Processus.

Ferris wheels weeded out from murky muddy meadows,
Dusty, gusty shades of black paint rusty red windows,
Blue is cruel; believe me, or blindly trust the widows,
Drained and strained, slops around nasty busty shadows.

Doors opened, doors closed.
Skies shine, then cave in untold.
Years and years of damp and cold
Slapped, by the shameless bold.

Moon-rises witnessed amidst clumsy clouds of yore.
Memories clog the veins that once fueled the whore.
Foretold, the fates of men, fear to fight some more;
The smell of dead and stale still sticks to the sea-shore.

Doors opened, doors closed.
Clothes looked for a hidden fold.
Settled into the shape of mold.
Pretend as long as they hold.

5:05am.
26:05:11
Very much in context.

Vague.

Once upon a time, inside a skull, skilled and cold-blooded, a Reality-Check Apparatus was born. Its efficiency was so unparalleled, that the other physical-factors-that-decided-abstract-phenomena, couldn't tolerate its existence. They were very jealous of it, and they started to fear that their own spans of survival were under the threat of being overpowered by that one living, breathing object.
Within the cerebral confines of their owner, they made plans, wide and wicked, intended to destroy RCA.
Accordingly, one day, they threw a party and invited RCA to it. At the gathering, naturally, proud of its worth, RCA didn't bother to even interact with the others. The others, huddled together, consolidated their selfish plans of ending RCA, and calculated every step of tearing it apart. RCA was too haughty to notice the crowd's concentration.
All of a sudden, everyone turned towards it. It was taken by surprise for the first time since its inception. It told itself that the others must be about to worship it. It was used to holding back deadly stares from mortals, but never before had it confronted so many eyes looking at it, with the same inexplicable expression.
The skilled and cold-blooded skull's walls began to tremble and echo with strange loud beats. RCA tried to tear away from the extremely straining eye-locks, to look around the room. It could vaguely discern reddish white-washed walls with its own pictures hanging in frames, all around. It couldn't be sure if they were pictures or mirrors. It could not go to find out. It could not free itself from the crowd's stare-trap.
The vibrations grew louder and more severe. The frames broke. The pieces of glass, swung at each other in controlled animation. RCA felt the familiar crescendo it had always feared. The invisible waves came to it, criss-cross, from every direction. Only if the others would look away, it thought, it could calm the elusive storm around it.
Nothing slowed, or stopped. Rising above thresholds, beating all the old-preserved frequency records, the waves of doom superimposed in a destructive interference never experienced before. The others continued depriving RCA of all sense of time and space. They were glad that their presumptions were correct. They were apprehensive that their owner would wake up and pause their exercise. But, nothing betrayed their collective visual-kinesis.
RCA heard the faint sound of a crack within him, and made a mental note of mending it as soon as conditions were back to normal. Normal! The word seemed lost from his dictionary. It felt its reason being robbed away gradually. It still couldn't break free. It still couldn't believe in its weakness, or dependence on others. It held out its shield's handle from the back, without a clue, that the metal has long melted into watery smoke. Blurry-eyed, it tried to admit exhaustion. But even such powers of introspection, admission and action slipped away before it could grab them.
The crowd dispersed. The storm crawled back to the horizon.
What remained of the proud Reality-Check-Apparatus was a feeble piece of papyrus.
The others had won. They tossed the piece outside the skull-world.
The owner woke up. 

Phase Three. Part Two.

That man that mythology hides in its rotten pages,

Whose strengths stretch to farther than the beyond,

With the burden of the multitude, on his sinewy shoulders,

Two bearers, like two scales of a balance; albeit, weight-obsessed.

Atlas shrugged.

Not for the first time.

Phase Three. Part One.

Eternity, it's your turn to fetch the ebb,
and etch the rest,
on the muddy sands,
and close your fingers tight,
with all your weak might,
to hold those stale waves away from my feet.

I've had my wild date with defeat,
What would you do now?

What is it?

There is this short little story hiding behind the curtain. But everyone is too lazy to move the hanging piece of cloth.
Lazy, laid-back; hazy, heady, and what-not regressive adjective come to the mind.
If the patterns were the very purpose, then it's reason enough for a lot of pessimism.
But pessimism doesn't pay much.
As they say in the movies, any person you pick on, would give you a thousand reasons why he ought to die. Thousand versus one. So it is, for everyone.
The trouble-maker is an exception, though. He would make mistakes, so that others can learn from his. Honor, such an ancient concept to live for. Or almost, die for.
It's so easy to say, after all. It's easier to imagine it.
Fresh twigs strewn around.
That old smell of wet wood; almost pleasant, though rotten.
Soft, fluorescent, crayon-colored leaves.
And an empty drop of dew that the eyes are tired of staring at.
Strength, he refused today.
It's his turn, tonight.

A Happily-Ever-After Story.

Once upon a summer, long, long ago, there was a foolish, foolish man.
As he stood on his porch, drinking water, he saw a bird crying for water.
He took pity on the little creature, and brought it in.
The bird was happy. It got water.
The bird fell in love with the man.
The man fell in love with the bird.
He asked the bird to be with him forever.
The bird said yes, gladly, gratefully, without a second thought.
The man put his beloved inside his rib-cage; the safest place to hide it, he thought.
Love is possessive, and protective.
The bird played around the space, for a long time.
Then, it got tired of the bony enclosure.
It started to flutter its wings violently, so that the man would know that it wanted to go out.
The foolish man thought that the bird must be enjoying itself very much.
He lived on, under the impression that his beloved is safe and happy inside him.
He lived on, with the fluttering in his chest.
One day, suddenly, he discovered that the fluttering has stopped.
He opened his chest to find out what has happened.
The bird looked at him with sad eyes, and made painful noises.
It said, "I still love you."
The man smiled at it, and said "I know."
The bird said "My wings are in pain."
The man smiled and brought a pair of clippers.
He clipped off the bird's wings, and put it back inside his rib-cage.
He was happy that he has relieved his beloved of its pain.
After some time, one day, the bird started singing.
Sad songs. Beautiful songs.
The man was overjoyed at his beloved's voice, coming from within him.
He lived each day and slept each day, smiling at the melody.
Slowly, he discovered that the bird's songs weren't sweet anymore.
The sounds weren't music anymore. They were screams and screeches.
He opened his chest again, to find out what had happened.
The sight of his face silenced the bird. It couldn't sing or make sounds anymore.
It kept looking at the man's eyes. It wondered if the man would read its silence.
The man looked at his beloved bird, and said "I still love you."
The bird was still quiet. It whispered in its mind "I know."
The man whispered in his mind, "I read your silence."
He went away, and came back with a pair of fine scissors.
Carefully, he opened the bird's mouth, and put the scissors inside its throat.
The steel blades cut the vocal cords one by one. Sanp. Snap. Done.
The bird was placed back again into the safety of the rib cage.
And the man and the bird lived happily ever after.

Melodrama.

Some, I'm capable of, I must say.

We're not talking about anything good here. Who's bothered about goodness anyway? 

We're talking about intolerance, hatred, anger, violence, revenge, injustice, punishment and all that.

Tables turn.

For example, everything that I thought was cheap, as a child, is expensive, today. For example, sleep, literally.

Hence, I'm trying. 

The Holi Eve, 2011

He lay on the bed; dreaming.
A butterfly came near his eyes, and started fluttering its paper wings noisily.
He lifted open his fatigue-laden eye-lids, and caught a blur of colours, too close in sight.
He wished to destroy it.
Raising a scarred hand towards it, he aimed at the source of noisy colours.
His fingers curled around the still-alive butterfly.
He felt the soft structures shaking with apparent frolic, within his grasp.
The tingling sensation was confusing.
Out of focus, out of focus.
Tiny rice-sized lights lit up, one by one, across the entire maze of tread-upon, and un-tread-upon tracks.
He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the details of the wings, that still flapped against his skin.
He imagined they were red, yellow, blue, green, and a host of loud colours, all in the world that lay confined in his hand.
He held it tighter, wishing the riot to last forever.
Suddenly, a high-pitched young voice screamed.
"Forever?!"
It echoed around the walls.
And the movement stopped.
Jerked back to reality for the second time, the over-wrought mind urged its optical devices to go back to work.
As the reluctant palm unfolded, they saw the life-less insect.
Dirty white, grey, black and innumerable shades of their blends.
The moth looked at the large pair of mirrors weighing down upon him.
Then, it went to sleep, forever.

You can read.

Thumbs on eye-lids.
Index-fingers on forehead.
Each hand trying to pluck out the skin off the skull.

Tuck!
The puzzle is back in its bony pieces.

I meet my adversary.

Because I won't let your pain break my pattern.
Because I won't let your paints smear my picture.
Because I won't let your predictions fuck with my plot.

Because I wouldn't let twenty one years of design go drown in your waters.

I would hate you.

Till my darkness shoot out at you, like the most powerful missiles on earth, all together.
And Boom!
The burnt bits left of what was once you, would crawl back together and crowd at my feet.

Let me laugh like mad.
Let me go.

I have set a destination for my destiny.
You can read the log-book of my journey.
You can't write there.

Capsule.

Morning.

Lost and found, and lost again;
My eyes on the hunt,
Despite the strain,
Dissolving the old edges again,
I extinguish my silence.

Noon.

Rock, thou shalt weather too!
But first, un-learn
A thing or two.

Afternoon.

A finger nudges.
"Do you love me?"
"No."
"Do you trust me?"
"No."
"Do you want to leave me?"
"Yes."
"You're lying to me. I don't like liars."
"Fine."
He leaves.

Evening.

I wanted it. I did it. Now, you have the rest of the day to find out if I was right or wrong.
I wanted it. I did not do it. Now, you think I was wrong.
I didn't want it. I did it. Now, you think I was right.

Night.

A walk across the yawning valley.
A part of me, left behind.
A ride across the waves of men.
I get back what is mine.

Dawn.

Buzz. Buzz. 
Right then, you know, I looked at my palms.
They showed me a world, I held all the while.
Enclosed tight.
In fear of your light.
In one second, all the melodrama that enfolds, 
Takes its toll, one night a time.
Good morning, my Night.