Rants of a modern lunatic

 It was never easy. Mama asked me everytime, When things got twisted to utter simplicity, Mama asked me this: "How would you like your eggs for dinner?" Sometimes Mama just sat there, Watching T.V. in desolate evenings Or singing songs from her diary Where she wrote down her favourite lyrics- Mama asked me through her songs, Through moonlight glistening from Her voice, amidst utter darkness in my brain She asked: "What would you do without me?" Sometimes I'd weep. Sometimes I just looked outside as the dark streets Still reflected the moon on their own right. I looked at the woman who had raised me As I am now, and I listened carefully to The deception in her voice against herself. Years have simply made her wise Who can think of my defeat As if nothing lasts.

 Riddled with pointless emotions, empty glances as the light betrays the eye, semi-broken promises and decades of dreamless existence, you grew old. You grew old with others, older than your grief, older than the dim divinity or solitude itself, older than the past that had ever melting butter and popsicles and blunt knives at the end of the day, you outgrew your lonely mother, now you bear a child who looks exactly like the loneliness you inherited, and will one day outgrow you into a dark tall tree cleverly reaching the moon - the unbroken knowledge of eternity resonating with every minute passing around you, a conspiracy to make people old, an unending grief with evermore stillness looming over your baby from the inception of the idea itself, and you grew old, years passed by and you grew old, with loneliness as your child, and it is quite evident to you by the end that memories falter, and the future does not exist, and in this terrifying world, all we have are the connections ...

  After years and years of isolation, you suddenly looked for stars in a vast winter sky that night. There was no reason to look for the stars, or even anything, but the grief of unending silence - untouched - as the sound of earthly commotions died down in space, that terrible grief, enough to rot a Red wood in California down in a single blow from the unfathomable depths of its core, took hold of you. The evening ended in a slow progression of non-events happening in a chirpy fashion all around you - drivers driving, people cooking at home, people crying at one corner, people laughing at parties, loners doing whatever they are not supposed to do, people keeping themselves busy with people - all at once making your upcoming night yellowish and lonelier. Still it was comfortable knowing that despite how hard you try to let go of you and your blackness to finally see the star, to finally see that twinkling piece of magical shit blooming into whiteness even within the black iris...

An autumnal dream in the heart of winter, Crashing against the waves of despair That is the only luminous entity Inside this darkness, Unable to be drunk with life and living, I endure evenings with delight and pain. Delight in endings, pain in endings too. Yet in between the lapses of these Workings of the universe, I find myself standing, asleep to songs Of silent observation, recuperating From an illness worth dying for. Delight and pain, and it's all neutral now. Waking up is what sets me apart, Waking up to an unmanageable sleepiness, Into a breathing being of cynical qualities, Or maybe waking up into a world Where sleeping is unknown even to Sunflowers, and everyone blooms Into a quiet ugliness as they age, An autumnal dream of ageing quickly - A question pondered over lifetimes, A man, degraded, deranged, neither awake Nor sleepy, floating in space, An autumnal dream revisited as Each winter day passes too slowly To connect the dots, to make something Out of nothing.

Know that no one's been out there looking out for you, know that nothing's ever going to be fixed no matter how hard you try, even if you try to believe otherwise, and you sink yourself into the lowest levels of dementia, where you forget that you are conscious about having a distinctive degree of grief, where your sense of well being is modulated by a brain that doesn't listen to you, you ask for validation from a species that traded its well being with the amount of likes on Facebook much earlier, you are murdered, murdered by the people who never gives a shit anyway to anything, and you never got out of the shadow of yourself, cast on the ground before you as the sun shines from behind, and you watch the shadow move with alacrity to defend the shadow but not the owner, know that this is not the end, this was never meant to be the end - patiently wait for the asteroid or the meteorite to hit straight onto your being, shredding every organised thought about anything other ...

 When you know that life is not worth living, yet you yearn for friendship, for love, for care, for all the things that make life bearable enough, and write things about loneliness when there is nothing to write; when you stop at a someone's home and forget why you even came in the first place, when you divide plants and animals into reasonable beings and humans into something beyond reasoning only to drown into the greatest sufferings known to man, when you live while everything defies living, when you lose all that you have into a game of existing authentically, when you slide into despair and remain inside the wombs of the pitying kind, when you do not know when to stop drinking so much alcohol that it ultimately ruins the essence of you, you remember, you always remember that Brooks was there, that Red was there, that hope is a good thing, and a good thing never dies.

 Between the long moments when the mind finds itself staring at a greater depth of endings and the moments of unforeseen slumber, between early to rise mornings and late to bed nights, between those unfeeling yet alcohol induced sleepiness unfolding like black curtains over the waking period of sunny winter days, between the subtleties of boiling milk or refrigerated vegetables waiting to be chopped off, between the absolute dumbing down of humanity in the name of office, in the name of civilised existence and being able to afford food and rum to dumb things further down to a new low everytime, between the hallucinatory sickness called love or cancer, between the edges of walls and faces and minds where small cracks appear everyday, unnoticed, untreated, until one day it all gives way to thick roots of unknown trees, between the receding hairline and smell of yesteryears throbbing in your heart, between the roads leading to memories and roads leading to places where men dream with ...

 As the warm sunshine begins to melt through your cold skin cells, as you have just woken up into another day of some wierd mixture of abstinence and indulgence, as you instinctively try to let go of yourself when you look beyond the edge of the rooftop for no particular reason, as it seemed like the most natural thing to do, like eating breakfast or loving without words, as you stretch yourself beyond the limits of everyday reason, as something stirs within your destiny that secretly tells you to revel in ideas of non-being and ideas of a gun, for guns are the quickest and easiest way out of the maze, as you hit a new low back then every day but now on some hourly basis, as the dogs scream in the middle of the night only to remind themselves that they exist in this world bereft of sense, as you write, as you write your way out of you and into you, and there are colder places on earth than your words, probably your half-formed thoughts also, as you dig deeper into the coldest of th...

 The unfounded reason of nature's indifference, the sky, the limitlessness of trees and their green, the loneliness of a river born in the middle of a cold mountain, the sheer silliness in a lover's lovesick eyes, the loss of words before the greatness of silence and the void between people, inside people, the near death experience in a languid dream of life, the way the wheel revolves around the core, the perfection, sought unknowingly most of the time, the reason behind the way of the universe, how to live a life, how to turn up every day before the table and say and believe great things about humanity, about fire, leaders, about revolution, about God and about love which seems pure as God, how to dive straight into the heaviness of being and drown, the reason behind the resemblance rather than the difference, how does it feel to open your eyes inside the murky waters of a blackened pond, how to be happy with the ego-self that is described on Facebook, how to turn the clock b...

 Has it ever occurred to you that everything you see in these forever nights, is a dream or a memory of a broken man, searching for something lost or something that never ever existed outside of illusion? The thing called life becomes less than existence, an obscure love affair with breathing, a dark winter festivity without people, and among these billions of thoughts of unknown emergencies of silly kinds, has it never occurred to you that the reasons simply do not exist? That there was nothing to look for tomorrow as everything, including people, popped up into existence for eternity, that everything we all ever did was to foolishly look away, was to settle for the will to live based on a basic animal instinct rather than reason, yet we prided ourselves with possessing rational minds? That we continued throughout history, and made history a flowing object through time, and shaped human perception over time, only not to die in this present moment?  Sometimes wisdom or the ill...

 It has been long smothered to pieces, yet the parts walk as a whole, think as a whole, make choices that partly goes one way and partly goes the other, yet stays at one single place, the present, which is not a time but a place to be, to exist, to be and suddenly not to be one day, and the parts happen to form a human heart on such a desolate place, hoping, praying for deliverance which never arrives, and it becomes an easy enough choice just to forget existing, just to wake up and shit and bathe and dry and eat and work and cook and eat and sleep and wake up and do whatever is programmed within you, choose to care for everyone in the family as you are programmed to do so, choose the blue colour shirt as you are programmed to do so, choose to hang out with women who take a little part from you each day until you have nothing left, choose to hate yourself more and more as averageness seeps in like drips of water within green algae until it is flooded and you are submerged deep with...

 I see it when it comes to my room, with the wind or with the first sunlight over my unopened eyes every morning, I hear it with the solitary footsteps of mine and with the rustle of changing my dress, brushing my teeth, the toilet flush, the singleness of the sensation of warm water over my body. The toaster screams its name, yet I know that the names are not there, only the chants and bustle of everyday street, the smoke coming out of my gut after that cigarette burns itself into oblivion, the grinding of selfhood into the eclipse of dim lights and papers in the office, between the sighs of despair in each waking moment, I see it, I see it in the mirrors of doom, I see it well enough, to soak into it and suffocate myself. To 16 hours of disconnected being and 8 hours of escape, to standing on the road and not being able to decide which way to go, to find a population of us who are exactly the same and still yearn for something special, to solidify my blood running within my veins...

 Here is the world where solitude is greener than green leaves, 50 seems more accessible than 20, 25, or even just one year, one month, one day earlier than now. Here is the time where now seems eternity, or the slow progression of your daily helplessness, your daily walk towards somewhere into the bustle, and your daily retreat 8 hours later into the silence you don't recover from. Here is where you breathe out your internal fire like smokey substances into the fog of nowhere, you convert yourself as fuel to the average ego, and you have something sacred within you like a diamond or a dream, or a single hallucinatory obsession enough to kill yourself, and you enslave yourself to the sacred, to that dream, to that unreasonable height of despair, only to find yourself busy in browsing through gleaming objects of nonsense in shopping malls, in YouTube, in green curry, in spirituality or something as mundane as a bottle of rum. Here is the world to be truly dejected about yourself and...

 What is life but to tenderly wait for the night to deepen, for the world to forget every memory of you, the smell of dark circles around your lonely pitch black eyes, the eyes that have seen and become conscious of seeing, so much so that the objects lose meaning themselves. What is life but to welcome everything at once and vomit everything out at each morning, fearing a solitary dream of greyed out sleepiness that haunts you, the stillness of rain in a December night like the sorrowful unending music somewhere, wishing it to stop but it continues to pelt down on this Godforsaken earth... What is life with that unceasing downpour, like the continuity of averageness in every decision you make, celebrating the act of dragging on instead of running fast, because you secretly knew that the path is a short one and running fast will get you on the finishing line much faster than expected, so you defy yourself and benumb yourself into expectations, so this mediocrity, this all consuming...

 The irresistible urge to cry out when you're born, the urge for milk, the urge for food, house or family, the urge to be wise, to be rich, the urge to belong, the urge to simplify things, the urge to faith, the urge to embrace someone or something for the sake of embracing, the urge to sleep, fuck, reproduce; sleep, fuck, reproduce; sin, redeem oneself, sin again; the urge to do all these in some different order maybe. The irresistible urge to jump in front of a speeding car after you're truly awake, the urge to find happiness as a consumer good, the urge to be content with the black hole of nothingness and everything that is sucked within it, the urge to sleep and never truly be awake, the urge to slit the wrists or euthanize yourself in the face of pain, the urge to drink coffee and fake it against everything, the urge to read to death, the urge to swindle the world into "knowing thyself", the urge to find a snake and tred over it, the urge to be drunk always to fa...