Phase Two. Part Two.

I've got wings made of iron;
Insides may be clay.
Your hurdles I care not,
Raise them, as you may.

With crackers made to celebrate
Herewith, they would fly;
One by one, burn the threats,
Till ashes blind the sky.

O Sane Reader!

There's this story.
Four people. Four correct people. Four minds. Four points of view. Equally justified.
What I'm going to do is, place you in a different direction, every 15 seconds.
North.
South.
West.
East.
Thus, in the course of a minute, you would have rotated and revolved, with your eyes wide open, so fast, that your head would be spinning.
Then, there you are.
Look at me now.

Re-play.

"Are you happy?"
"I don't know."
"Why? Are you happy?"
"Maybe I am. Why?"
"Then, smile."
"I can't smile. I can't even breathe."
"Why? I told you cigarettes are dangerous."
"No, it's not that. There's a huge black rock weighing down on my lungs. And it's not made of smoke."
"Is the rock made of mud?"
"No, not mud. Stone. Just stone."
"Stone turns into mud, remember? Don't worry."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Do you trust me?"
"How does it matter?"
"Do you love me?"
"I don't know."
"Then you don't love me."
"Damn you. I think I love you. I could be wrong. How will I know?"
"If you love me, then you trust me."
"Try me."
Interruption.

02-03-2011. Re-awake.

And I killed again.
Two people together.
But there's a pattern now.
One from the past.
One from the future.
Known faces, all. Damn.
But I'm not worried, because I know where it came from.
I know every bend of that bridge connecting the conscious to the sub-conscious.
That's too hard not to be bothered about.

Phase Two. Part One.

There's a place,
On every face,
Where time's pace
Loses grace.

Begin the craze,
In mind's maze,
Amidst the haze
Of busy days.

1st March 2011, 1:00pm. Exact.

Words that reverberate.

Words with amplitudes.

Words with multiple meanings.

Words like spiraling loops.

Like Black Holes.

Words worse than swear words.

If you have uttered it, you have to live through it.

Through all that it could have meant.

Till the end of the list.

Else, you end.

Welcome to Existence.

Euphemisms are redundant.

The Black Hole.

Beat around the brain-wall
Till the motion sets its own inertia.
There would be no more fatigue.

The blackness had a face.
Words in their own phase.
The last squeal of silence,
Till it's strangled by shame.

My appetite for patterns.

Stages.

Entry.

There are no blank spaces.
There is a clutter, of all that's familiar.

There are no fleshy faces.
Crowds of masks, braving the weather.

It is easier, baby, easier,
Than our self-silenced surrender.

Exit.

Threats.

For you, especially for you, the sun would be so bright, that it would burn you and blind you and make you regret that you were looking for light, ever at all.

The Ebb.

Dear Purest Form Of Love,
Unkown to you, you have made a big mistake.
You have given me the impression that I wouldn't be taking too big a risk, if I expect a lot out of you.
Give me that stare, even if it means nothing.
Allow me to fool myself, that you understand.
Sincerely,
Sir.

Wrath.

From one end to the other, the sphere
Completes the circular path,
It's destiny, it declares;
Much to its own wrath.

Then comes the naming of the stories
In the restricted zones
Of my mind's library, that
Imprisons words in tyrannical tones.

The unexplained wins.
Like a statement in the guise of a question,
Hypocrisy, intensely biological;
In an attractive pursuit of possession.

Dreamalikes.

With fresh dreams of one futile future,
the eye-balls raced beneath the sleeping lids;
the legs spread in a sprint,
across the world without a worry;
the arms clutched stuffed linen,
in one hold without a hurry.

Peace came knocking, and woke me up;
Whispered to my ears, it's time to be up.
I frowned and groaned,
Let me see some more, I said.
"Too much, already",
Exactly, as I dreaded.

And thus my eyes wrenched open,
welcomed the colourful darkness.
Sounds of the system serve a reminder of the real.
The debated desires in deconstruction, on;
a road with a memory and a story.
All washed away in the riot of lights,
My nights feel sorry.

Painting.

If you could, you would.
If I would, I could.
And vice versa.
And vice-versa, again.
Or maybe, not.
Not, yes, not.
Chronicling, I kept saying.
And then, I gave up.
And then, you gave up.
And then, they all did.
And it continued.

I stood against the wall.
The cold penetrates the cotton, as usual.
I touched it with my index finger.
And then, with my whole right palm.
Still, it doesn't feel real enough;
Real enough to clutch onto it.

And one after the other, the paradoxes establish themselves.
Distractions, I hope.
But they all are like the magnetic compass.
Can't stop pointing North, no matter where I take it to.
No matter where, when, or how.
Tilted, upside-down, from every point of view;
It shows you.
So I decide to break the needle.
But no, it wasn't such a good idea.
I could have changed the marks, rather.
The diametric metric ones.
Or I could have chosen not to look at it.

But, I did so, didn't I?
I slept it off.
But an overdose has a hangover.

Hypocrisy.

And one day, when everything is over,
and nothingness overwhelms all the intra-personal zones,
I'll build my own fence around my forever.

Life is a big distraction!

The cold metal finger of the mental,
Digs into the surface of the conscious;
Gets in touch with the untouchable.
Untouchable, because it's non-existent.
Apparently, of course.
Were they flying around the head?
Was I looking out?
Or did they crop up in the brain-bed itself?
Was I looking within?
But, firstly, find me the Line Of Control,
Within which, all of it is me.
Outside which, the world is physical or metaphysical;
That's none of my business.
But definitions are, definitely.
It's not even a conflict.
Not even the phenomenon of fluctuation,
That I used to talk about;
Once upon a depressed day.
It's far beyond the regular.
A necessity that I weave.
And then tear apart.
And then, weave again,
To my great discomfort.
Unto unknown intentions.

The Loop.

Experimented. Experienced. Exploited. Exhausted.
As of 28th January 2011, 12:52am.

Can you go down to a place within me, which is so deep, that even I can't touch you?

Blink,

Thrice upon a life-time,
He fought a battle;
He wanted to win;
How badly, I doubt.

Riddles.

Let's buy the white-tipped red caps.
Saint Nicholas.
Where do you get all your money?

Angels fly down, without fuel.
Without a ticket for every mile travelled.
But if, it's not a myth, how can it be material?


Makes sense, maybe.
For music comes at a price too.

Unimportant.

And, then, there comes a point, when nothing makes sense anymore.
But why? How?
A game of chess can be the example.
All the elaborate designs, evil, or otherwise.
Narrowed down to two squares.
White or black, not important.
Checkmate.
But why? How?

Men should have remained monkeys.
The brain is not a blessing.