Tag Archives: random thought

Damsel in distress

Serene environs.

Silence broken by the gushing water

falling down the rocks…

amidst green, secluded space,

stands the damsel in distress…

Unperturbed by the chaos in the vicinity,

un-amused by all the beauty at her doorsteps.

Fighting some futile tireless mind-battles,

over-stressed. Ungrateful.

Oblivious of all the gifts.


I want you in your entirety

“Love has nothing to do with keeping those you love around”, they say. Dare I disagree?

It has a lot to do with that I swear. For, the moments spent with the loved one around are magical. The delightful company is beyond paranormal, mystic.

You wish you lose sense of all. And flow with the stream, getting carried away in your emotions losing all control, driven away with the wind to no man’s land where there is no one to judge and no one to grudge. And all that is left and all that matters is all of them in their entirety.

Where consequences become inconsequential and the sense no longer makes any sense and what you end up attaining is insane level ecstasy.

Notwithstanding you’re not a moth meant to burn and blaze, still after all this, all you crave is getting completely consumed into the flame, and cease to exist. And begin to coexist.

You wish times could stand by and places could fly. Since your souls already take off for a journey high over vales and places you have never been to before.

You wish you could dissolve into them and transform into one single entity like the moonlight dissolves into the sea and ends up in an absolute majesty.

Possessing someone, they say is not a fair deal.

However, when you possess me and I possess you and the sense of possession even for mere mortal second, however short-lived it may be is unimaginably euphoric and inexplicably ecstatic and exotic.

I have had the taste of obsession, relinquished myself of drinking on the idea of sustaining reputation, since it’s not just about infatuation.

It definitely is about something beyond any realms of obsession, madness or just the corporal fascination.

The sensations you invoke have been invoked by none, ever. And it’s not certainly a passing fancy. What fortifies the passion is the reason that sensations from the barter of the minds, thoughts and dreams emanate. And a lot more that words fail to elucidate.

I possessed for some moments and got possessed. I really did. And in your entire entirety.

I definitely had you in all your entirety. Your fullness and halfness. Your parts and pieces. The sides you hide from yourself and the sides you hide behind. I have had you in all your entirety and without having to touch you for even once.

A woman of multi shades that you are and I have had you in all your colors. Your goodness and your depravity. Your madness and sanity. Your lowliness and vanity. Your laughter and anger. Your grace and grandeur. Your whims and your certainty.

I have had you in all your entirety. And I wanted it to last. And I wanted it bad.

I have had you in all your entirety. I have had you in your breaks and scars, parts you have left behind and pieces you have yet to find.

I put you apart into the pieces and wrap myself up in them having knit the unbreakable knot and keep you within once and for all. Until all that is left around of you is me, and all that is left around of me is you.

I have traced the thoughts of your heart and the pulses of your mind and pull them out thread by thread until all that is left is you and me.

I have had all of you all at once and then pieces of you scattered into days after you’re gone so that there is always a piece of you that is part of me. I have had you in all your entirety.

I want you in all your entirety. I want you in all… and I want it bad… and I want it to last… and I…

Zdzisław Beksiński (copyrights inherited by Muzeum Historyczne w Sanoku) - 1984

Zdzisław Beksiński (copyrights inherited by Muzeum Historyczne w Sanoku) – 1984

And I write and erase and…

I do have to start writing about you. And I do write and erase, and write and erase and write and erase or throw it away into trash and dump it away in a quagmire of nothingness.

That’s where it all including the scribe, that matters not, belongs – an absolute oblivion and hollowness.

Before it all meets its ironic fate, I have written innumerable blogs, scores of broken poems, beautiful little stanzas, dirty half a dozen passages, cents of dreamy essays, fairy-tallish stories and spell-binding prose.

Magnificently bewitching, maddening, marvelously magical, magnetic and mesmerizing.

Self-praise may not be a recommendation in the world of sanity. But my dearest one… all that is about you, and all that is about me thinking about you, is majestic beyond bounds. And I need no judge, not at all, without any doubt.

I have to have a means of expression, for the best of intentions, in all your admiration that to you again matters not. All that I do is all I have to do and I do it for myself and nothing more.

I write and annihilate a big assembly of phrases, crush a crowd of courteous clauses and sentence to death an emotional mob of sentences, and I know what I am doing.

At least, it makes me realize where I am heading. What keeps my existence where it belongs is dumping it all away. And I know what I am doing.

Singing an invitation of insanity with the flames I find at your door, I write and erase.

The door that gets farther the closer I move while the flame gets nearer than ever. And the warmth do I savor. But I am not a moth meant to burn and blaze. And cast the flames of your door any blame.

In a losing race as the scribe would put it, the writings and scribe keep draining, dripping through the ink, streaming, flowing before eventually getting sunk, numb and lifeless.

That’s how it works; self-annihilation to be precise.

And it hurts, and it hurts, and it hurts. But still, I write and erase and I write and erase… everything that I am supposed to say… and nothing that I am supposed to say… nothing.

Kimya – into the oblivion

Kimya, oblivious of what was coming next, fell in love and fell in love with, God knows how to explain and/or personify, the inexplicable. The object of her love was brighter and fierier than the sun; grace more than that of the moonlight and charm as good as that of stars. Kimya’s mortal self, in contrast, was as humble as a setting sun, a fast disappearing new moon visible for a quick run and/or stars amidst clouds hiding. Despite a contrast being as shocking one, the setting sun vanishes leaving a hope of rising again, the new moon of becoming full, and the stars of getting rid of the clouds and attaining the similar lost attention. Kimya’s ascent and zenith meant, with the beloved, a perfect union.

Write! Good, bad or trash; that is secondary

As if lost in the wilderness, sitting solitary, counting stars, thinking of things never thought before, overwhelmed with stark dark, in a room no better than a refuge, obsessed with the astounding silence of night, with a pen and paper in hand, headphones rolled over the ears, music in the background, oblivious of what is being listened to, writing in the dark, no idea what, but writing. And, still as if doing nothing!

The pal’s already set to sleep, lights switched off, no wish to turn them on either. For, it feels blithe to be in the dark, everybody loves it; everyone’s in the dark. Some know it, others know not.

I want to write and writing in the dark, without even a second thought. Writing extempore has its own charms. Yes. I want to write, I really do. Should darkness keep me from doing? Never going to let it do. Nothing is going to hold. So, here I am, writing. Writing what? Nothing actually. Funny as it sounds it is. But still writing. Maybe it’s because, want slumber to stay afar. And keeping engaged serves the purpose.

Lo! Just noticed this computer screen. Keyboard lying at an arm’s length. And I want to write, and write in distress of the dark. Type, should I? But I won’t type either. Writing over typing, always. Notwithstanding most of the work lately, I often do with keyboard, still prefer Pen and Paper over Keys and Screen. Especially when want my mind to vomit, to speak my mind, I mean. So, writing in stark dark.

Darkness baffles me, however. It still has its own mysterious mystic magnificence. I have no idea where I am heading but the important thing is I am. Writing, I still am.

Hey wait! Is it a waste of time, when one doesn’t even know what they are doing or where they are heading? Nay, not so.

An utterly unsung and unheard voice echoes which says, everything one does is indeed worth something if nothing. The activity needs to be there, that is all what matters. It nevertheless may sound purposeless for reasons very apparent, but anything involving some activity has latent perquisites, much significant. Action is important, it’s lively. Stagnation is lifeless, tedious as death.

Tonight’s object is to write. Good, bad or trash, that is all secondary.

It is setting off for sweet sojourn that is more important rather than day-dreaming; of flowery paths. Or dreading barriers and bottlenecks, and never even kicking off for the journey.

So here I am, flowing with the wind, at its utter mercy. Where ever it takes, all set to be driven away. Like a leaf that sets itself free; keeps rolling and rustling with the wind; and damn cares about its destiny. Destiny, after all it’s bound to be. Therefore my pal! Ending up somewhere is way better than being nowhere, don’t you feel?

Key to Writing

Key to Writing