Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Night


Night, the maiden, is here again. Every time she reveals a different side of herself, bringing strange experiences along. Sometimes she is a sensuous masseuse pressing all the right spots and lulling you into a blissful sleep. You can feel her smooth silky touch on your body; a touch so subtle that it seeps inside each and every tissue. At other times she treats you like her plaything. Tossing and turning you over and over again throughout the time she rules over the world. Sometimes she likes to play the game where she makes you stare at her dark invisible eyes for long until she enters you through the invisible conduit between your eyes and hers and then she becomes you and you become her. You can feel her presence in your veins. She runs in your body like your blood. You can then see the world with the invisible eyes of the night and the darkness of the world is then as clear as the light of the day. The darkness of the night becomes one with the shadows inside you. You turn into a black hairy spider spreading your sticky web around, trying to make everyone who comes along your prey devouring them thoroughly.

Night at times also lends you her cloak of darkness which cannot be penetrated even by the most powerful lights. You wear this cloak and become a nameless, faceless entity. Your presence is never felt; your absence never missed. You become a shadow, dragging along this heavy cloak of invisibility. Your heart is overworked because your blood turns into a dark viscous fluid. Your body is languid and listless, your mind numb. You want to throw away the cloak and feel light but you are afraid of the light and the eyes that can see in the light. Night has given you an armour against questioning, expectant eyes. You feel sick but it will have to remain this way. You don’t know if you would be able to live with the cloak and its heaviness. You don’t know if you would ever have the ability to throw it away. The night is your only companion. She calls out to you every day and you talk to her for hours together. She has been your only friend. You tell her about your past and the present. Future too features in the conversation. She alone has the patience to listen to your reflections, your fears, your insecurities. She listens with utmost interest, never judgmental.

Night is the only respite for the invisibles of the world. They come out only when the sun leaves the world. Night is the pacifier of the disquieted souls. She is the virgin mother of many nursing them as the children she never had. Her comforting coolness soothes wounds of the heart and the mind. She is a sorceress of some kind. Her magical powers transform insects to humans. These insect –humans perform humanly activities in the company of the night before turning into insects again when the sun returns.

No doubt night is my best friend!

Friday, March 11, 2011

The king of melancholia.

Wrote this one several months back.

Oh you! The king of melancholia,
Why do your lips never twitch upwards?
You, who never fail to frown.
Since ages you have been aged,
Youth has never been your friend.
But why do you come in my dreams?
Why do I always find myself in your shrine?
Wearing your cloak day and night,
I save myself from the burn of light.
Strange comfort your heaviness gives,
Away from the mundane blithe.
Besotted by the beguiler,
I relish my days getting blacker.
To your kingdom I always retreat
Escaping questions in the eyes I meet.
With you I fade into the background,
Far from those maddening sounds.

This Is Why Many People Don't Eat Meat:"From Farm To Fridge"!



Extremely disturbing! If you can't stop having milk, then atleast stop eating the flesh and bones of these innocent animals!

Tuesday, March 01, 2011

Anton Chekhov.

Was reading Chekhov today. He definitely is one of my favourite authors. The writer seems to be in a perpetual contemplative mood which before you know turns into brooding. I suppose this can be attributed to the tragedies he faced in his personal life. His writing is profound to say the least. The forlornness experienced by some of his characters noticeably in "The Bishop" seems to be his own as the intensity with which it is expressed shows that the feelings are personal to the writer and not vicarious. There seems to be a lot of chaos inside him which is suggested by the sentences of his stories which though are complete overtly, leave the readers feeling a little ambiguous as a lot is left for the readers to fill up through their imagination. Here, the writer successfully manages to transfer his existential angst on to his readers.