Persaudian Thought.

19th March, 2018.

It's one of those nights when a metaphorical cloud hangs over my head. Not of depression or the regular melancholy but of dire nothingness, the discontent of writing. It's strange that I say I have nothing to write and yet I know that somehow I will fill this when page with a meaningless casuistry. I find it nothing more than a blatant lie when people say that there's nothing going on inside their heads.

One of the most silliest things that I have ever heard is when someone says that while meditating, one should empty their heads and clear out all their thoughts, which is an impossible task to begin with. My guess is, there is a straight up confusion between being "empty" and being focused to one particular thought, they are not the same by any definition.

If I had left this page blank, no date, no thoughts, no signature, it'd have created a paradox; consider this - a blank page in itself is a blank page, but to explain its blankness one would have to cross all the barriers of language and philosophy. The blank page will not remain a blank page because it had to be explained by a series of alternative thought process, thus creating a feedback loop. When I say that I have nothing to say and yet I come this far in writing, am I explaining the "nothingness" or am I disproving it? Is there a gap or not? Schroedinger's cat was both dead and alive in the box - a page is both blank and full with content and thoughts.

Question - am I being clever, or stupid, or both?

Floating

12th March, 2018.

One of the most amazing human effort that I have most keenly observed is their attempt to provide everything with a general idea of causality - the idea that everything pertains to the boundaries of a cause to effect phenomenon. It indeed is a hilarious form of entertainment for me to see everyone running in this loop; 2+2=4 is always the easy answer.

Because that serves a better purpose, a firm and resolute structure of bliss that follows is extremely commonplace, provides a strong explanation for almost everything. And that just leads to a certain hubris of the human mind - control.

No one really ponders over this because everyone has got a plan, a backup plan and even if these two fail, they'd have a failsafe plan - everyone just believes that everything is calculable. But in retrospect, in the hindsight of everything, has no one learnt this yet? The only thing that is certain here is the random uncontrollability of life. And as clichéd as it might be, when indeed was the last time we had everything as we planned? The certainty of the outcome we hope for seems nothing but a major flaw in the design, right?

I know of people who claim to have learnt the way to control life, to plan ahead, they plan for joy, sorrow, hope, despair, love, pain. It just amuses me to see so many of them putting an effort on something which is well out of their bounds.

I will admit that there are some things which can be calculated and planned. I am not disparaging that, neither can I deny that because I do that too, the illusion of being in control is often a tempting one but really, what I've learned so far is the fact that the universe (metaphysical one) does not gives a damn anyways, and certainly it doesn't takes it kindly either. Mostly deaf and blind, the grand design is in itself a raging paradox.

I'm not a Buddhist or a Stoic, neither I am an existentialist or an absurdist or a nihilist, I find these labels more than insulting which encourages meaningless casuistry and provides an escape, but they all say the same thing over and over again. Mostly this is common knowledge, creating a value system for those who suffer much and now think that it's time to let go of the wheel, it really needs no label.

And for most of the part, the temporality of everything is so concrete, I'm sure that in given time, everything else will be rendered moot.

Eh well... That's gonna suck I guess.

But until then!

Accessible

9th March, 2018.

Now I guess I have been doing this wrong..

When I started ranting here initially, it was a lot of effort.. turn on the laptop, wait for the internet to connect, get pissed off at internet for not connecting, removing and reinserting the modem. By the time the page was up, I would've lost my mood to write and then wrote something.. although it was a sincere rant every time, sometimes the effort wasn't worth it.

Now I realize, that I should have used the phone for blogging.. I did consider it many times but the feeling was not quite right, using phone felt like cheating.

As much I'd like to be the good guy Sam, I think it makes more sense now to use the phone to rant on.. it'll be more easy and I can write whenever I want to without missing a beat.

Though I still don't know what's the point, who really reads this shit?

Aaanywhoo..

Peace out beeyotch !

Not Dead,Just Gone.

27th February, 2018.

No, I am not dead yet. Really,if anything, I am alive and well and mostly I am doing fine. I do not know why am I indulging in the social niceties right now, I guess it is about the return and I am trying to break the ice formed for so long now.

I intended to right a rant on 31st of December, 2017 or 1st of January, 2018, but then it occurred to me that it will only feed to the cliched forms I have been trying to quit for a long time now. I made it a habit to write something at the end of the year for as long as this blog existed and it was a routine break that I needed.

And frankly speaking, I did considered leaving the blog space for good and forever, it had almost served its purpose of making me write and keep me in the habit as it is, I remember my masthead of psychojournals, it said "this blog was created for one single purpose, to save myself from a continuous deterioration of my sanity". And I now believe that I am safe, for most of the part that is. It would only make sense to bid this format goodbye and let it go.

To tell you the truth, it will be happening, if not soon, but it will. Not because I grew out of writing blogs or writing in a general sense, and time is not a factor here either, god knows I can always make time for the things I love (apart from learning how to play the bloody guitar,that is). It's just that, I am not really sure what to write and say, poems and stories are all fun and games till the writer's block kicks in. And I have really nothing clever to say, so much for studying amounts of philosophy.

I don't know, I am walking on a line here, to let go or not, to be or not to be?

That being said, I assume it's okay to pretend for a while, I have always advocated for the usage of vanity as a fair game. Till then!

Love!

Sisyphus

18^th November, 2017.

I have seen that my past few rants here have been nothing but of anguish and desolation and despair. Most of them are dark and this has developed quite recently. If I didn’t know myself any better, I would have made an observation and would have concluded to be in a depression. But then again, that would be belittling those who are actually battling this chronic disease.

Only when I stop to think about it, I see that it’s just that I have conferred a good amount of value on something in haste and now it just has become a sort of noose around me. And the more I try to leave, the more it ensnares me and hence all these blithe and vitriol. I don’t know if I shall blame myself for this or not, the idea is not out yet.

I have held this view about myself, that whenever I touch something, I tend to burn it to ash and dust. I believe this because I have seen this happening over and over again. This is such a recurring thing with me, sometimes I do doubt if there is something wrong with me, this cursed touch of Midas in me seems to devour everything I hold too closely.

Thing is, I do believe that no one wants to be like this, broken, tired, lost. And I am not exaggerating here; I am going through a time which I thought I have left out of my life couple of years ago. Every morning, since September has been a constant battle between me and the last shred of sanity, self-esteem; it’s been a while since I could hold my head up high. I wake up with an empty feeling in my head and that makes me disgusted towards myself. “Accept what’s what, move forward, denial won’t help”, I have written this on a sticky paper and stuck on my whiteboard. It had helped for a while, but this seems like a relapse, into the spiral of broken dreams and sincere fantasies of what should have happened and how I deserve it, but it’s not mine.

There is a constant static in my head; I somehow carry through the day only to go back to sleep and I keep on hating and hoping, that tomorrow will be a better day, tomorrow I will be better. But this seems to be too tough as of right now. The only time I felt better was when I had a drink, because why not, the clichéd idea of alcohol replacing the pain with something numb is not totally a fallacy there.

I don’t know really what wounds are these, how do I heal these? Hilariously, whatever I am writing here, it won’t be spoken of in public, not in front of those who are responsible for this, or rather those whom I hold responsible, which makes me even more distasteful towards myself. I used to be a good person, I used to be alone and I was good. It happens when I started getting people around me when I started putting effort and in turn, got nothing. No, sometimes we do and should expect something in return. All I get is nothing. For all the things I do or am willing to do, I seem to completely fail at it.

I am just tired. Invisible is good, but this sort of invisibility is not just painful, it seems to crush us under our own weight.

Only if letting go was easy. Only if I was given the moment of happiness I really deserve.

To Esther (ghost letter).

11th November, 1917.

Dearest Esther,

I know I am at fault of not writing you any sooner though I got your last letter about two weeks ago, I do not even write as often as I have promised you. I cannot apologize to you enough, I cannot imagine what distress it must have caused you, given the turmoiled times. You always ask me to describe my surroundings in our correspondence, I have no idea whatsoever why do you stress on that detail, yet here goes..

You have seen my mahogany desk the last time you came, and you had seen the curious little collection on it, well, there has been new additions to it, namingly a skull that I bought (it somehow filled me with an immediate sense of curiosity) and a new pen and of course, your letters that are piled up in a neat stack, date wise. I still do not know what you will do with this silly detail, but I am assuming it is important for your work.

There is no apparent reason to write now either. Yes, true, that we do share a sort of relationship, but let me ask you this, would it be of any difference if we didn't write at all? Or wrote everyday? Can we, after all we have been through, endure it ? Do you not feel nauseated with your own distress which is solidified by such an amusing idea? I know I do. I cannot always express myself to you or to anyone through these papers, as much as I do love writing and tearing them out of spite and malice.
Now, do not mistake my apathy for my lack of passion about you or us. If you are, which I know you are, privy to my daily mundane routine of life as such and you have seen me in my darker moods, you will know that there are days when I am insensitive and cold to passion. These are the mornings when my only companion is my disheveled reflection and a continuous chain of thought and cigarettes. You have complained about it so many times. These hateful moments in my life are the ones when I find everything rancid, even your letters. I remember you, wrapped in the bedsheet and your big eyes, curiously prancing on the morning street down from my window, and your cigarette, and I hate you too, you too become rancid to me. These are the moments when I realize that the written kisses do not, cannot reach their destinations, everything is just a dying moment from it's inception. In an exaggerated moment of profundity, I find it even less important to do anything. The past few days had been filled with such moments and all I can do and am doing is nothing but throwing myself into a constant battle to at least resume my sanity.

Distorted as it may be, all of this is to be endured, intentionally and with a purpose. Here, my purpose to go through this abysmally depressing mood was to atleast write something substantial for you. Again I apologize to you, this isn't our regular correspondence of subtle poetry, I needed this. Yes, I have and do miss you and I cannot do anything but to endure it.

Yours now and always,

M.

In a perpetual state of confused dereliction.

Our moments run,
like caged, rabid animals,
scratching and clawing at heels
abandoned by truth and adopted by
suicide.
We taste grit in the air, warm and stale
sunsets, broken at the yonder, coming undone bit by bit at a slow pace.
Sordid musings come back
like an epidemic, like the whore of an endemic suffocation, crawling on our
skin and underneath it.
We are the irate customers of that moment,
we pay by the scars on our skin
and haunting loops of cold conflicts, devoured, swallowed whole
by retribution against the broken reflections.
Our moments will run, till the end,
where destruction will have no meaning and
creation will have no place, where we are damned to this, and we are free,
and this would be the song to redeem
the broken bastards of bad poets.

R.