Thursday, December 31, 2009

Guffaw, Non-Sensical Guffaw

Sense seldom makes sense
What people like
Has a right to stay on
Losers be gone.
Fighting solves fights
Peace makes you smile?

Humble beginning is.
Glorious end may be.
Classical examples vary with time.
Classic now becomes modern tomorrow.
Non-sensical? Guffaw of pleasure.

White stone on brown ground
A new freedom - newly found.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

A Joke

What, is a joke?
Is it laughter?
A friendly poke?
Unintended or intended?
A gag?
Or tears concealed?
A line of teeth revealed?
Sadness repealed?
Deadly gashes healed?
A mask resembling you?
Beginning of joy?
An expression coy?
A sad, useless toy?
What, is a joke?

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Stress Buster

Modern life is tough. If you want to make your dog happy with white bones, kiss your wife goodnight with a smile on your face, and shake your business partner's hand whenever you greet him, all in one day, you'll need a special someone. And that's special someone is what I will call a Stress Buster.

You might meet him anywhere. In the city. Or in the town. You will recognize him as the guy who does not have a job. I mean, a real job, like yours. His job is only to Stress-Bust. You go to him, wave a 5 rupee in his face, and he sits down beside you. He starts massaging your knees because he can tell you have hurt them. He knows that by looking at your face, by looking at the creases on your forehead. He will not smile, will only look down and keep massaging your knees until you tell him off with a curse. You might want to hit him across the face with your briefcase (brown leather, body fabricated in pure aluminium), but he runs away. He keeps running for a while, and then turns and checks if you are still there. If you are, he comes back running again and kisses you on the cheek (if you let him). Then he leaves.

Sometimes, you see him in your office, sweeping the cigarette ash off the floor. The floor is brown mosaic set in pure white granite (which cost the company 700000 rupees more than it was allowed to use during the year the office was built in). The sweeper (who cost the company 7000 rupees less than he should have the month his mother died) never gazes at you when you gaze at him. He sometimes notices how your mustache looks when he sees you, but he laughs only when you have turned away. But why am I telling you this? I'm telling you that the guy (the sweeper guy, the guy who laughs sometimes behind your back) can Stress-Bust you. But only when you want him to. If you tell him that your floor is clean enough, and wink, he will come to you. But he will come only after he has cleaned his hands. The hands that cleaned your granite floor.

So, he comes and sits beside you. Then he takes out his mother's old handkerchief and wipes your sweat off your forehead until your eyes have relaxed. Then, he switches off your computer (he hasn't met the shut down command yet, so he just holds the power plug with his handkerchief and pulls it out). As you meet his eyes for the first time, he smiles. He looks right into your eyes, and smiles. Then, he closes your eyes, and takes you into the dark space behind your eyelids. Then, a second later, he takes you into the sound of the chainsaw whirring in his hand. You jump out of your seat, and your eyes say a frightened hello to the chainsaw. The chainsaw grins, with the sun on its teeth. You can't grin back. Now you can only wipe your forehead with your own handkerchief and switch your computer on. It won't open. It got its power cord whirred off. Or cut off. Whatever.

Stress can be very over-powering and you don't want to drown in stress, do you? You need a peaceful life, with your wife grinning at you. No, your wife smiling at you. I know you hate the word 'grinning'.

Let's get to what I know about you. I know that you have a friend who has chronic pain in his back. From sleeping on bunk-beds. In the army. You did not go to the army as a young man, because you did not like your country. You came to the city instead. You love your city. It has automatic toilet-paper dispensers, small, accessible restaurants where you can get fat glasses of chilly Coke, and of course. Your city now has the most number of Stress Busters in the world. Yes, I read it in the Guinness Book of World Records.

Mountain climbers are fun people to talk to. They are happy, well-built, muscular, stupid, muscular and well-built. And yes, they have a good sense of humour. You might have met one in the little coffee shop across the road from your house. Of course, you would not have recognised him. Ever since he had legs amputated, he only gets out of his condo on weekends. He takes a crutch-walk on the same road you take a leg-walk on. The shiny, new road which was built by road-rollers imported from the UK. So as he is taking his crutch walk, he stops at this flower shop. He picks up a rose, smells it, and keeps it in his pocket. Just as the shopkeeper is about to shout at him, he turns and pays him. Then he smiles, smells his rose once again, and steps out with his crutch-legs. He notices you on the pavement. you are gawking at him. Your mouth is open.

You get talking, and eventually you offer him coffee at your favourite coffee shop, right in front of your house. He accepts the offer, and you get to prove to him how well you know your city. He reads your mind and tells you immediately that he was born here. You are shocked. You never thought amputated people were born here. But he tells you he wasn't amputated by birth, but lost his legs due frost bite. He tells you how cold it is atop the Everest, and you shiver. Not from the cold in his talking, but from the clink-clank of his crutch-legs.

You sit at the coffee shop for an hour and chat. You go up to the counter and pay the bill, happily. You are satisfied with your day now. When you get back to him, he is grinning. Yes, grinning. He lifts one of his crutch-legs and keeps it on your forehead. He is grinning. You say you are sorry and will not be late for work again. He grins wider. You feel tears coming into your eyes. You tell him that you are sorry you played online basketball with your online friends. He grins wider. He now starts shaking his head from side to side. From the left side to the right side. He is grinning.

You are lying on the floor, and the crutch-leg man is walking away. He is the best Stress Buster you have known. Because, for the first time, a person has been able to Stress-Bust you. You feel your eyes drooping, and your legs loosening, and your hands opening, and your heart slowing down. Down. You are Stress-Busted.

You reach heaven, and meet the person who wrote the Guinness Book of World Records. He never grins. He says grinning is the most hated expression both in heaven and on the earth.

You make trips to hell on weekends. There, you meet your wife, who has learnt how to play online basketball. Sometimes you see your kids around, carrying pocket-sized chainsaws. You are disgusted and you rush back to heaven.

The Guinness Book of World Records man introduces you to your fortune teller. Your fortune teller introduces you to a crystal ball. The crystal ball says you are going to be a Stress Buster the next time you go to the earth.

You are given a chainsaw, two crutches, a wide grin, and a pair of painful knees.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Untitled

The mysteries of the mind
Are as baffling
As the hardest quest without.
The thinker, then, must find
Like doer does
Failure, struggle - and doubt!

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Heart

The heart, when in glee
When in passion, flows
Hears solely what it wants
Sees only what it seeks

And purposeless, it flies
For the love of flight
Defiant, stares at the sun
Until blinded by light

Humming, it sings
Madly it sways on the wind
Breathes in gallant vigour
That sweet love brings!

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Beauty?



All alone and hungry
This life, a dreadful fight
Shambles are ugly supports
In crumbs, I find delight

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

On Yearning

Your sight did my eye regard
In all its humble wonder
And my heart gaily supplied
All that rest, hid under

You did, you moved, oblivious
You came, you saw, you went
My eye shone with a smile
That your dear sight me lent

My mind of thought gave way
To a heart of soaring flight
Such, was your pure splendour
Such your beauty's might

And heart, ran here to farther
Completing your being's perfection
Whatever fit you best
It held in close selection

And thus, by sweet deception
It was by you won over
You became its sole purpose
Its one and only lover

But your beauty was fiction
Imagined your stainless sight
Your in-lying love, illusion
Your face, folly of light

Just my vein carried a passion
My heart was love's breeding ground
My yearning was only reason
For all sweet love around

Friday, October 30, 2009

Murder Mystery

I read my first novel in class 6. I read this Hardy Boys mystery story. You know, a mystery story about two brothers, where they solve a case and all. I remember where I was sitting when I finished it. I was sitting in a sofa in my house, with afternoon sunshine pouring in through the window. I sat biting my finger-nails, turning the last few pages. And when I finished it, I sat there with the last page open for about 10 minutes. I don't know why, but I guess there wasn't much else to do after you finished a novel - a mystery novel at that.

And then, in the months following that one, I read quite a few novels. It was mostly Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew at that time. I read in the bus to school every morning, with every other guy in the bus gaping at me. They thought I was a mad person to be reading books in a goddamn school bus. For them, school buses were where you tittered at how your friend's tie was all crooked, or where you laughed on SMS jokes, or where you even puked. But you never read on school-buses. And sometimes I would go to sleep while reading. And when I woke up, I'd have a crowd of people standing near me, observing, no, analyzing my face. And then, as soon as I woke up, they'd run away, giggling. I'd feel this strange, sharp thing in my heart - I don't know what exactly. Shame? Regret? Anger? I don't know. I'd keep sitting there looking out of the window for a couple of minutes, avoiding their eyes. And then, I'd pick up my book and start reading again.

When I read at home, I usually read in bed. I'd lie on my side and read. All afternoon, all evening, and sometimes all night. When my father saw me reading, he always asked me the same question. "What is this? Is this an age to be reading novels at?" And I'd go quiet as hell, or just utter something like "Oh, Papa." and keep on reading.

I have this great friend called Raghav, and he was the one I got into reading with. We'd exchange books. I've probably read every single book he ever owned. We were desk-partners at school. Best friends. Best book friends. Best tiffin friends. Best fight friends.

I've never had a fight with anybody except Raghav. He usually won, but I wore on for some while before I gave in. He'd punch me in the abdomen, while I'd push him against the wall and try to kick him in his legs. Once we got fighting in class during lunchtime, and it was quite a show. Everybody watched. Some girls saw us with wide eyes, talking with each other and frantically waving their hands. There were geeks watching us, with their pencils stopped in mid-sentence. And heck, there were even some people eating while they watched us fight. It was insane, man. I never got hurt in any of those fights. But I hated those people's guts. Those people who watched the two of us fighting while they ate. I wish I could throw their tiffins in their face sometime.

And we started writing a book once. Me and Raghav. It was all crap you know. Just some strange old story about 5 kids solving a mystery. We got too loaded on Enid Blyton just then, and thought we could write something like that. All bullshit. You could never write like Enid Blyton. She made everybody go crazy with her stories. She wrote over 700 stories. I read only about 50 of them, but I can tell you. She was good.

So, point is, it was before I was even 13 that I tried writing my first book. Isn't that crazy. Crazy as hell, if you ask me. How many kids in school try writing a novel. They are more into writing numbers, and those "difference-betweens" you get in geography all the time. "Differentiate between Alluvial Soil and Red Soil". Yeah, all those things. Nobody even reads. Some people might wanna write something sometime if they only read. But the point was, nobody read in my school. They just preferred watching people read in school buses. And making them nervous all over, almost making them piss in their pants. No, nobody read.

So I was crazy as hell in school. I couldn't do without reading a book everyday. It was insane. I read like a maniac. My mom would have to lock my books up to make me go out and get some exercise. Sometimes, when I read too much, she'd talk about burning my books. And then I'd say something stupid like "Oh you wanna burn my books? Why don't you burn me instead?" And then, she'd go cold for a second. Then she'd come running to me and slap me on my face. And then, I'd go sulky for a few hours, until she came to me with smiles, toffees and big warm hugs. It was beautiful then.

Once I went up to my school librarian with an Agatha Christie book in my hand, and asked her what they were about. She called me aside for a minute, and then she wrote down on a sheet of paper she had. I still remember what she wrote. It was just two words - "Murder mystery". I instantly got why she hadn't said those two words aloud and written them down instead. She probably did not want the other kids to hear her. Especially, those wimpy, giggly girls who only came to the library to giggle and roam around barefoot. That day, I took "And Then There Were None" home. I distinctly remember going back in the school bus that day. It was raining, and my shoes were really muddy and all. I got out my Christie book out of my bag as soon as I sat down. And I read it, all the way home. It had very weird English. And it had very weird characters and all. I don't remember that much about the book anymore, but I remember the day I started reading it. It was raining, and my shoes were dirty, and there were thick droplets of muddy water on the windows of my school bus.

Books have always had me. They have comforted me, been friends with me, and all that grown-up kinda crap. All that serious, made-up bull. No. No. Books have not comforted me. They have not been friends with me. Oh, no.

I just liked reading, you know. Just like I liked those fights with Raghav, and those big wet kisses from my mom. Yes, there was once a time when I read to live. I took all the crap from my school bus mates to read. Yes, I read a story about 10 deadly, bloody murders on an island when other kids were giggling and roaming around barefoot. And Then There None. By Agatha Christie. Murder Mystery.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Innocence

I wake up, and as soon as I get out of bed I know something is wrong. I look around, dazed, for a couple of minutes. The mirror shows me the two big scars I have on my face. I hide them with the back of my hand. The window shows me the light of the day has left for good. A black mosquito flies restlessly between the glass pane and the steel net. The fan makes reluctant rounds, murdering the silence.

I step outside. The ground is chilly, and my feet are scared of going further. I choose to stop and look beyond. The sun is setting. Tall trees are heavy with motionless birds. The redness of the sun speaks of fiery sadness inside him. He cries. Of battles lost, and wounds freshly won.

I turn away from the mortal sight, afraid of damaging my vision. I rush inside, and leap into the warmth of the bed. My back feels at home again. I let my hair fall on the pillow, awry and wild. I close my eyes.

And I see springy, green grass laid out. In welcome of skipping, joyous rays of the rising sun. I see water abound, fresh with the smell of the mountains, with the stories of little squirrels. And I see mosquitoes wandering hither and thither, insatiable in their search for elusive moments of glory.

And then I start. For I see myself. Crumpled on the green grass, with my hands at my heart. And I see the oblivion in my face. I see innocence. I see white, pristine toes with ants crawling on them, communing with their sweet nature and one of its parts, me.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

If You Will

Get me if you will
Hang me on your wall
Keep me till I fall
Bury me
Deep in your mind

Hurt me if you will
Rip my throat
With a sword so sharp
just like the guitar
Murdered the harp

For if I stay on tonight
I'll make the night
Darker than you want it
I'll grab the dark and feed it
And fill your eyes
With poison so harsh
That you will wander naked
On a cold, dark marsh
Unaided by hope of any kind
Bruised in your body
In your mind

So get me if you will
Resent me not
'Cause I will not relent
Like the fairy who went
And killed herself in the fire
Burning in the hearts of hearts
Of men who liked her not

So get me if you will
Play your own cards
Grab your fate tonight
For it is an endless fight

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Song of Solitude

Wonder all night for all that we
Could be or could never be
Wipe rogue sleep from drooping eyes
Turn sight inside, observant, towards me.

Cast a shadow on plains sunlit
Play games of charm, of art, of wit
Of vicious character, of pomp you could be
Or exude sweet love from every pore, from every bit

Plain as light it might not be
But should you try, you will see
For providence pray, in your cocoon stay
Hold your self, smile, just be.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Floating Farther

In a field of rice a reaper stands alone
Goaded into silence, a singer stands alone
Looking with glassy eyes, actor stands alone
Birth on her lips, a mother stands alone

Jiving with darkness, a friend stands alone
Making silken marks, a painter stands alone
Wind in her bones, dreamer stands alone
Joking with kindness, a joker stands alone

Praising a violent valley, painter stands alone
Humble as hunger, child stands alone
Buying a gram of peace, fighter stands alone
Blood seething from lips, poet stands alone

Nascent, burning, hollow youth
Stands alone

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Bittersweet Rhapsody

Very much on the verge of death
At the end of an ugly life
I turned in my bed, coughed
And said this to my wife

Oh you know, I was once a child
I was moody, sleepy, slow
Indignant, mindless, brash
With a bag of dreams in tow

People said I’d bloom
All I needed was rules
Large, sweet success would visit
All I needed was to keep at it

Mom ladled soup on my plate
Dad smoked his pipe
I was on a wrecked ship, dreaming
I was just a different type

Accusations of inaction
Stares of disgust
I took it all with a smile
I tested my patience, I tested my guile

Lying here in your arms
A wretched dead old man
A mess of bones
A carcass of a dreaming man

Weird, shapeless, useless bard
A sentry standing guard
A mind of endless fear
From life long and hard

I wouldn’t say it feels so bad
Well after all, it was to be
I found what was good for me
Was that it was always you and me

When I look at you
I find my peaceful river
Hunger ends and joy begins
Fear loses, happy hope wins

Hold me still when I die
Hold me dear, hold me high
Take this stinking carcass within
And let a rapturous peace begin

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Untitled

I was walking into the desert sun. The horizon was dunes of sand, shining in all their yellowy brilliance. There was no water in sight.

She was walking beside me, with her head on my shoulder. It kept bobbing up and down.

"Hmmm... ", she moaned. "Water. Do you see it?"

"Ahh... no. Not yet, anyway" I said.

"Oh my God. This reminds me of that really long poem." she said.

"Oh which one? The Rime of the Ancient Mariner?" I said, looking at her hair. It shone in the sunshine.

"Yeah. By William Wordsworth."

"No, sorry, my dear. It is by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who happened to be friends with this Wordsworth guy."

"Oh. You know so much, man. Don't you rock?" she said, and gave me a wink.

"There's one thing I still don't know, though."

"What why?"

"Why does the absence of water in the desert remind of you of the poem."

"Ohh, that. I don't know. Maybe there was this thing about water in that poem."

"Yeah, there was this line - 'Water water everywhere, not a drop to drink'. But that was said in the open ocean, not the desert."

"Yeah. But it gives you the same vibe. A parched throat is a parched throat, in the middle of an ocean and in the middle of a desert."

"Yeah. Anyway, I've always thought a desert is similar to a sea."

"Really? Why is that? No, why in hell is that?"

"Because a camel is called the ship of the desert."

"What? Did I hear you right?"

"Yes, you did."

"Oh, man. How awesome!"

"What? You liked this?"

"Liked what?"

"The thing about the camel."

"No. I mean, yes, I loved it."

"It was a joke, for God's sake. A sad joke, a really sad joke."

"No, it wasn't. It was beautiful."

"How in hell can that be beautiful? You're putting down all beautiful things, for God's sake." I said incredulously.

"No. I am not. I found this beautiful. And you can't tell me what to find beautiful. It's my choice. I choose what is beautiful for me, and you choose for yourself."

"Yes, maybe. So you find the desert beautiful?"

"I don't know."

"And do you find the palm trees beautiful?"

"I don't know."

"OK."

We kept walking in silence for about 10 minutes. It was really hot. The sun almost touched the horizon.

"Do you see water?" she asked me.

"I don't. Why, are you thirsty?"

"Yes."

Thursday, July 30, 2009

List of Gyan

Life is one hell of a roller-coaster ride, ain't it? All sorts of twists and turns. All sorts of pit-falls and exhilarating surprises. We always have a set of beliefs, an internal reference-book we keep looking into for approval. We call everybody who doesn't conform to our internal standards a fag, a loser, or whatever.

But as we experience more and come across people who influence us, we tend to shape and change our reference book. It is written, edited and reprinted a million times before we die.

So here goes. Some gyan I picked up this week. :)

1. No matter how hard you try, you will not enjoy being with a person unless you really connect with him/her. It's all pre-programmed. Some people are made for you, and some aren't.
2. It's very tough to do defy the rules of the world and still make a living.
3. You always try to do things people you want to emulate do.
4. The only thing you want when you talk to a new person is entertainment.
5. Sanity is a myth. Everybody is insane.
6. Sharing laughter is the best way to connect with people. If you can share a laugh, you can share your lives.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Return to Roots

I call myself a big music lover. I think listening to music matters more to me than it does to most people. I find delight in sitting down for hours and treating myself to music. But it wasn't always so.

In the winter of 2005, I was in the midst of a very exciting time of my life. The foremost thing in my mind was my studies. I was studying to crack the JEE and I was enjoying it. Just then, I was visited by a new and exotic passion - Junoon. The first time I heard the song 'Pyar Bina', I fell in love with the band. From then on, it was a beautiful journey. I would download one Junoon song every week and listen to it over and over again. I think I love to live in the world of my dreams, and Junoon always took me to a dreamy, transcendental place.

By the summer of 2006, I was listening to 4 hours of Junoon every day and listened to little other music. I dreamed about them in the night, plugged my earphones in the morning for a song or two before school, spent hours in the afternoon dancing freakishly to Junoon and still insatiable, went to bed with my iPod.

For a brief period in my life, I identified myself only as a Junooni. Nothing else. I took pride in being in love with the music of a Pakistani band who broke barriers of country and religion and made me fall in love with music. I rarely get mad or annoyed at anybody, but I just couldn't take any jokes about Junoon. I loved them with the depth of my heart.

Once in school, while idling on the last bench during a boring class, I wrote down the names of my ten favorite Junoon songs and their lengths in less than a minute. The friend who was sitting next to me nearly jumped out of his seat. Once in a moment of emotion, I told one of my friends that one of my deepest desires was to sit all my friends down in one place and make them listen to every single Junoon song. Freaky!

But every storm has an end, and obsessions have an expiry date. Gradually, with the change of setting (I came to IITK in the summer of 2007) and exploration of new music, my Junoon fever died down. I now love The Beatles and Bob Dylan just like I loved Junoon once. Honestly, I have often pondered in the last few months why my blog is still named after the band.

But some things just stick. Today, I associate Junoon with my musical awakening. I found the same thing in Junoon as a tender maiden of 17 might find in Mills & Boon. Junoon was there for me when nobody was. I could always go and play 'Mitti' when I was sad. Or 'Pyar Bina' when I was happy.

Junoon will forever remind me of the time I spent with friends, of the times I wept in pain, of the times I leapt into the arms of my mother, of the times I sat alone, working out differential equations at midnight, of the time when I lived a life more purely happy and satisfying than I ever will. And that is when Junoon ceases to be a music band and becomes more. Even if just for a certain 19 year old boy from across the border.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Humour Me

Humour me when I’m high
Hold me still when I die
Keep me moving on my feet
When I’m down or when I’m beat

Carry me around in your arms
Buy me a dream for life
Make me sing hoarse with joy
Don’t you see I am coy?

Take me happy, take me sad
Love me good, love me bad

Friday, June 12, 2009

A Love Supreme

I feel hunger no more
No pangs of desire anymore
No thirst can make itself felt
Don't want to do nothing no more

Dancing to the rhythms
Just knowing one thing
Nobody can do me no harm
'Cause the spell I'm under
Is a spell of ages
It's all in the pages
It's treatin' me the usual way

I adhere to this nightly regime
'Cause I have inside a love supreme

Friday, May 22, 2009

Secret Solitude

It's been a week since I got my first computer in IIT Kanpur. Now that I think about it, it's not the only addition to my table.

1. I have finally got over my disease. For good or bad, I can now bear to be alone. Well, no that alone. I have my music.
2. I've finally realized I'm a big ass. I realized I went to other people's rooms just to use their computers, and not the people themselves. Oh, I'm such an ass.
3. I feel like I used to when I was in class 11, spending hours upon hours with nothing but music by my side.
4. Music is the life of my soul.
5. I basically don't do anything. I just think and dream and listen. To music.
6. I realized all the things people said about owning a computer were right after all.
7. I'm not good at chatting with people online.
8. All I care about is how much music I listen to before dying.
9. The Beatles rock. But the Rolling Stones rock too. And Dylan is the only guy who can make you feel happy about being a loser.
10. I'm an ass.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Somebody to Love

A friend tells me not to do it. Another friend tells me to write about it. Yet another friend finds me writing about it interesting. So here goes.

I pull it in. I pull more of it in. 'Behind Blue Eyes' playing in the background. A white, bright summer morning. Hot, unwashed, bearded men on the steps pulling it in.

The world is going round, or maybe I'm going round the world.

'Somebody to Love'. A girl singing 'Don't you want somebody to love?'. That makes it wildly more interesting and pulling than a man singing it. Don't you think? Oh man, the 60s. When music made sense, when people did what they wanted to do. Beautiful, utopian, wild, dirty times. When girls sang to you about wanting somebody to love.

Funny thing. People asking me whether I want somebody to love, when it's the only thing I want. I want all the love the world can give me. Well, I don't mind it coming from one person. No, I won't mind it at all.

I feel happy in a strange way. It's all about freedom. It's all about writing. It's all about friends. It's about so many things.

The Beats rocked. They just rocked. They knew what they wanted to do. And they did it. They just made so much sense. They wrote things as they came to them. They never 'thought'. They only felt.

And I feel.

Man, I'm such a wannabe.

Sunday, March 29, 2009

The A-Z Question

A 26 word story, with the first word starting with A, the second with B, and so on.

--

Anamika, bruised, celebrated dark evenings, feigning gleeful happiness, insincerely joking, knowing love means nothing. Orko, peaceful, quiet, reassured, spent tiring, utopian, vivacious weekends, Xena yelping zealously.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

The Nice Guys

This is to the guy who wrote this brilliant article. This really should be a benchmark for articles in college publications from now on. Absolutely perfect writing. Hats off!

http://www.stwing.upenn.edu/~jenf/writing/rant04.html

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Memento

The morning was cool and the moon had not left its place in the sky. No. It was positively chilly. I was shivering.

I was walking down a ragged country road. I walked with a rhythm, enjoying the silence. I looked not ahead but into the book open in my hands.

Presently, I looked up and noticed I was approaching a fork in the road. On the other road, I saw a girl coming. It was some moments before I realized we were headed for the same place – the hill ahead.

As the road started getting steeper, I closed my book. As it happened, she was walking right beside me. I stole glances at her. It was fine since she wasn’t looking back at me.

As he top got nearer, I started puffing. My only consolation was he view once we got to the top. Lilies. Yellow lilies all around. Beautiful yellow lilies shining in the sun. I took in the view and the sunshine for a minute, and walked on.

It wasn’t until I got back to level land that I realized I didn’t have my book. I looked back to see her coming towards me. She handed me my book, smiled and walked on.

I opened the book to find a lily inside. I held up the lily against the sun-bathed hill-top and realized it had not paled even though the sun had left it.

Book in my pocket, lily in my hand, sunshine in my eyes, spring in my step, dreams in my heart. I walked along the ragged country road.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

The Feeling of Knowing That You Know

"... ahh the feeling. Oh fuck. Oh fuck, it's here. Where are my feet going? Am I going where they are going? And why the trees swaying like mad?..."

"... Imagine there's no heaven... you may say I am a dreamer but I'm not the only one... "

"... I am gonna write about this when I go back. As soon as I get back. This is gonna be fun. People are gonna read this twenty years from now, and say it's the best thing that happened to the world after John Lennon... "

"... I simply know Revolver was about this. You've got to do it to know it. Now I know what the sitar meant in Tomorrow Never Knows... and yeah, the backward tape in it too... "

"... Is this bad for me? Fuck it, it wasn't bad for Lennon..."

One cool night under the stars. One cool moment under the yellow lamp above me. With one hot stick between my lips.