December 29, 2002

Aberration

Yes, I know this blog has come to a virtual stand-still with the gaps between each successive posts lengthening now to unpardonable lenghts of time and it is not a case of writer's block as you must have guessed by now. Hold your horses, let the man have his say before we lynch him. In a lot of ways this blog is reflective of the state of my mind and yes, I know I have been credited with the accolade of the most compulsively depressive blog and that is not without reason. Just a glance through the posts can make even me slightly bothered. But that is a different issue altogether.

Where were we? Yes, the lack of life on the blog. Like I said it is reflective of lots of things and mainly of the fact that at some point or the other I have stopped believing in anything and the blog is just one teeny weeny part in it. It is not your fancy "Oh I do not give a damn" attitude and it is not the fashionably cynical attitude either. Why? Because I do not want things to be this way but it cannot be helped. Somewhere along the way things stopped mattering. It means a lot, but it just stops mattering somewhere and life attains its own sordid momentum and you are nothing but a prisoner to it.

So everything is just reduced to numerical analyses of little numbers neatly arranged in tables of little moments of joy, anger, sadness, disgust and so on. They are shoddily kept books of profit and loss that does not make any difference anywhere. It is just an empirical study of how many days you lived without taking a break or how many years since you last had a crisis and how many days more to go before the next one strikes. In the end it is just a mind game, played between two sides of you. One predicts the doom way ahead, the other fights it. The strange taste of bittersweet victory where there is nothing to gain. It is just a joke. Just an emotionally intensive way of killing time before time decides to kill you someday.

The game actually is interesting because you actually know the end from the start. So why play at all? It is a simple logic. You have to push the limits, play it at the highest levels, to pledge loyalty to the only dependable thing in the whole scheme of things -- the unfairness in it all and embarrass it till the end when the last breath will have to be torn away from you. To leave with a smile that says "I lost on my own terms". Or in an example I am fond of quoting, when you know you are going to smash up on the highway better do that in a SLK Merc than in a puny autorickshaw.

Coming back to the blog, like I have told a few of the people who read it, my heart simply is not in it anymore. There is this great urge to disown this too and say it does not matter anymore. I'd so love it to be otherwise, but I cannot really say that is an out and out lie, it is not a hundred percent. But you have seen it before, you are just a spectator in this funny game where you laugh and cry at the same time.

In the background the music is playing, Golden Heart by Mark Knopfler, it paints pictures that I so love, one that I would to see happen, one that I wish would happen for more than miniscule five minutes of crisis that would divert winds calm and beautiful down this arid land before it blows itself over. So here I lay in wait, with words that have often been repeated to various faces through many a different times. I believe them for you like the surety with which I believe in the endgame and like how these words are lost somewhere in the numerous bits and bytes shifted through the wires unseen, I too have lost myself and there is no coming back.

December 19, 2002

Day

As the sphere turns on its axis one more time nestled in the depth of an inaudible sigh. A question illuminated by the day's last strobes of light gently lingers on. Like all the others, this one too shall find no answers. Like the tears that decorate the windless night, the invisible hands of the answers shall not wipe them off, nor will it be the last to haunt this desolate expanse of strangers as you aimlessly pass them by.

With every turn you should have been wiser, should have known better, a lot less nicer, words full than emptier. Yet, it gets worser, each step taken makes you weaker, edges gnawing closer, distances growing nearer, emptiness inside more louder. Purpose is the non-existent antidote against the anathema of existence. Music can be slotted into seven notes, for that matter emotions too, with a bit of blot. There is nothing ever special. Eat, procreate and die - a three course lie called as life.

The spirit - is the greatest lie, is a failed leader, is a non-existent God, is a potent scam involving the billion. Learn to unlearn, unlearn what you learned, in reality lives a dormant dream, water it all down with a set of beliefs, make it edible, give it a nice name, package it in cheap fancy livery, make it all so real, make it all so really fake. Sell it well sonny, we have a living to make.

December 07, 2002

Steps

As the music traverses the distance around me in invisible spirals, set to an inaudible beating of the heart, I sit and wonder what do I write about? There is so much to say, the same old stories, about the same old joys and the same old fears. Re-runs mostly. But I do not want to write about any of them. I have said enough. There is a whole lifetime explained in between the thousands of lines that have been written here. But, why? I must admit I have no clue at all. Honestly, I'd hate it if all you got the precise thing that I am writing about. That should explain the abstraction.

I really have a good mind to disown all this. Stand in a corner at the street, point at me and say "oh hell that is not me okay?". And run like hell, faster and faster to another corner where I can set up the whole scam again. It would be nice actually to have an option like in one of those fancy thriller movies to assume a new identity and a new life elsewhere. Where is the opt-out button? Then again, the problem with scams is that they all meet the same end.

And I have to tell you I am sick of this "do not expect" crap. I am as human as they come and I will expect all the time. Is there something wrong with it? If you can sit under a godforsaken tree and expect to spend the rest of your life in the same manner go ahead and do it. But hey, there too you 'expect' that you spend the rest of your life in the same manner and sorry, but I am not game for such a deal.

It is ingrained into us to expect, it is part of us, it was what makes us what we are -- living, breathing people who feel. It is there in our impulses even. You won't take the next step if you are not sure of the ground, you take it only when you 'expect' the ground to hold. If that was not there I could spend the rest of my life swooning over a bloody lamp post. Why can't I? I do not expect it to love me back. I do not expect it to care for me, I can just give and give and give more and become a part of some fancy philosophical folklore.

Yes, there is the fact that you do not always get what you want. The expectations are not always met and we always want to believe that we are at the receiving end of a bad deal all the time. But that is a totally different matter and it sucks really bad for the ones who happen to get particularly sour deals. It hurts then and it hurts unbearably bad. Sometimes you get used to it, move on and maybe find better things in life, sometimes you do not.

The sad thing about precious things is that that they are rare, that is what gives them value they possess. If each of the billion people on earth were to have the prefect solution it would be so imperfect. If all the people whom you love happen to love you back, they would all mean nothing to you. If you happen to be lucky enough to get loved back the way you want to, grab it, tie it up, hold on to it, be it even for five minutes, because everything will go in the end. With time everything touches the mundane, there is really nothing called as special, it is just the five minutes of purity and a lifetime of mundaneness you paint with nostalgia and expectations that you are left with.

In the end we all have our little selfish agendas to fulfil. We all have our quota of a set number of comforting words to be served as the holy sacrament of every relationship to consume and feel good everyday. The five minutes have been consigned to the pages of memory, to be flipped and gloated over every now and then when the selling price of the mundane becomes too low to sustain life by means of emotions.

By then it is not the same anymore. The same words have lost their shine, look carefully and you can see the fakeness of the metal underneath, it is too flimsy a coating. Still it sells well, the market loves the product and in today's economy the consumer is king and when it grants the seller his five minutes of clandestine purity why should he not take it? And everyone is happy.

Well, not quite. Our dear friend expectation has to feature somewhere in the scene. You need more of the five minutes but it can't be. Remember, the consumer is king and not the seller. The existing market conditions can only be determined by him. Unfortunately, in this script not everywhere walks hand in hand into the sunset and the parts are already fixed and being played out. I pity the unlucky sod who bites the dust in the end. Even the credits do not mention his name as it scrolls up the screen with the crowd hurriedly heading for the exit in the foreground.

December 06, 2002

Sleepless

When you tend to ramble a lot, one thing that merits a lot of consideration is that words tend to depreciate in value rather fast when they are used quite often. A lot faster than what it should ideally do.

For instance, when you say "I love you" even to your loved one twenty times in a day, it takes away the special feeling that should be there when you say it. It becomes more or less of a ritual like the full stop that ends every sentence. That, at least is a positive aspect, with the negative ones the rate is absolutely fabulous, much more spectacular than the worst of stock market crashes.

So, is there an ideal amount of usage associated with words? Can one measure and dole out the prefect little numbers of the good and the bad that would also extract the desired response from the listener's end? I for one always seems to be dealing in extremes, either talking too much or too little. The end result is a response that falls into either unmitigated disaster or total bliss as to an evaluation of the state of my mind.

But, do we have to measure and deliver all the time? Why is it that one is not allowed to step out of line? Why is it that the protocols always have to be maintained? Why is that appearances have to be kept all the time?

Maybe I am giving myself too much leeway here, since my words have depreciated way beyond any useful purpose and have become just the mandatory response to external human conversational and emotional stimuli that gives away enough by the way of vital signs to stop being of any concern to anyone. I am rambling yet again, right?

Precisely my point too. We have gone past the point where it makes any difference at all. It is just another entry in the end. And since I have exhausted my precious quota of the two minutes of your attention, I should shut up now. Thank you.

[On an unrelated note, a whole lot of thanks to WillsDelirium of TheWeblogReview for having taken the effort to go through this site. Gracias amigo again.]

December 05, 2002

Eventuality

Read my lips, drain my eyes, wash your pure little face with my unforgiving smile and never look back. This is where the deal ends, when you have turned around the bend, I shall retrace to my circle, waiting to perform the next minor miracle.

Words are of little meaning, when to not hear is your leaning. Strange shapes the lips make they tire, in the mind they create a maze of snares. Echoing fading prayers of sanity, the world transforms into illusion's monastery.

It is now okay that the norm persists and exception is pretty much the most useful lie. Pop it in three times a day -- the magical killer cure, someday all of us would surely die. Just make sure it is on my tab and please leave without even a bye.

What shall we use, To fill the empty spaces, Where we used to talk? -- Empty Spaces by Pink Floyd