Rosy thoughts
My feet don't need a map as I trace the oft-travelled paths around my home, wake-walking in a perpetual state of melancholy intellectual sleep, pondering over nothing in particular and everything in general. I was in one of these walks, when my thought train was snapped back to reality with a strange sound, a defiant crunch with a definite hint of ever-lasting softness, a sound hardly heard in the humdrum cacophony of city life but yet somehow reverberating throughout the fabric of one's spiritual existance. I glanced down and found a very distraught looking tiny rosebud, its delicate petals yet to open, smothered all over by the grime of city streets.The corners of my mouth twitched as I remembered the not-so long past 'rose day'. The inherent idea of plundering something so beautiful and serene, just for the inexplicably moronic ordeal of presenting it to a loved one, is fraught with a despicable sense of affection. Though I appreciate the underlying sentiment running in this practice, I would certainly frown my eyes out if every Tom, Dick and Harry got a bunchful just for the sake of it! My heart went out to the innocence this tiny sapling exuded as I pruned the fouled wings.
It is not the rose's fault that its beauty, though paralleled by many others, has come to symbolise a feeling whose roots themself lie in unquestioned affection. To think that someone must have loved it intensely for a day, and then just unceremoniously dumped it into the waste in the morning was simply painful. If only these tiny things had ears and could listen to all the affectionate words being woven around them, even if for a single day, maybe it would have eased their passing on. An article I had read about 'green weddings', wherein these frivolous wastages of nature's beautiful gifts are scorned at, came unbidden to my mind.
If only the world grew wiser!
Mt. Daily Everest
Though I know I can't afford to, yet I sit idle on my bed. My opaque eyes stare intently on a spot right in front of me, perhaps waiting for someone to materialize out of thin air. Apparently the tiny electrical messengers responsible for trans-neuron communication in my body have had enough and called it quits. I imagine the life flowing through me slowly seeping out into the nature from whence it came, mingling merrily with the mother of all existance. I wonder, "Am I brain dead then?"
In response, my brain conjures up random images from fact and fiction. People I've been with scream for attention among the multitudes of fictional characters my mind was forced to toy with for all these years. Actuality catches up with lightning speed and soon I close my eyes, the pain of an unsupervised and overworking mind being just too much for me. Frantically I search for a subject to focus my line of thought on, going from one to another, and ultimately increasing my agony multifold. The thought of the most sought after medicine comes unbidden and I gain a new-found understanding for occasional drinkers.
But its too late in the night, as it always is, for any ammends on that frontier. Now a desperation envelopes me as I blink away the moisture threatening to spill over onto my cheek, and bludgeon the frail mouse button multiple times in hopes of getting a way out of this insanity. Roaming the random streets of the web of all webs, I stumble onwards in a frightening state of stupor, grabbing onto the iota of belief that someone I know may be there somewhere, willing to hear me out, willing to pat my back assuringly and maybe, just maybe grab my hand and rescue me from my own mind.
Serendipity takes me to a social networking site I know to be teeming with familiar faces. "Blasted examinations!", I snigger, "You can keep people offline but you can't erase the traces of their online presence." Some random clicks and punches later, the condition somewhat subsides and I slowly return to my own self. Marvelling about the effect a few familiar faces can have on a bereaved mind, I stumble across a picture which makes me think about what exactly have I become? It admonishes people for sticking their noses where they should not be and calls them losers. Though recuperating, a new seed sprouts in my mind, it races to overkill, and in no time, I am back where I started.
Heaving a sigh, I shudder as the torture sequence starts all over again. I silently acknowledge defeat and reach out for the magic pills ensuring me a baby's sleep. "Yet another day's battle lost, yet another one to come soon." The last thoughts before I drift into an artificially induced yet peaceful reprieve is that whoever said it wasn't joking, that a mind is a dangerous neighbourhood to be in and one should not roam its streets alone.
In response, my brain conjures up random images from fact and fiction. People I've been with scream for attention among the multitudes of fictional characters my mind was forced to toy with for all these years. Actuality catches up with lightning speed and soon I close my eyes, the pain of an unsupervised and overworking mind being just too much for me. Frantically I search for a subject to focus my line of thought on, going from one to another, and ultimately increasing my agony multifold. The thought of the most sought after medicine comes unbidden and I gain a new-found understanding for occasional drinkers.
But its too late in the night, as it always is, for any ammends on that frontier. Now a desperation envelopes me as I blink away the moisture threatening to spill over onto my cheek, and bludgeon the frail mouse button multiple times in hopes of getting a way out of this insanity. Roaming the random streets of the web of all webs, I stumble onwards in a frightening state of stupor, grabbing onto the iota of belief that someone I know may be there somewhere, willing to hear me out, willing to pat my back assuringly and maybe, just maybe grab my hand and rescue me from my own mind.
Serendipity takes me to a social networking site I know to be teeming with familiar faces. "Blasted examinations!", I snigger, "You can keep people offline but you can't erase the traces of their online presence." Some random clicks and punches later, the condition somewhat subsides and I slowly return to my own self. Marvelling about the effect a few familiar faces can have on a bereaved mind, I stumble across a picture which makes me think about what exactly have I become? It admonishes people for sticking their noses where they should not be and calls them losers. Though recuperating, a new seed sprouts in my mind, it races to overkill, and in no time, I am back where I started.
Heaving a sigh, I shudder as the torture sequence starts all over again. I silently acknowledge defeat and reach out for the magic pills ensuring me a baby's sleep. "Yet another day's battle lost, yet another one to come soon." The last thoughts before I drift into an artificially induced yet peaceful reprieve is that whoever said it wasn't joking, that a mind is a dangerous neighbourhood to be in and one should not roam its streets alone.
Me...a rapper?
Okay people, phew, ...here it is, my very first rap song. For those who can't make a head or tail out of it, I suggest some Eminem. For others, read on:
ODE TO ME
They call me white rabbit.
I write great songs
and people jus wanna have it.
They don't give a shit
who, where or with what
I am hit.
They jus like the songs
that I rap about,
even though I wrap around
all the shit
that gets thrown about.
But time for a flashback now.
You're wrong
if you think you know how,
I came around to rappin
and makin people crowd.
I am a psycho.
Yeah! you thought you knew any better.
One day I got a letter sayin,
"Hey rabbit, it ain't your fault.
Its just this fucked up world
that makes me sick and screws us all.
Am gonna hold your hand,
now am gonna lead the path.
I'll make you famous
and in return,
just make me laugh."
Poor me!
How was I supposed to know
this person was more fucked up
than I could ever be.
Sadist?...No,
that just sounds too lenient;
a word dreamt up by people
who've never known pain beyond a penitence.
Death incarnate sounds like
stealing candy from a kid.
But my shit,
was much more than what all this could ever be.
Reeling in perpetual agony
was my life's only upside.
There never was
and never will be another side.
Chaotic vengeance
is all that I can think about,
when I pause in my path
turn back and look around.
Having this tumour in my head
unleashes the bloodthrirsty me,
the sole compunctionless leader
of this gory army.
It is now at this point
that I have decided
to pull my hands away
and thats why it is in you
that I have confided.
Ladies and gentlemen!
Please stand up and cheer as always
coz I have reached the crescendo
and am gonna solve this.
Please do not leave your seats before the final act,
and the weak of heart
don't follow me to hell if you can.
Now I slip this noose around my neck
and bid you farewell.
Thank you for your patience one last time.
Singning off,
yours truely,
white rabbit.
And um...., a notice: The character 'White Rabbit' is taken from the movie '8 Mile' and the letter mentioned does not, in any way, connect to the one I got recently in real life.
Chao.
Chao.
The Night Guest
As is common knowledge to many readers, I reside in a rented house near my college along with some other friends. Now being all students was bad enough, but being all males students, we really don't give a fig about cleanliness and stuff. In fact, I always fancied us as some kind of a spin-off Addams family (Just between you and me, we sort of celebrated the birth of two young ones of the 'friendly neighbourhood' cockroaches that inhabit our washbasin). I guess it has something to do with the deep-seated need to associate ourselves with someone or something popularly recognisable, but whatever.
Now cockroaches, ants, spiders, lizards etc. were kinda okay, not because they were favourite pets of Morticia Addams or something, but because they are argumentatively omnipresent. I mean you can't find a house absolutely free from them! But what really drove the last nail was when I found a live pigeon stylishly perched among the bits and pieces of the mock kitchen we have in here. After a bit of shooing and prodding we concluded that it is either extremely lethergic or is actually unable to fly and as we are not in a state of war with any pigeon state (known or unknown), we have allowed it to retain its current quarters albeit temporarily, as I am sure none of us plans to allow the hitchhiker to litter the place with shit. In such an event, it will immediately be shown the door, or in this case, the roof.
So to conclude ladies and gentlemen, as I write this piece, it has been about three hours since its arrival and our guest is nicely tucked and asleep.
Now cockroaches, ants, spiders, lizards etc. were kinda okay, not because they were favourite pets of Morticia Addams or something, but because they are argumentatively omnipresent. I mean you can't find a house absolutely free from them! But what really drove the last nail was when I found a live pigeon stylishly perched among the bits and pieces of the mock kitchen we have in here. After a bit of shooing and prodding we concluded that it is either extremely lethergic or is actually unable to fly and as we are not in a state of war with any pigeon state (known or unknown), we have allowed it to retain its current quarters albeit temporarily, as I am sure none of us plans to allow the hitchhiker to litter the place with shit. In such an event, it will immediately be shown the door, or in this case, the roof.
So to conclude ladies and gentlemen, as I write this piece, it has been about three hours since its arrival and our guest is nicely tucked and asleep.
Eyes up here!
While browsing through today's newspaper, the heading of an article really caught my eye. Well, I went through the article and actually found it quite thought-provoking albeit in an irritably de facto kinda way. It went on and on about the most noticed, and hence the most talked about part of the feminine persona in the current society- the cleavage. Males, it argues, are held mesmerised by this small void 6 o' clock to a woman's face. I am not going to contradict this well established notion, nevertheless I would like to toss the 'blame ball' to the other side for a bit.
Is it really our fault? Of course, the words 'fault' and 'blame' are used here in their most non-traditional sense possible. It is actually the way its supposed to be. Do comprehend the catastrophe it would be if males lose all interest whatsoever in females and vice versa. But of course, the point of argument is why does it get so much attention? And the answer to that is ridiculously simple. For starters, since when have males been associated with diligence? The reason cleavage has become the focal point of male limelight is simply because it is the most visually accessible unique part a female possesses. One really does not have to do anything offensive or forceful, but just keep one's eyes open. There are more than enough opportunities to get an eyeful without even breaking a single law. I must say that this prospect appears and actually is quite safer than its alternatives to achieve pleasure.
Another viewpoint worth mentioning, though I am speculating now, is whether females really hate it when our gaze slides down a few inches? Think of it this way. The cleavage is as much a part of the female body as are other parts. And it is beyond argument that females arduously engage in artificial beautification of their bodies. Is it really surprising that cleavage is'nt left behind in this rat race? The growing user base of underwired and push-up bras screams out my point. Every person, irrespective of gender, should be proud of his/her body and unless the male involved is a pervert, there is absolutely no harm, physically, morally or otherwise, in bordering exhibitionist tendencies.
Finally for those of you who puff up in anger or shock over the cheek of this young lad to make a post about this non-existing issue, take a peek at the heading I referred to in the beginning and tell me, just what do you notice?
Is it really our fault? Of course, the words 'fault' and 'blame' are used here in their most non-traditional sense possible. It is actually the way its supposed to be. Do comprehend the catastrophe it would be if males lose all interest whatsoever in females and vice versa. But of course, the point of argument is why does it get so much attention? And the answer to that is ridiculously simple. For starters, since when have males been associated with diligence? The reason cleavage has become the focal point of male limelight is simply because it is the most visually accessible unique part a female possesses. One really does not have to do anything offensive or forceful, but just keep one's eyes open. There are more than enough opportunities to get an eyeful without even breaking a single law. I must say that this prospect appears and actually is quite safer than its alternatives to achieve pleasure.
Another viewpoint worth mentioning, though I am speculating now, is whether females really hate it when our gaze slides down a few inches? Think of it this way. The cleavage is as much a part of the female body as are other parts. And it is beyond argument that females arduously engage in artificial beautification of their bodies. Is it really surprising that cleavage is'nt left behind in this rat race? The growing user base of underwired and push-up bras screams out my point. Every person, irrespective of gender, should be proud of his/her body and unless the male involved is a pervert, there is absolutely no harm, physically, morally or otherwise, in bordering exhibitionist tendencies.
Finally for those of you who puff up in anger or shock over the cheek of this young lad to make a post about this non-existing issue, take a peek at the heading I referred to in the beginning and tell me, just what do you notice?
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