Of Morality and Disposable Emotions

In an interesting turn of events I became acquainted with certain characteristics of colossal intrigue regarding the human behavior , in a condition of total aloofness we feel like there is something that is stuck up in our arse which renders to act rather impulsively. There is no moral obligation or lapse as far as we are able to satiate our consciousness with a cogent justification , we can even justify murders and massacres because as humans we don’t want to be on a guilt trip that could fuck with our self-woven cobweb of fake happiness but at the end of everything what baffles me is how much one degrades themselves to achieve that level of pseudo-zen.

On one hand our philosophies boast of certain moralities that even Oxygen would seem less important but most of us don’t literally give a fuck about morals and stamp upon it without deliberation to possess  and follow our desires , then why this façade of ethics and decency when we all worship debauchery , why this improvisation, a constant obligation of projecting oneself as decent, lying to oneself , to each other on every damned day of your life. Isn’t your whole life composed of a bunch of lies, imagine if people started to show what they actually are and what apparently are they made of , the world will then see the chaos it deserves. Why don’t we just gift ourselves with a holocaust that our pathetic species is craving for , we have designed and engineered devices that make us unhappy , emotions that are disposable, and no love, how much hope do you think we have with such a perilous amalgamation, hope this world ends soon enough.  

Of Wauling and Futility

The sorrow is sublime and under it the spirit is weary,
acute abomination is deemed incurable and is evidently dreary.
It bellows into the night and to the farthest point thus the cries travel,
but then eventually dies with its skin scraped on sand and gravel.

It now roams freely on the harrowed lands, where did death take a stroll
and sniggers it in the darkest corners as slowly raises the toll.
Fear has its name painted on walls and despondency patrols,
Havoc is rampant and chaos in the minds now rolls.

Halt, think and then once again, the purpose of such pain,
what’s done is done ,sulk and whimper if bliss it gains.
Inevitable and indelible they are, then why such madness,
why not feed it to the mongrels , what use is such sadness.

Lays amongst maggots and in moist soil, it only awaits putrefaction,
of what you shed and waul for, is just dust in progression.
Have your fill of the euphoric air, and glorify the endowed span,
feel , embrace, scream or just profligate, all of it while you still can.

The Son of Gory

And he went flying through the thorns of addictive agony,
and it tore and skewered him but oh the delectation of pain refuses to vanish,
Desert him you callous one, the spirit of bliss awaits,
drunk on the dubious ecstasy of the barren lands, how and what he draws.
When did he turn into this corpse of living immorality,
degenerate do people call him and it might still be a euphemism.

Choking on the tears that burn his pipes of wind,
he bellows in the highest of registers, beseeching eternal sleep
but pleadings of the subdued have and will remain unheard
and what remains are the cries that last and resonate for ever.
the son of gory shall remain unscathed , etched in stone that is,
for what they call abode of the damned , that is exactly where he dwells.

Umbrella

I could feel the water dripping off my nearly soaked shirt onto my hands, fumbling, trying to find balance between the heat from the glass of tea and the embracing cold that the wind carried as I sat beside a half-sheltered tea-stall rattling, as heavy drops from the skies ricocheted onto its plastic shed, it was a confounding Friday, confounding because it was preceded by an unusually sunny Thursday and there I was sitting amidst a jungle of concrete, a panoramic stretch wearing a shiny facade which bears the stench of money and the silent cries of ever-dying dreams and hopes, with that came a gust of wind, snatching away my temporary shelter and sitting on a block of unleveled concrete I wondered about the futility of running about when one is already drenched.
I stood up gradually to start walking towards the auto stand, I could feel the rain on my face, sharp little icy drops of water aided by breeze, trying to puncture your skin and seek refuge inside, one of those moments when the clock starts to tick at a slower pace and you start feeling everything, from the pain in your broken wrist to the heaviness in your breathing, a hundred meter walk seems like an eternity to cover. I got to the auto stand only to find it deserted, but the day didn’t boast of much serendipity hence there was a lack of disappointment.
The minute hand had completed ten full circles and every inch of my skin was now saturated, the rains had now crossed threshold of ‘pleasant’ and I had started to feel the dankness seeping inside me when oddly all of it came to a halt and my body’s acquaintance with the heavenly waters was obstructed by something which I felt was hovering over my head, that momentary feeling of eeriness when your heart would actually skip a beat or two calculating the possibilities of the unseen followed by the moment of ‘usually relieving’ truth but in this case it was extensively overwhelming.
There was a mild and apparent reluctance in her eyes, those captivating eyes: stealing glances or at least that is what I wanted to believe, I took a deep breath, absorbing her mild , sweet fragrance which helped in assuaging the erratic pounding inside. The waters making sweet music on her ivory white umbrella and drops dripping off it its edges as perfectly arranged andantes of a symphony. There was silence on my lips and chaos in my mind, words disagreed to leave my mouth, quailed at the thought of being agents of blasphemy, afraid of upsetting this rain-scented goddess. It should have just been gratitude but other emotions did violently whirl and I couldn’t decide their character on a scale of appropriateness but the heart does always find cogency to justify what it desires. Amidst all this turbulence I didn’t notice the vehicle that had recently halted in our vicinity and a wide smile grew on her face, like how the sun ennobles the sleeping sunflower; radiant, resplendent, enchanting. I stood there riveted as she closed her ivory white umbrella and embarked the vehicle of my envy, the doors slammed shut and the waters re-trysting with my skin, the engine gave a dweeby growl and the wheels started to turn, the window rolled down and out came an ivory white umbrella which I clutched like a famished hobo and watched as the vehicle of my envy whisked her off, leaving me behind with the ivory white umbrella and an indelible memory; radiant, resplendent, enchanting.

Of Queues

You know what’s annoying? Standing in a queue, it brings so much sadness to your thoughts. A queue is something that usually makes you aware of what your worth might be; the more your worth to the world, lesser the queues you would have to stand in, but when you’re apparently in a queue it would treat you the same as every other individual who is a part of it, queues do not discriminate as people do. In a hate inflicted world which cannot catch a breath, a queue would be an involuntary pause which lets you think about so many disparate aspects of life which have been deliberately neglected and the possibilities they hold. I’m a strong believer of fatalism, what I want to imply that death is inevitable and very much real and our present social construct does not actually prepare us well to deal with or rather knowing the life we have been bestowed with, it keeps us busy and before we realize that we actually have a life to live, most of it is blown away in a puff of smoke.
Supposedly, I am in a queue, the purpose is to obtain a worthless piece of paper which I know is marginally going to make life easier, would gain me nothing on a personal level but, here I am sweating in the scorching sun, famished, succumbing to the traditions and hollow manners of the world, wasting time which could have been invested in something productive and of actual value (at least to me).

I am guessing that queues mustn’t have been invented, they would have just come into existence, I mean who would want to invent something like a queue when impatience is one of our basic and primordial personality traits. I cannot imagine a man voluntarily giving his place to another and waiting in his stead. We are not creatures of order, it has to be imposed on us, thus queues are nothing but impositions, yes they do bulldoze order in situation of barbaric unevenness yet, no matter how many facades it is put under but without it we would wipe our existence out from the face of the earth. The sole purpose was of this post is to bring out that queues aren’t really that uninteresting, there’s lot more to it than its existence as a formation, it displays vivid colors of human emotions in a single collective ; displeasure, hope, anger, succor and maybe a little bit of romance. So, next time you’re in a queue just try and embrace its intriguing projections lest whining.

Weathered Colours of Companionship

Peeking out of the stained glass window, gazing at the rain drenched grounds in hopes of being one with the wet grass and just then the bell rings, like some divine intervention saving you from the listlessness of some numbers being scrolled across the board but a sudden realization of disparity present between reality and fantasy comes creeping in, slowly turning that enthusiasm into mild reluctance and then, out of nowhere comes a gentle push and you find yourself wrestling with gravity in a freshly created pool of rainwater with your chums, with each of them donning that smirk of satisfaction mixed with realization of the consequences that were to follow which would fairly resemble the ones bored for that blatantly whimsical episode with silver nitrate in the chemistry lab but the smiles eventually withered as moments became memories and were never relived as ‘growing up’ happened.












The heart became cold and uninviting as the years passed by and started to loathe company as the world only reflected its own demeanor and was imminently lost in the abyss of desolation.

The bounds of misanthropy have been slowly entangling our lives as a constrictor since then, wrapping its cold skin around it prey and slowly squeezing the life out of it, but then who’s to judge, sometimes death is a blessing in disguise, there is a reason why it is called the end of all sufferings. It is astoundingly wonderful to see how philosophies can bring drastic changes in a man’s life, we all are working to please our brains and well what could be better than getting it drunk on them, I think the key to happiness lies in the power of convincing your mind( after you’ve taken care of your belly of course). Misanthropy, a condition of being asocial, conventionally thought as being an anomaly because we have defined ourselves as social animals and most of us cannot summon the power to break out of that shell and we never will.

We all have friends those we hate, love is a very strong word it has to be used very carefully in these harder times, the implication being that the expression of hatred requires so much less effort that its accepted antonym, what’s arduous is to open your heart and let it pour as from a jeroboam of effervescent wine. Our social lives but revolve around the ardor for superficial intimacies and false displays of joviality and we work industriously to keep that boat of illusion afloat. “I’m madly in love with my baby” is usually bestowed upon shiny automobiles and gaming consoles, I rarely see anyone claiming that kind of love for their fellow beings, maybe a few dogs. I don’t know who or what is to blame or if it is the kind of human evolution we wanted for ourselves where even hangouts are virtual. I guess we are reasoning too much, too much of pragmatism has blocked the artery of jovial flow and the heart suffers from bliss-depravity. I guess we have to reason with ourselves and question ourselves that what pragmatism explains bearing so much of loss to gain such little.

Peregrination of Perdition

Down it shall go with a thousand reasons  and they shall be the ones to see it rise,
far on the horizon it shall swim above the forsaken land where they killed their brothers and man,
 the blood in which they bathe , seek absolution in that cursed faith ,
gory shall hold no vice and justice shall be done without a pun

Where it shall be done ,it was then displayed, with what they played, the music of night,
 picked up a fight and it added to the bass, he painted it red and to dogs it was fed ,
where the nights were bleak and he was weary,
witnessed the massacre of dreams, nothing seemed more dreary.

And the skies then turned crimson but it wouldn’t rain in blood,
but it poured and poured its heart out and we swam in that flood,
running down an epileptic road stirring up the spirits of the deep rooted trees,
and their lament mixing with the wind ,acute pungency was the air’s clemency.

Meek and downtrodden becomes of the heroes, the peasant now excels archery,
gives away to savagery ,what mind couldn’t ever see, he participates in such appalled debauchery
laughter of slaughters , slaughters of laughter echoed as music sublime,
yes, this is man , this is mankind and he is in his prime.

Seeks the dawn he when the sun shines upon his head,
trampled lay his brothers while darkness treads,
and chortles  adversity in the run-down corners,
embraces mendaciously the fallen cherubs,
but would still carouse in these lands unholy, the man and his cubs.