Welcome to the machine

A few desolated people I see, dispersed, mostly
Not far away from the barbed high metal gates
The skies are all sepia and dark, the sun is sinking
No more sweet zephyrs, dulcet dreams long dead
Deprived lungs, impoverished bellies.
The children don’t cry anymore, they know all.

Not far away the now real world they see
The neon lights have long replaced the stars.
The siren calls and men unquestioned walk
Lips have fallen silent, only machines talk
In my small boat I see darkness obliterate the ethereal day
The Chimneys shall rule and Gods obey.

Freedom is......

Could you run naked on desolate fields?
Could you count the stars aloud?
Express what you feel without fear?
Write about discourtesies that made you proud?

Can you burn all you ever conquered?
Can you forget all you ever cherished?
Leap from an unknown cliff overlooking the sea,
Without caring how's the end going to be?

Can you not love when you are in love?
Can you gamble when you are supposed lose?
Can you quit when you are supposed to win?
and will you publish all your sins?

If you can look up into my eye and smile,
Knowing I am your greatest fear.
If you can sing songs and play the piano,
Knowing your end is near.
You shall be a free man alas devoid of feeling,
but freedom shall finally have its true meaning.

When The Musics Over

So I finally finish my engineering, another milestone achieved. My Alcatraz is over, the debt to the society paid. Long before I arrived here I used to think about the sense of achievement and enthusiasm that would prevail once I am through with this, and yet all I am left with is this wonderful feeling of freedom, that’s all. Morrison once said “It’s the feeling of a bow string being pulled back for 22 years and suddenly being let go”.

I am the arrow, direction less but finally out of the bow. It’s a great feeling to travel without any direction or any responsibility, to get lost in the wilderness only to be found by your own wanton thoughts, to get away from all those you love and to miss them, to lie besides the giggling river beneath the silhouette of the starry night and hear the old grass hoppers tattle.

Sometimes somewhere I would stop on my way to my company thinking how once I detested the very person that I am today, for soon I shall be like you all running behind buses and trains trying to get a seat and reach home early, listening to my wife, boss, mother, and children about the vagaries of life and then to their solutions. I would only smile then for there would be nothing else I could do. A la Mid-life crisis I see is in the offing, but I guess I have gone too far.

I don’t recollect anything significant in the past five years as far my engineering goes, I can hardly remember five or six classmates by name. The whole degree was done with a detached feeling I guess, more like a hobby. Most of my time in college was spent in trying to understand the understandings of my professors. Deprived and a much abused childhood could be the focal point of their behavior was my analysis, but then I was too abstracted to care about anything. I guess the only interesting thing that ever happened was some lady teacher was caught watching porn in the computer lab and was suspended. One look at my class shall remind you of the sad faced orphans in Mr.India, so for them this event was Christmas.

So what next thou ask?

Sleep.

So you want to be a writer? by Charles Bukowski

if it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriters earching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend
or your boyfriendor your parents
or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-love.

the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.

unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder,
don't do it.

unless the sun inside you
is burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

High Hopes

Another love story was to unfold
A timeless classic, a tragedy untold.
The spirited river neath the sun burnt skies
Befriended the young lady with emerald eyes.
“So how are you today my lovely”, he asked
The moonlight shone, tears surpassed.

The pregnant silence beleaguered his sentiments.
The stage was set, her eyes spoke, and lips glistened.
“I look through my eyehole every day and every night”
“For someone or something that would always be right”
The river chuckled not knowing what to say…
Philosophy seldom arrives when life is all happy and gay.

“Oh young lady of distant land”
“Why such sudden desire I don’t understand”, he said
“A utopian someone who is always right”
“Now my friend, wouldn’t that be a delight?” she replied
He pondered over the young girl’s impeccant reverie
Wondering if life be all generous, or would it be misery.

“May your dreams be your reality” he smiled
And with those words he waved goodbye.
“Thank you for your wishes, my friend of yore”
“If it wasn’t for you, life would had been such a bore”
The old friends parted ways, only to meet again,
But many years later, whence the end began.

The once spirited river was now gently streaming.
Those emerald eyes were old but still dreaming.
“How you have changed, my old friend, over the years”
“And finally, did life grant you what you always desired”
She looked at her old friend, his apprehensions were masked
The moonlight shone, tears surpassed

“Sometimes you get things in life you are not looking for
Realizing they are much better than the ones you actually asked for
The desire for that sanctified one had long subsided my friend
And yet I look through my eyehole every once now and then
Reminiscing the old times, joys and pain.”
The river smiled not knowing what to say…
Philosophies seldom arrive when life is all happy and gay.

The Sepulchral Voices

So why such sadness i ask
and also with such grace-
Have you ever been so happy and yet so bereaved?
A culmination of all your dreams in front of you,
and a certain numbness longs for your presence.
The eternal rest is not a dream
but the eternal dream is to rest.
You are obscure and so am i.

The old song brings back memoirs,
The old joys give you pain.
Time is an unwanted dear friend
for he shall stay the longest,
unmoved by apathy and without any gain.
Drink the ale and make merry 'ol friend
for thy genesis has only begun.
The fun gods shall soon be dancing with you
and yet ...the old song remains.

Jasmine

It was drizzling yet she had no plans of retiring under the mulberry tree. Jasmine was five and it was her first trip to the village fair. She looked like an angel dressed in pink polka dotted skirt with the golden long streaks dancing in the wind. Her blue eyes sparkled every time someone passed her by, never had she seen so many people together. She saw other kids with their parents and with a smile waved at them to attract their attention, some smiled back, some waved but hardly anyone stopped.

Jasmine knew soon it would be dark and before long she would have to tread her way back to the village but it was not the distance that was bothering her. The drizzle had stopped but the wind was still up at it, the juggler was bored and the clown looked bereaved...she wondered why. She was tired and sleepy now rubbing her eyes and yawning only to look more divine. In another few moments she would be on her way back and she was thinking on those lines when she saw a young couple gleefully heading her way. Their charm mesmerized the young girl but not enough to make her forget what she was there for..."Flowers for the Lady, Sir?"