if so now it is like walking on a magic carpet ride
through the psychedelic universe made of candy cones
and ice-cream wrappers and rock and roll and forever
blues hit the eyes wide closed windows now
open into the sun and the moon and
the stars because now my dear friend,
I started this off as a warning.
Or a reminder,
I couldn't tell
for where I grew up, both mean the same.
Bright lights in big cities sing of blue chariots
racing through time careless of the destination
cuz they take pride in the journey
from the land of honey to the land of
lights emanates from their rear
as they lure us like moths
into their battlefield
till we turn into sparks ourselves
and fly off with them.
like a curious case of the button lost and
turned into a zipper we, you, I zip into the
planes of blue airlines into the open skies
and the sea waiting to churn down it is foam and whirl it
till it is the morning and the Judi Boodi Ba-boodi
Banana Lana Fo-fana
dance into the sun like mighty proud Aphrodite.
is it time already?
are it times already?
we ask? do we?
is that even correctly grammatically? not too loud for the eyes of yesterday
doth your blind arrows zoom in today and tomorrow
but it doesnt matter because we move on,
we walk on,
you and I,
him and her,
them and them
and he and he
and she and she
and it doesnt matter anymore
it is a colourful world now and
i fear i am not very poetic,
you say and I listen,
And you mean everything.
Like a magnet you pull the iron in me and bend it
and I feel it turn and know.
The sea is vast and so are your eyes.
they are deeper actually but in a vast sense, if you know what I mean.
And I dream of swimming in them.
In those eyes and
measure the depth and
know how far do those tears root from.
Oh yeah, Drink it all down like a big fish in a small pond like what my friend told once upon a time on stage and won the third prize. Or was it second really? Couldnt Care less now. Big fish in a small pond like big fish in a small pond like it all until it disappears from proportion your words and theirs that get drunk down like wine burning your throat but you like it because it makes you feel good. Yeah, drink the words down because you gotta move out move away walk run and leave all behind because you are in one those flaming chariots now and you can't back out.
Small cities dream like small pond and I outgrow it them. All.
Like ho ho ho dairy fairy lairy tairy
in a fish hook
in a fish tank
in a round house without doors.
Poor ears have the got westerlies brown findlaying
in the electric current of Technicolor waistcoat.
And dream of
. Naked underwears frolicking in the waters of the
taken down by the revolutionary ists
firing at the squads of yesternights
and the days before
and the days before before
the easterling's yesternights
and dreamy Extra Sensory PerceptioNs
looking at cards and guessing names like
d for dow
e for eow
g for god
sakes in Shakespeare shaking pears for inspiration.
I have but one thought and it is you.
And it doesnt matter who you are because for me
and one of the results of that is that, umm, it has basically
all the support you need to show the majority of the
survey for the protest to bring it back to
and you must know the public opinion to reinvigorate the
morning classes to put more disagreement in
alright that was someone from somewhere
from the glass eyed guns paper spraying
into the million confrontation in the
last week area.
your mind in and out
and I lose sanity for you because we walk
and without walking,
what i talk about when i talk about loving
shooting my brains out to prove me to you------------------------------------------------------
that science dreams of.
that mind thinks of.
And you and I, we walk
Cause this is our journey
and we walk.
shoes worn out,
hand in hand,
hand in shoulders,
pulling us closer and closer in each step.
the Road is smoking hot and fire burns reality out
and we see another truth that is meant to be.
I will come back to you, I promise.
Look through the tall kissing gates closed far off in the distance. A shadow approaches.
dark among the trees
growing taller as it comes closer.
You see it now.
You see him now.
It is an ideal world now without distinction.
Lookout for the yellow lights and the red lights.
and then move.
times have changed now
lights run people and things
and everypeople and everything.
Take your mark and mine too as I take his and he his and she shis
No more sad stories in the town and you and I we walk to
and feel the wave like water spray
nice and warm.
It is the sea baby darling sweetpea heart dearest of
and we walk hand in hand along the beach
the wave hit us like I said before.
It is the destination that counts forever and ever and evermore
and in hopes we have made it,
pray to god do
stare outside the open window like I always do when I want to appear thoroughly thoughtful. I wonder what it’d be like to stand atop that tall electric pole. I wonder if my ‘I’ is actually a ‘d’, if people, were they ever to read my handwritten notebooks, be able to differentiate between my ‘I’ and ‘d’. Would that thought even matter? Obviously who would say, “d stare outside the blah blah blah”? Usage can thankfully distinguish one from another. Just like us; me writing this, you reading this, them watching you reading me writing this. We all have purposes, uses that distinguish us from others, right? Even though we might have same names, same height, same weight, same age, even strikingly similar faces. Right? But maybe one could never know. There is already too much confusion in this world for someone to worry about my ‘I’ and ‘d’.
A young heart wonders: Who knows if the Moon is a Flying Lantern?
Who cares? Because it is just there; round and plump, just like a freshly picked orange. (Or is it really a brightly coloured balloon?) Lit by the Sun for a night, and the light goes when comes the morning. But people believe it is just the light of the Sun, reflected upon the craters-filled face of the Moon. And who is to say they are wrong? All those laws of Astronomy that govern them! But a young heart still wonders: Who knows if the Moon is a Round Mirror?
Who cares? Because it is just there; round and shiny, and it reflects light. “It reflects light! Shouldn’t it be a mirror if it reflects light?” And who is to say he is right? Everyone knows that the Moon. Is neither a Round Mirror nor a Flying Lantern…
I am not much of a writer but I do occasionally dabble with words, stories and poetry. I once heard, or read, that the universe is actually made of stories, despite the popular claim that it is made of atoms. It must have been one of my friends, who conducted the weekly writing workshop when I was young, who said that, but ever since I discovered that conjecture I have found a new way to look at the universe, and at the stories too. (This is exactly what she said; I am repeating her words because I feel the same and have no better way to convey it.) This discovery led to an even deeper regard for words because then I felt that I could see for myself why stories but not atoms.
The universe is fathomless, and so are stories. I’ll leave atoms for now. I don’t feel like talking about them right now. Honestly though, just as atoms as the rudimentary bricks of life, so are stories. Right from the moment of our birth, a story starts. There are countless plots and subplots and twists on the way but in the end the story meets its closure. Now I am thinking about it: maybe I should document somebody’s life right from the moment he or she is born till the moment he or she dies. I believe that’d be the most complete story ever. Wow, I think the idea is pretty good. Perhaps I should start working on it. But the biography technique is the most common story technique, right? Wonder if my attempt would be worthwhile.
Before I digress any further: universe, stories… Yeah. So I take it that you are getting my point. If I were to be poetic, I’d rather believe stories are what construct this universe. And that’d still be true one way or another. Guess what, there is an old man telling himself a story for eternity and that’s what’s making the universe. Stories are what keep us alive. Stories are what help us to stand up and continue walking after falling. In Hindu myth, it is believed that our universe is actually a very long dream dreamt by Brahma, the creator. And he is still dreaming it. When I was in elementary school, I and my friend would conjure up whimsical thoughts about us being someone else’s dream. Suppose there is a man, woman somewhere and he, she is dreaming us up, our world, our universe, our reality, even our dreams. And we used to ask ourselves what would happen if he, she woke up one day. I’d say, “I guess same would happen to us as it happens to our dreams when we wake up.”
“What happens to our dreams when we wake up?”
“Nothing. They just vanish and the next night, another dream takes over.” I’d reply.
Thinking about it now, I realize how insignificant our existence really is. If that person dreaming us wakes up one day, we’d vanish. We would only be memories and cease to be in the present. How insignificant indeed. How futile.
But isn’t that the truth anyway. Think of ourselves in Kathmandu, London, New York, in Earth, in Milky Way, in the universe. Perhaps there are Superuniverses too which house more than one universe and perhaps the echelon only grows. Do we still matter now? To ourselves, yes. But to the grander hierarchy of the very world we live in, I have second thoughts.
The sun is nearly setting. The distant sky is a shade of violent orange smeared all. Faint trails of shadowed clouds caress the vast blue. How insignificant indeed! But this all feels utterly important as long as we are here right? Perhaps the very insignificance of our existence is the reason why we are repeatedly asked to enjoy whatever’s around us. And so I try to enjoy this peaceful evening now, thinking about stories, words and the universe.
I am not much of a writer but I do occasionally dabble with words, stories and poetry. And I once used to hear, read so many things. Today I only think.
I think of all the time when I’d be driving and then stopping midway to get out of the vehicle and breathe in a different air and drink down a new scene. The time at Livenscol when I was still growing up. The time with Eileen and Little Boot and many others only faintly attached to my memory regardless of the fact that my memory now plays tricks on me, mixing up names and faces and events, and sometimes even creating new memories and attaching them with old ones and confusing me. Sometimes I don’t know what I remember and what I don’t. I don’t know if it’s really true or if my mind’s filling the blanks itself.
I think of times that could have been but didn’t. Times that I could have altered and made something entirely different than what they are now. I think a lot of the past. Maybe I won’t even realize my present unless it becomes past in the future. Then I’d still be thinking of all the gone times, lost themes and missed dreams.
When I said I would reach for the skies, for someone told me sky was the limit. They told me I wasn't tall enough; with such tiny hands and legs such as mine, they said I would never get close. When I said I would light up the night as I found out that it is darkness that we live in, they told me I wasn't bright enough; with such handful of coins tinkling in my pocket, they said oil was as far as the sky itself. When I said I would fly as free as a lark (that was the year I had finally sprouted wings), they told me I wasn’t sensible enough; if I were to say such thing again, they warned to burn and rip off my feathers. And then there was the year when I decided to stay quiet, keep my dreams to myself- for I knew that I was bright enough to light up the dark, and fly like a lark and touch the sky. That was when they told me I was dumb and a fool. And I smiled them away.
Does that even matter now? When everything is a blur now? A fleeting image projected by the starry eyed fools living upstairs without the slightest notion of what living actually means? Does it? does it? does it really? Automated auto-correction, correctors are blind now. Does it still matter? Life? Purpose? Anything? Or is it really just another dreamy thought down by the throat struggling to climb up out of the mouth into the air?
Laid down by misery on a rugged bed and it doesn’t feel good. Nothing like Mary Lou or Angel Lou, left alone to die in this godforsaken piece of shit, a desert, a barren desert where sand blows all around and unspeakable monsters rise up to take every treader down to an unknown pit of darkness, like a rabbit hole, longer and darker and lethal. And I am stuck. I m lost, more likely, struggling with every urge rising from my body to walk, to breathe, at least try, and see, only I want to close my eyes.
"Hey you, " it calls and you look at the direction of the origin of the voice for a split second you feel like ignoring it but it's already too late.
"Come here," it cries. You walk slowly towards your called in a dark hood and then you see that the caller that you thought is actually a statue and its silence all around there is no caller anywhere. A light bulb lights overhead and you see a park bench underneath it right before you. Do you want to sit? Are you tired? You realize that you are but you don't want to sit. You do but you don't. It's always contradictory but you can't escape despite knowing that you are not where you are you are not who you are and it's just something you can't easily explain.
You now think about turning away but then another thought creeps up your system till it blinds you and your senses and you see reason where it isn't. What was it that called you? Maybe you should investigate. You always wanted to be an investigator, right? You could try being one right now and see how it works for you. Furthermore, it is imperative that you find your caller. Don't ask why. Don't ask too many questions. Just do. And like in all those formulaic horror films which show characters foolishly walking to their death, or worse the ghost or a serial killer who takes place e a sure in torturing you to death, peeling away your flesh slowly perhaps, or maybe a ghost that uses inexplicable magic to push you down a tall turret giving you time to contemplate about all your errors in life, especially the one when you went after the ghost few minutes ago, you want to look for your caller.
You turn away from the bench to find a tall suspension bridge looming ahead of you. The cat in your arms turns uneasily and gives you a purr. You don't stop to ask yourself where in the hell the cat came from. It's cold, almost chilly. Seems like there is traffic congestion on the bridge. The vehicles are honking louder and louder with each passing minute and the cat in your arms face-palms itself and closes its ears. As you watch, the bridge starts to sway and pretty soon it’s dancing. The horns are louder than ever, perhaps the loudest ever and you squint your eyes because there is a cat in your arms and you can't possibly throw it away to close your ears.
Now the vehicles are hitting one another as the bridge starts to groove and shake its legs to an inaudible music backed by the horns from the crashing and falling vehicles. Yeah, vehicles are now falling from the sky on the bridge with cats and dogs. Some parts of the bridge in turn fall into the river but it doesn't care. One of the dogs looks at you and smiles. The cat in your arms jumps and goes to the dog and they both smile and hug one another and they don't fight like cats and dogs but they ask you to follow them and you do. The bridge is now out of sight and out of mind and then the cat says to the dog, "The flowers are nice balloons. Wonder what kilos cost the tails!?"
Transcendence bilateral collateral take it back the way you threw it at me the bullet I can see it in slow motion wheezing at me like a rapid fire fire in the jungle fire in the mountain run run run fire in the mountain run run run did you ever play fire in the mountain run run run wait a second can there ever be fire in a mountain any mountain dont mountains have snow and rocks all over how can there be fire in somewhere there is only ice and eternal chill like here right now i can only feel the chill as it creeps up my legs my crotch my spine my hands my fingers are numb the chill climbs up my spine again this time its a follow up chill a friend of the chill that came before and i know more will follow thats the way with chills and colds they always come one after the other maybe it is to prolong the pain is it erally pain that chill makes us feel pain pain pain may not be the right word perhaps i am thinking wait give me a second to think right now i am really sorry i cannot think you see i am trying to write a letter to my Dearest my D-E-A-R-E-S-T Dearest darling and i am thinking what to write i want her to feel good you know I dont want her to feel sad or anything I want him to understand me I want her to understand this is how life goes I want him to see I cannot think of a way I am so hopeless right now maybe you dont even want to talk to me maybe you dont even want to stick around I dont know what to do I cant think at least not straight I cant concentrate this is killing me and I am already dead I put a gun to my mouth i think or maybe I tried something else maybe I still have time to undo this tear the page up throw the letter into the fire and pretend like it never happen make it seem like nothing ever happened and go on endure live breathe i dont know i am scared i am more confused more angry more disoriented than sad and i cant think more maybe this is what life is maybe this is how its supposed to be you know everything maybe this is the real deal maybe i am a coward but dont you think this requires tremendous courage tremendous discipline tremendous consideration its not a joke after all its real like everything oh dear this is mad i think i think i try to think i try of something else i try i try i try bang bang bangbang bang bang bang bang the noise loud crazy earsplitting everything everyadjective everyeveryevery hear hear the sound as it explodes and see try to grasp the gravity of the circumstance and consider it try try my dear this is how its supposed to be you planned it for as long as you remember try try to do it follow it make it happen do it i tell you do it write one last time and see let go walk away move and get.
A stranger greets my door and I wonder if I should let him in. it’s a terrible idea, maybe. And needs a careful consideration. But my mind is frightfully vacant and I can hardly think. It’s all done. All planned and pondered on. An idea can kill a man, they say, and I can feel it now. The stranger is already inside and comfortable. I offer him tea in my knee cups and room in my rib cage. It’s rusty, he says, and I tell him that it’s the best I can do right now, and he believes. Or at least I think he does because he walks in and smiles. Next morning we plan to visit the control room. He wants to See, he says. I nod. A terrible terrible idea, I think. And yet I nod. An idea can kill a man, they say and I don’t doubt.
But my mind is frightfully vacant and I cannot think. Words are in me but I cannot find the medium to bring them out. I look at the paper that’s before me and I see an ocean in it. a vast, pale, colourless ocean where no boats can go. ‘cause if they go, they will drown for sure.
Birds speak in German and I can’t understand them. I don’t know if they are calling me of they are simply ignoring me. I can’t understand the birds because they speak in German. No, birds speak in the language of god, if there be one, and so I can’t understand them. Birds speak in the language of god and no one understands them. If only they’d speak in the language of men, people would know what a sham it all is- the name of religion and faith. In fact they’d know of things that are hidden right under the sun, right before their eyes, and no one sees.
It is hard.
No, don’t say hard, knocking on the wood, this is hard. It’s tough. You should say tough. Or difficult. I don’t know. Does it even matter now? The voice screams loud and I know the stranger cannot sleep. The stranger screams loud and I cannot sleep. Head crashes on the rocks, the cliffs until everyone is hanging by the nails thereby coining the term cliff-hanger. Yeah, I have heard that one before. Do you know the one about the monkey, the cow and the man with donkeyears? I don’t either. More pressing matters reside around and I- well, I don’t know.
I don’t know a lot of things it seems.
I don’t don’t i? do i? a lot of things. Yes. Lot. Of. Things. Don’t i? do i?
I shot myself through the roof of my mouth this morning,
it rings in my ears and I still think of it.
I don’t have the gun but I can feel it, the thought of its cold touch,
in my mouth
burns and I am not sure what taste it actually is,
it burns burns burns
and I know I enjoy it.
Dearest, I shot myself
and I write this to you
because I know you understand.
There is no gun perhaps, and I miss it.
I don’t know what is.
A gas oven.
Anything can start a spark then all is dripping in flames.
Dearest, it is half past ten already and I can't help but wonder.
Dearest- that's how it always starts in my head,
that's how it has always been,
you the dearest,
or at least that's what I know,
I am not sure,
my memory is fogged and I don't know.
But this cannot go on forever,
I won't let it,
and it shall not.
when I say that I had real trouble writing this.
The words are all here but I am scared.
The words are all here but jumbled and crying and maybe that's why I am
It's happening again
and I don't know if this will make any difference at all.
There is nothing to it
than the fact that I can't go on and
this is most certainly not the way I planned it.
I only want to reach you before all this is broken and shattered and faded.
You have no idea how much everything meant to me,
how much it all still means to me,
and I don't blame you.
I fear that nothing will remain and I don't blame you.
But I have been ungrateful and this only seems fair.
Notes are always dramatic, I know, and you'd rather have me confront you but I don't think I have the energy now.
I am tired and afraid.
I watch you every day go about on your work,
I watch you try every day to make me feel good.
I watch you every day watching out for me
taking care of me and forgetting about yourself
but I don't want to go on spoiling your life forever.
I have half a mind to stop and burn this right away
and forget this ordeal like it never happened.
I don't know why I wrote that,
I don't know why I am even writing this.
The absence of knowledge is always blissful as is ignorance
especially when the knowledge in question concerns something like this
but I don't want to stop.
I want you to know that without you this day would have come much sooner
and I wouldn’t have ever found a reason to hold on
and hope for a better day at the end of all those long cold dark nights.
You gave me a reason and I am glad that I accepted it.
It's just that the course is lost now and so am I.
I was entirely selfish and I am terribly sorry for that.
Maybe I am being selfish now as well but I know
without me you can finally raise all your forgotten dreams
from the catacombs and I want you to be happy.
I really can't go on spoiling your life forever and I know you'll
I don't want to hurt you anymore and this seems only right.
You have always been so good to me so now I know
I must return the favour.
I want to.
I want nothing but all the goodness of the world
for you and this is the least I can do
to make sure you get what you deserve.
I can't even think properly right now.
I am sorry.
You know I love you
and that I owe my life's happiness to you
there is nothing I wouldn't give to be with you
but I have come to realize that my love is for you
to be happy
and I can't even repay your kindness.
Know that it was always the world in between us. Always the world
and I was lost until you found me.