Depression

A cold grey haze seems all that can be seen of the landscape. Perhaps one's corporeal environment mirrors the scape of one's mind. Even colours die, choking to their gasping demise as they straggle towards the infinite tunnels of my vision. The world is a bright place, just unfortunate that the only light is a dull gray. All colours are white they say, and no colour? Black or white? Or is any monochrome a monotone?

And music? Does the mind still dance with once-loved strains or does past happiness become just a reminder of loss? A stark contrast or momentary relief? How does one look at it? How SHOULD one look at it? SHOULD one? Is there a should? Should there be a should? Is that statement a loop?

For if shoulds shouldn't be, then in shouldn't i.e 'not should' the should already exists...

Hence shoulds exist. Or should exist.

Ok. Back to life... Or un-life.

Winter: The arrival!

As if on cue, the famed Delhi fog arrived white and cold on the 1st of January. The cold changed from being an honest, biting, straightforward old fella to being this insidious, creeping sneak who manages to get under the skin and in your clothes. Damp. And to think this is the month I was born in!

On a windy morning

A gentle breeze wafting by
A picture of everything
Reflected in one's eye
And the windy blow does bring
My bitter-hardened heart to sing
About myriad-frivolous things
And the said breeze does ring
The bells of memory
Chronicler of my life passing by

The Forgotten

The lights of the Road from far away seem
Like jewels from necklaces of forgotten queens
As they lie buried beneath below
Underneath centuries of dust, trod long ago
Who knows what memories they hold
Of lives lived, loved, joys and sorrows untold
What mountainous heights scaled and depths plumbed
What pleasures experienced, temptations succumbed
Their lives lived, in the halls of time placed
Their memory no more but not yet erased
A little flower of joy does spring
A little bird of hope yet sings
Of their wondorous lives lived so long ago
As they lie buried, cold and dark below
And these harbingers are descended from old
Ancestors who sang and flowered in those days of gold
While no men remain alive, of them to sing
Yet in the earth, the rocks, the trees those notes yet ring
Of a time of love and loss and war and shadows
Yet the setting sun in the brightest day glows
And none save birds are left to sing
Beneath the tombs of the Forgotten Kings

Cognitarium

Stumbling upon a consciousness
With the mind numb
And thoughts darting, forking fast
Inside the flaccid congitarium

Finding, seeking, hunting a rhythm
to escape a truth now out of scope
So that the new reality burns out
any possibility of hope

Pain brings sensation not sorrow
Hence it's purpose is void
Thus it is nulled, humbled, mastered
It's reason for existence destroyed

We seek eternally, the meaning of time
Searching, gathering to the limit of ability
And as its scope expands limitless, we become
Prisoners of our own infinity...

Delusions

The grey clouds part
Comes out no hopeful ray of light
But a piercing blast of hated heat
And with it our hopes depart
Oh cursed land!
Barren of hope and freedom
Why must we dwell
In thy cruel unyielding bosom
While our dreams lie dead, cold and fell.

As the traveller of the dusty roads
reaches the end of his journey
and for the last run his mind goads
Him, for truth is near, he is weary
And the righteous victim finds
that the author of this most gruesome of deeds
the defiling hands that perperated these crimes
are his own

For when along the dagger-path you walk
when you teeter beside the razors edge
Both sides are one
Both sides emerge
equally dark in the abscence
of opportunity
And that last instrument of denial
fades through the blood-stains of time
A futility called hope...

Quotations

"...I hate the sun on principle: it gives little choice and permeates noxiously into every aspect of existence. Driven by our NEED for light we are forced to accept unwanted unneccessaries alongside the satisfaction of our ravaging, primal need..."

"...reading is like masturbation, rarely does one orgasm but one keeps repeating in quest for that first earth-shattering experience..."

"...thought is the sole posioner of deed. An excess: leading to hesitancy and over-calculated error; little, to risk..."