of make up slapped across their pale cheeks. From junkies too high on themselves. From ignorant, futile individuals trying to satiate their own infirmities through their pathetic excuses for lives.

So yeah. Go ahead. Shoo me away. Opinionate. Do whatever the hell you want with your seemingly limitlessly limiting imaginations. I don’t give a damn anymore.

I don’t care about therapists or retrogressive sheep or names that start with “S” or anybody else for that matter.

It is about time I lived my life on my terms. I don’t care if I sound arrogant or cruel or egotistical. I just don’t want to hurt anymore.

And I will never go back there again.

Disclaimer: I am forced to add this because of the onslaught I have received on my web log and the real world with regard to the contents of this post.

This piece of grammatical composition has nothing to do with ‘Playhouse’ or any of its activities. The one person it primarily has to do with, already knows it does (and that person is NOT one Sriyanka Ray).

AS much as I believe that any creation should be open to individual interpretation, I find it rather distressing that people would choose to conform to such far-fetched aggregate opinionated products of their erstwhile imaginations. So therefore, I would ask concerned parties to not tax their intellects in looking for the subliminal or otherwise between these lines, because these lines are merely the result of a realization that I had a while ago (as the very first paragraph states with extremely efficient and legible wording); and that assuredly, I do not care enough about the alien opinion to justify myself at all, and the only reason I choose to do so is because I am sick and tired of young upstarts who choose to taint my comments pages under the nom de plume of ‘Anonymous’.

So have a nice life, or a happy one or a sad one or just go to hell (I couldn’t care less anyway), and stop reveling in the belief that I care enough to write about you here.

Because I don’t.

Cheers.

(The Therapist)

I whisper to the fleeting wind.

With thoughts lost in translation.

Therapy turned away in dismay.

A goddess uncloaked.

But in turn I am but a pauper made up.

Ah. But not one look. That hurt a little bit. That hurt a lot.

Not worth the while, am I?

Told you so.

I don’t want to talk to anybody.

I don’t want to meet anybody.

Never again will I believe.

I don’t care anymore.

(Answer)

In case anybody ever wondered,

Yes.

I do play an essential role in your social microcosm. I give you a web log to make fun of.

I provide you with fodder for your super-egotistical little wholes.

So feed off the whore. Call me out for merely existing.

I am the difficult child. I am the pariah.

Yup.

But no.

I am not suicidal. I don't hurt myself. Not anymore.

Because somewhere along the line, someone decided that my life is my punishment.

(Eclipse)

It has been a while since I added to my karmic debt in the form of alter-ego musing on this web-page. That may be attributed (not that anyone reading this cares) to the fact that the last couple of weeks brought me an alien feeling of exuberance, which, although novel in its unveiling, has resulted in more questions than answers.

I spent early May with 20 odd entities engaging in esoteric exercises under the banner of 'Playhouse'. It was rather liberating. Especially this one exercise we were made to do involving a systematic tensing up of one's anatomy and subsequent release in the form of vocal dissonance. I enjoyed that. I was rather surprised at how much fury and anger I had buried inside. I did scare myself with that one.

The two days I spent doing the above were rather uneventful, save for an undercurrent of hostility sourced from a section of the group who had issues with my presence. But no, I wasn't nearly as oblivious as I might have been thought to have been by them. In any case, I resolved the root dispute a couple of weeks later, and am on amiable terms with the concerned entity; an occurrence which I am glad I was able to bring about, for I genuinely desired an amicable conclusion to the debilatory course of events. I also spent most of the workshops sitting in a corner, and I also made it a point to not introduce myself to anybody. In retrospect, this behavior of mine probably caused the birth of a rather questionable opinion in all those present who cared to opine about the matter; and I do hope that not too many cared enough to do so, because I certainly couldn't care about how esoteric or just plain weird I was perceived to be. Besides, I have come to realize that the only people who matter are those that bother to stick around for the second impression no matter how alienating the first might be; and there aren't too many of that kind.

The next few days brought the rather undeserved fruits of my academic prowess over the last year in high school. The education system though I was worthy of an 85.5 % even though my study routine involved a hesitant at best glance through the contents of my rather corpulent science textbooks. Just goes to show you how much they suck in Delhi. In any case, the only subject I cared about handed me a 96 on my marksheet, the subject being English. This was a surprise, considering my essay had to do with a psychopath and a gun-wielding pastor who shot him.

In any case, my unexpected academic achievements had me rolling around in fields of exuberance with a yet to be had ‘Sun’ shining down on my bodily whole. I indulged in the painful vice called socializing after years of solitary confinement. Heck, I even smiled.

And then, two days ago, I decided to throw it all away. You’d think I’d have it figured out by now.

But no.

I had to go and do it again.

What did that get me? No, I didn’t retreat into my shell again, I built a frigging fortress and dug a moat around it, and made like the black cat the blind philosopher looks for in the dark room that isn’t there in the first place and retreated into the cellar with 23 padlocks on its door.

The things I do.

After a tearful spurt of deep contemplation I realized that what that 16 year old boy said to me last year is true, and that I do deserve what I get. I’m a stupid little freak who doesn’t know where he’s going or how to get there. Why does it fail to pervade my arrogant, belligerent little head that there are some things that are not to be had? That it isn’t worth running after something you will never be able to revere or care for enough to deserve to have. That there is no Sun, only Hope; and it is Hope that pushes my head down into delusion and claims to hide the light in its shadows, when all it does is eclipse reason and logic and the fundamental truth that I JUST PLAIN SUCK.

Because life isn’t beautiful. It is hateful and disillusioning and it is a bunch of fagots running their hands all over my anatomy while I sit and stare; feeling my screams turn to whimpers by the time they leave my mouth; while my thoughts rape me so bad that I bleed transparent tears from my eyes.

And no, that is not what makes it more interesting. It makes it a sordid little ingratiable story of Hope and Faith.

A couple of days back, it used to be easier to laugh about it than to cry about it.

But yeah, people care.

I’ll give them that.

But no one cares enough.