Rants of a modern lunatic

 Life, it circles back to some old reason of going somewhere, towards the snow capped mountaintop or towards the sea but nothing in between, in moments of unforeseen togetherness or moments of unhappiness boiling within from a defeat, it circles back, like an eagle fixating on her prey, it circles back as teenage girls circle on undeserving unhappy men, the nature of life is to repeat drunkenness or goodness - whatever is abundant - and of course whatever is good for centuries definitely loses, and the disquiet, when the passion subsides, is heard through each moving breath in each warm blooded bodies, and the void afterwards is filled by happy Saturday afternoons on shopping malls, by big corporate lowlifes offering death over life, with ten percent off for special occasions and specially chosen average set of people like us, and we choose death knowingly as life is harder to deal with, pointing to offsprings' damnation of numbing the senses, and sometimes you call it love, someti...

 The serious disentanglement, the behaviour of people slowly turning into the animal born to procreate, the denial of human nature within floral bouquets and intricate designs, the semi furnished man, the semi furnished woman, in a semi furnished apartment, trying to make sense of it all through joy, through an uncanny ability to feel elated over something extraordinarily trivial, the evaporation of passion after a few days or months or years, or worst of all that the passion persists, and you take everything known to you with it to write your own epitaph - "An Individual" - or something more sublime, just to light a dying spark to an insensate world, or that chosen moment of your past which laughs and doesn't care, the dispassionate existence, and still you scream, louder than ever, "Please let me get back."

 Not all things are meant to last, not all feelings, not all experiences of selfhood, they are nothing but a brief song of a love-lost bird, nothing but temporary distances created or abolished by alcohol induced sleepiness, transient responses before bedtime from a culture seeped in competition, not all things are meant to make your nose bleed profusely, only the extreme heat or love does, that too in a certain moment reserved for that specific purpose, and your moment is gone, and your responses are perfectly predicted and replicated by someone else, you realise this when everything becomes too late, the songs disappear and your voice crackles from the despair of the uncertain, and love doesn't last, and that feeling... That entire feeling that you mean something as you are in this great void of a world, that feeling leaves you midway, everything in between that opening and closing point, doors that open both sides and you still hesitate to pull, you hesitate to pull yourself, th...

 Towards the end, or the middle, or even the days preceding it, it becomes quite evident that we all live without beauty in our lives, and beauty - in her grandest and most eloquent state, reveals in an unquenchable sublimity the half-truth we all grab because the half-truths were easy to grab, they never questioned Man if he was ready for them, as love or wisdom or simply doing the laundry courageously often does, these often ask if Man is ready to breathe and be the Truth, for as long as time wishes him to be, between bitter wars and plagues and corruption, between infinitesimal speck of purity and everything that is voluptuously impure, between the largest neuron cells in our system that carries the signal of hysterical unbridled loneliness or just the joy of existing quietly as the world moves through speeding trains, the giant horses and eagles of civilisation carrying the deepest shit humanity generates, while beauty recedes into papers of lonely personal quest, into the Trut...

 As I live, I breathe through the unceasing monotony of a clock, of speeding cars downstairs on the road, the sound of trees dying in quiet midnight - in spring or when winter ceases to be a part of you, of your supposed ignorance like winter, as I live through the deafening distances of solitary love poems, all under the same hypnosis of the great grand happily ever after, as I live through this obligation of being happy, and the love poems become something else, the soiree turns blind like the dark summer evening outside, and you, and some distant unknown history of being with you, of a sorrowful coexistence longing for eternity, that which clearly survives through every goddamn thing within man, and you... and you under the sun, and you for every love poem I've ever written as I live through this, and you for every houseplant nurtured and died and mourned for, and you who see dead cells as stars, and you in quietness, you in melancholy, you in sombre simpleness of being, you in ...

A distant noise fills my brain like warm shagged grass - this is how you live - it fades and rings through the hollow greatness behind my eyes, the sunburn of sudden April in the middle of nowhere - this is how you live - a premonition, a sacred curse to be carried for eternity, as long as machines start to doubt their creator, a noise fills the void and the void devours the noise simultaneously - this is... This is how - this is the only way to live, in pain and pleasures of being a single strand of grass reflected on the watery eyes of a sick sheep, a psychological study of narcissism on pet dogs, and we continue to believe in this juncture made by ourselves to lie to us when needed, the fate of a thunder compared to the lifetime of a human being - I cry, I exist yet I do not see the beauty of it, because maybe beauty is truly subjective and resembles the nothingness within - I smile as I embrace a fading noise of pasts and futures blended in an everlasting present, and maybe this is...