Saturday, November 5, 2011


I'll tell you a secret
There's no heaven and there's no hell
There's only the realisation
You are dead.

Then you hear what people thought
About you
While you were alive
And what they think now

Yes, they will talk
For hours and hours
Of your greatness
And your kindness
How you made the world
By your being in it.
They will say all that
And more
Now that you are dead.

But you, only you
Will be able to see
Trapped in your dead shell
At your funeral

You will see
Beyond the words
Into the minds
Of all the smooth talkers

Your images of you
Will come crashing down
And that is worse
Than hell.

Friday, November 4, 2011

Words and more Words

Paper upon paper upon paper, we gaze wistfully at a bit of open sky, before turning our eyes back to the air-conditioned sterility of our offices, We visit the world travelling on our computers and participate in Occupy Wall Street, and in the revolutions birthed in faraway lands against faraway rulers, who have run and hidden in their castles, fearing retribution for years of living comfortably, and we participate in the English premier league matches and we run along with the best of them, and every goal scored is a goal scored by us and every goal missed is a goal missed by them and we call ourselves knowledgeable, and let it be known we are knowledgeable.

We drink and we drink and we smoke and smoke and we finally convince ourselves of the independence of our lives and of our ability to be free of all our chains, if only we wanted to, and we let the substances take over and let ourselves go to roam the boundaries of randomness, to visit and be a spectator to impossible events that defy logic and try to bring ourselves back when the illogic is over-bearing, but seldom succeed and all that can be done then is to relish and cherish the absurdities of the world around us and to pass into the realm of the dream-lord and hope that all will be well, when the sun snakes its way through our open windows and  closed eyes.

And on those monotonous reprieves we call weekends from the monotony of our life, we pay good money and trot to centers of capitalism to watch a story brought, as far as it can be, to life, held spell-bound by what professional story tellers deem a fit story to tell, and we nod our heads in agreement and say it is indeed a good story and wonder at the way it's been told in, and we wish ourselves to have been part of our story and we go to sleep and in our dreams we rescue fair maidens, we kill monsters, we rob banks, we drive fast cars and outsmart diabolical villains.

Then we ramble and ramble and rouse some rabble, trying to make sense of life, of what cannot be made sense of and stop when we realise that it cannot be made sense of but since traces of the attempt to make sense of it remain, we let it be. 
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