tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118318755039135362024-03-13T01:28:18.832-07:00Antigone's phantasmagoria!Words never fail me, like solitude-they speak for me when the scars of life leave me speechless and provide me a death like peace having the knowledge that someone somewhere at least listens to me without hurting when my world is a mess. I end up writing about feelings that haunt me, things that i can't forget,stories those i carry in my unfeminine body waiting to be released.antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-86054847611756886802018-04-10T09:50:00.002-07:002018-04-10T09:50:36.011-07:00Existentialist Hues<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /><br />"A world that can be explained by reasoning, however faulty, is the familiar world. But in a universe, that is suddenly deprived of illusions and of light, man feels a Stranger...It is this divorce between man and his life, actor and it's setting that truly constitutes the theme of absurdity." -Camus.<br /><br />By misleading life to believe that we want to live, we at times cause life to leave, insisting upon ourselves a rejection caused by life (Like Meursault did). Katherine Mansfeild's twilight vision "The Sea is Stormy, Everything is at the Sea", ...a storm that tumults and is a turbulent life force, leading to the self realisation ...we are all strangers to ourselves; as Kafka observes "Life remains an empty interrogated chamber". True revolt against absurdity? No, not in death but continuing to live, pushing it to the extreme :Man's true DEATH.<br /><br /><br />Yet Camus believed that We all want to live and be happy but life offers us none of that chance. Period.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-6073502378008158072018-04-06T01:12:00.001-07:002018-04-06T22:53:44.769-07:00In Memoriam..<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /><br />It's orgasmic to see how people die ...their presence .... in your life. Yet they are alive. It's terrible to feel how you live in their conscious conscience yet die in their ....moments. It's perhaps vulnerable to think how deep their touch had been like a necromancer's magic mirror reflecting all your intense blood. You want to touch that mirror and taste that blood but like fleeting ephemeral dust they evaporate. ....the moments die an untimely death like you did inside me. I killed you. Yet, in some other solitary night shall we meet when you meet me alive in my words , soliloquies and asides.<br /><br /><br />I may know a previous you or a later you. But but. .but the you of this ....these moments is dead. I killed you.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-68643003506461958102018-03-02T20:32:00.001-08:002018-03-02T20:34:28.888-08:00Reality<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"We should meet in another life, we should meet in air,<br />
Me and you.”...Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that – I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much – so very much to learn.”- (The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath.)....It's all a myth. No one understands, none.<br />
<br />
What I desire is more than solitude, a self reclusive life... self confinement..A bastion of silence where you can no more hurt me with your words, your threatenings -of not forgiving, of never coming back. I want to sing lullabies to myself and put myself off to sleep. For once. Death is a far fetched dream. An unattainable ideal...</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-27837609322583758172017-12-29T07:52:00.001-08:002017-12-29T08:06:07.147-08:00These Days<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Kill me with pungent nothingness<br />
Or better strangle..<br />
This City is dead.<br />
So are the Voices. Of Empathy, connection and togetherness.<br />
The song from the Flute has lost its tune.<br />
Migratory birds now quench for a map.<br />
Roads are dusty, vision is choked.<br />
I am dying a slow painful death.<br />
Here.<br />
Where I cannot find you.<br />
Dear resistance.<br />
Drown me, make me mad, Haunt me.<br />
But come back.<br />
I am You.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-35881950674610981592016-10-29T10:46:00.001-07:002016-10-29T10:46:07.334-07:00নির্বাসিত <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
আমরা সবাই একা. সবাই. শুধু মাঝরাতে একটা ভয় আজ পেয়ে বসে, মৃতদেহের পাশে মানুষ থাকবে তো? নাকি শেষ যাওয়াটাও চুপে চুপে, একা..সাথীহীন, সঙ্গীর আশায়. কিন্তু শেষ যাওয়াটাওতো একারই হয়. নির্বাসিত দেখলাম. "তোমরা কবিতা বলতে দিতে চাও না..লিখতে দিতে চাও না.." আমার মুখ বন্ধ. হয়তো আজীবন. কেউ শুনতে চায়না. সবাই ভালো থাকার কথা শুনতে চায়, হয়তো মা ঠিকই বলে: কষ্টগুলো একাকী ভোগ করতে হয়. বন্ধুরা ছেড়ে চলে যাওয়া খুব কষ্টের. কিন্তু কাছে থেকেও আঘাত করা? বুঝতে না পারা? জেনে বুঝেও আঘাত করা? আচ্ছা সত্যি কি বন্ধু বলে কিছু হয়? আমিও নির্বাসিত..সুখ বিমুখ জীবন থেকে ধূসর একাকিত্বে. আর কিছুটা নিজেই নিজেকে নির্বাসন দিয়েছি. আচ্ছা, মাঝে মাঝেই মনে হয়, আমি যদি না থাকি, আমার ডায়েরিগুলো কেউ পড়বে? কোথাও কি একটুও বুঝবে? একটুও? নাকি সব পাগলের প্রলাপ বলে উড়িয়ে দেবে? কত অভিমান জমে..কত না বলা কথা..কাউকে বলা হলো না..<br />
তারপর মনে হয়, কেউ কি সত্যি বোঝে? কেউ কি ফেরে?<br />
মাঝরাতের গুমরে গুমরে বালিশ ভেজানো..সেগুলোর রেশ আছেই ডায়েরিতে, ব্যাপ্তি নেই..কদিন ধরেই একটা কথা খুব টানছে, শেষ যাওয়া ...<br />
মৃত্যুও তো নির্বাসন ই! একাকীত্ত্ব ও. </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-90116102061914112472016-10-29T07:27:00.001-07:002016-10-29T07:27:18.692-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Awkward pauses, silences and being silenced. They are narratives in themselves, which, we, as women, choose to forget and utter to let relations flow. We often pause to see, to delve back in acts and look back-in anger, in pain, in helplessness. Silence, in itself is political, so is abuse. We withdraw in silence, mourn and get used to the drudgery of silence. <br />Silence as a revolt,<br />Torn in between worlds<br />Through Journeys, <br />For an identity.<br />There is this other side of the silence. Being Silenced! Like a mother who threatens to leave the baby if she continues to being a nuisance. There is this violence to abandon, to teach a lesson and make a permanent scar on that "identity". You can't shout, you can't complain because you are supposed to be strong and independent. You resort to silence. Then, it is renamed and fabricated as ego. The ego of a "feminist". It hardly matters how reluctant you are to play the role, the game continues. Denial of episodes, denial of truth, denial of lived experiences. Your reason is questioned and so is your judgement. It all comes down to "just a conversation". The chain continues. Awkward pauses, silences and being silenced.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-21084872775079613502016-08-01T07:45:00.003-07:002016-08-19T11:33:18.950-07:00Rantings.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /><br />How can you desire music from me that soothes your nerves?<br /><br /><br />You Have choked my voice. Taken my words. <br /><br /><br />I speak your language. The language that is gendered.<br /><br /><br />I sing the pain of my heart Man. The music is dead. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />How can you desire logic from me that matches your reason?<br /><br /><br />You have shattered me for centuries and continue doing so. <br /><br /><br />I carry the stamps of your violence. The violence that has no name,no state, no country.<br /><br /><br />I sing the pain of my heart Man. Feelings are dead.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />How can you speak of Equality that was never there in the first place?<br /><br /><br />You have had given only that much that sufficed your needs-my language, my voice, my freedom.<br /><br /><br />I reject your singularities of plural equality. The equality that is baseless.<br /><br /><br />I reject by singing the pain of my heart Man. Equality is a myth.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-10923141371057716312016-06-14T21:03:00.000-07:002016-06-14T21:03:03.263-07:00Realization<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
বন্ধু বলে আসলে কিছুই হয় না.<br />
বন্ধুত্ব বলেও<br />
কিছু মানুষ শুধু ভাবতে ভালবাসে যে তাদের বন্ধু আছে.<br />
এবং তারাও বন্ধু.<br />
এটা মিথ.<br />
বন্ধু মানেই নোংরা, মুখোশ, একা হয়ে যাওয়া.<br />
বন্ধু বলে আসলে কিছুই হয় না. </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-73041258213895015982015-12-09T09:15:00.000-08:002016-06-15T03:20:33.242-07:00Reflections from Exile- (2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
Things come to an end: friendships, love, faith, trust and hope. That's the rule of time. That hope to belong, that desire to touch the sky and forgetting the pastness of the past. Those who left, throughout, never bothered to answer: <b>why they had to.</b> Yet, their footprints amicably remained amidst the cornucopia of memory cells:disjointed, fractured. Their fragrance, existence have been trunkated safely within the labyrinths of this wild, intense soul, Always took it for granted, it was my fault. Desires like thin plumes of smoke have smothered to nothingness. Time? Or a vain attempt to belong and sojourn, search for love that was to be found nowhere, that perhaps never existed. "সমস্ত ভুবন সব মরু সম রুক্ষ হয়ে যাবে একেবারে..আকাশ বিস্তীর্ণ ক্লান্তি...সব শান্তি চিত্ত হতে করিবে হরণ..নিরানন্দ, নিরালোক, স্তব্ধ শোক,মরণের অধিক মরণ."<br />
<br />
<br />
Enough now, dear love. Too many chances blur the desire globe. How many times can we actually extinguish our expectations, light them anew only to be thrashed then and there, steadily, conspicuously, religiously??? That's the blood of time. The questions remain and reiterate within this juncture of fragmented panorama...new places, new discoveries need to be addressed. We need to sustain to some illusions to belong. "যদি ভালবাসা নাই থাকে, শুধু শুধু একা একা লাগে,কোথায় শান্তি পাব কোথায় গিয়ে, বল??? কোথায় গিয়ে?"<br />
<br />
Thank you, all, those who left. All those, who uttered: i understand, but never did. Thank you roads, thank you. Thank you all those journeys i made, but never reached, letters i wrote, but never posted. "ছেড়ে যেতে হবে, তাইতো মূল্য তার..." Memories, love, desires, attachments, see you around in some other time frame, some other parallel globe.<br />
<br />
<br />
"স্রোতের প্রবাহ...চিরদিন যাবে চলি .."???</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-43760435591524124102015-12-08T13:35:00.002-08:002015-12-08T13:48:51.725-08:00মুক্তি অথবা মৃত্যু? <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
যে সব রাতে ঘুম নিতে হয় খুঁজে?<br />
সেসব রাতের যন্ত্রনাতে আমায়<br />
আমি চিনতে শিখি নিজে<br />
সেসব রাতের বাশির সুরে<br />
আমায় আমি খুড়তে শিখি নিজে<br />
রাতের তারা কান্না চাপে বুকে<br />
অন্ধকারের বর্ণময়তাতে<br />
শীতের পাতা পরশ লাগায় মুখে<br />
বন্ধু-বিয়োগ জঠর পোড়া ঘাতে!<br />
<br />
(অনুপ্রানিত) </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-43424618612749290582015-10-27T03:50:00.001-07:002015-10-29T13:11:02.238-07:00Pre-birthday Realization.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
People don't understand. They can't. Because they have this scale to judge your each move. You were wrong in doing this, that. Fuck! Why can't they just shut up and accept? Is it too difficult to think from someone else's perspective? Perhaps, finally, i have a mask too. Of happiness, of joy. Because people stay only when you are happy, you can entertain them- like a clown or satisfy them like a whore. None stay during black nights of desperate loneliness.*Perhaps everyone does not deserve love. Love is meant for only white lily skinned, beautiful women, women who are sexy and ready to take the plunge. Does not matter anymore. I am happy. Happy to act, happy to be alone. Happy Birthday to me! :) </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-71111067464537450432015-10-05T13:33:00.003-07:002015-10-16T12:17:31.313-07:00মেয়েছেলে মেয়েছেলে মেয়েছেলে <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
এবারের মত তার বিক্রি শেষ. আবার পরের Season.পরের বছর. আবার মুখে রং মেখে রাস্তায় দাড়ানো, আবার বাজারে নামা.বাজার হওয়া, আবার গতর খাটিয়ে ব্যবসা. পরের বার আর পরী নামবে না নিয়ন আলোর রাতে. মনগুলোতো বিক্রি হওয়ার জন্যই. ফাকা?একা?, বাবু? ফাকা? আবার পরের বার. এবারের মত তার নিজেকে বিক্রি শেষ. আবার পরের Season.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-37629135994977835402015-10-02T11:55:00.002-07:002015-10-05T13:32:39.670-07:00Query<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /><br />ভুল করে ভুল করতে পারো,<br /><br /><br />Ego'র দমে জিততে পারো<br /><br /><br />ফেরার দরজা আটতে পারো<br /><br /><br />Silence' এ বাধতে পারো?</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-62309104007310392882015-09-27T01:25:00.003-07:002015-09-27T01:27:07.215-07:00So it is and So it shall be..<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>There are no words to describe<br />How one lives or dies,<br />Words will always make the 'trivial' ones' suffer,<br />Non-registering how pain like death and some other<br />Secret pockets are, but, to be borne alone, <br />unsung, un-lamented, and duly silenced.<br />Existence, may run past charms unsolved.<br />Forsaken for a desire-<br />Unmitigated and often, unwise.</i></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-20293602054237778502015-09-12T13:57:00.002-07:002015-09-13T06:28:56.723-07:00Do they?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Do stories find their end? Stories of imaginary homelands? Do stories find us? Or do we search them, weave them, and they then themselves find their end? Or do we find for them? Or do 'they' find for us and those stories; their end, our end, stories' end? Questions remain, unanswered. Like stories, open ended. Quest questions and, then, we question quest's quest. Another story begins. Another quest. Perhaps, another home? Do stories find their end?</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-36330145668164156772015-09-05T01:53:00.001-07:002017-07-06T05:48:43.918-07:00 Towards: Realisation, Assimilation, Internalization <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
And then she clarified her:<br />
<br />
"Do You know, do you realise, why, why you fell for all those throughout; who never loved you back?<br />
Why they left you? Why you went to them for the security who didn't even think you were worthy of their love?<br />
She knew. It all. But she had to hear from someone she trusted, to instill, to internalize, to assimilate, to get conditioned forever.<br />
"Why?"<br />
" Because Your Father disowned you at your very birth. Put that into your brain and understand."<br />
<br />
Quiet, she was. She knew it all. She did.<b> Love : was her most explored dosage of poison, of self destruction, her elaborate method of self harm.</b><br />
But, this time, this did make a difference. She started internalizing, repeated to herself day and night. She must not be oblivious of the truth. Day and night, hour by hour, minute by minute, it echoed. It was allover-etched, sculpted, nailed and tattooed. Waters that she poured to cleanse her memory, smoke that she breathed for life, hand printed notes she had accumulated for internal tests, diaries that she wrote, nightmares which she envisioned every night, winds those reluctantly passed by her throughout the shabby day, grey kohl that she applied in her intense eyes.. All over. Everywhere. All the time.<br />
<br />
She finally Internalized. </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-69501044668716760732015-08-23T09:09:00.000-07:002015-08-23T10:24:42.025-07:00I never miss u, i miss "us"!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
May be, i would never ever understand<br />
Or one leafy dusk by a mossy lake i may;<br />
Why it took you, so much of me<br />
To create so little of us?<br />
<br />
The last boat may sail away,<br />
The last star might darken,<br />
The last hope may smother<br />
Into an ever widening awakening<br />
Of what Life has had to offer.<br />
<br />
Yet, i may never understand.<br />
Why it took you, so much of me<br />
To build so little of us?</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-21281853717653645072015-07-03T22:46:00.001-07:002015-07-08T00:21:09.370-07:00নিরুদ্দেশ সম্পর্কে ঘোষণা <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
আমার তোকে:</h3>
<br />
নদী আনতে গিয়েছিলি তুই, সে যেন অনেক দূর থেকে<br />
<br />
সারামুখে ছায়াপথ, পথ নিয়ে ফিরে এলি শেষে <br />
<br />
জমা করা খোলা চিঠি অকপটে বলে "<i><b>ভালবাসি"</b></i><br />
<br />
শুনবি না একবারো? বলবি না <i><b>"চল পাশাপাশি?"</b></i><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-6064905077096635752015-06-28T13:31:00.000-07:002015-06-29T09:27:36.025-07:00Freedom?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Have i forgotten to remember you<br />
Or it's Just those surfs of time?<br />
Or is it that you are wide awake<br />
In the flute that stores my pine..<br />
<br />
Clinging to your memories<br />
I gathered the strength 'To Live."<br />
Down somewhere the soul eroded...<br />
Firmly I believe.<br />
<br />
<br />
That suffering was the connection,<br />
That left too this monsoon<br />
Those who knew me hold the grudge:<br />
I'm a castaway; out of tune.<br />
<br />
Yet, you will be a part of me which<br />
None can see or move.<br />
I no more let them see that me<br />
Or hanker for a roof.<br />
<br />
I am no more the one you fully knew<br />
I don't know this new "me"<br />
Yet i know that life goes on<br />
Amidst storms and liquors of glee.<br />
<br />
(Dear Stranger: Because it has been 4 Years!)</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-26724643908904268942015-06-08T08:41:00.000-07:002015-06-08T08:41:10.111-07:00Understanding is Acceptance<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
One day, i asked LIFE: "Where are you taking me?"<br />
Life smiled and replied: "Where you take me!"<br />
I asked: "What if i decide to part with you?"<br />
Life: "I left you much before..."<br />
<br />
<br />
This time-I Smiled.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-77034428951266169942015-03-27T15:17:00.001-07:002018-11-09T00:55:26.502-08:00তাদের জন্য যারা মুখোশ চিনতে পারেনা...কোনদিন পারবেনা. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
ঠিক কতটা কান্না জমে থাকে মুখ ঘুরিয়ে নেওয়ায়?<br />
বলতে পারবে তারাই, যারা কাছে গিয়েছিল.<br />
<br />
অনেকটা কেটে ছিল.<br />
অনেকটা.<br />
নোংরা. বাজারী. মুখোশ.<br />
তার ওপর "বিশ্বাস কর" প্রলেপ.<br />
<br />
কেটেছে.<br />
<br />
ঠিক কতটা অভিমান জমে থাকে হাত ছাড়িয়ে নেওয়ায়?<br />
শুধু জানে তারাই, যারা নিবিড় ভাবে ধরেছিল.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-79398779951262341192015-03-16T08:18:00.003-07:002015-03-16T08:18:54.734-07:00Dear Silence,<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Silence as a revolt,<div>
Torn </div>
<div>
In-between worlds,</div>
<div>
Through Journeys, </div>
<div>
For an identity.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Silence as a shield</div>
<div>
Beyond the monotony of ideas,</div>
<div>
Beyond the monotony of living,</div>
<div>
Beyond the anonymity of words,</div>
<div>
Through Journeys,</div>
<div>
For an identity.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-11343521025898319552015-02-17T06:19:00.005-08:002015-11-15T04:04:40.644-08:00Reflections From Exile<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Intimacy & indifference share a binary camaraderie –as you bifurcate the self drawn line between right and wrong, light and dark or truth and false. Any university wit may name it- paradox. I call it Existence, rather a coexistence of the very concept of existence. What I dwell amidst these days is nothing but a congregation of the hyperlinks: an intimate indifference. Deep leveled Intimacy is an exiled imprisonment for the self: the "us"and others. You must feel deeply intimate/passionate and yet there has to be an open space of indifference to everything- be it work, human relations or life. The mind is only capable of a “heartless indifference” which is just a cold distance, or detachment. <b>You are afraid, when you are expecting or you hope</b>. It's better, when you learn to Exist without expectations.<br />
<br />
Solitude subtracts human cacophony. It provides an introspection- a rear view image of the conceived image of reality of perception of the voyages we embark upon, of the discoveries we dare: the passing reflections on the dewy mirror as though time and tide mates to fetter the concepts of existence itself! <b>The mind ever wanders, nomadic are we, bohemian rhapsodies that blood like flows through our veins ever</b>; (at least mine) as caravans of thought impersonates through this restless brain to detach me from sleep and all that you call <b><u>normal</u></b>! The mind takes photographs: which in turn refracts in the subconscious to bring about transcendence and higher spirituality. Half of this self remains uncultivated and the better half: read ego or I carefully avoided by the cognitive dwellers: us! A new world, a brave new one opens its doors to embrace, but fear lurks in the heart in the cores of coral vine to obstruct the window to mystified aura. I have ventured, opened doors to unleash the potential cognitive trials and attempts to reach what you call higher class of living...<i><b> You Coming? ....</b></i><br />
<i> My world is solitary, I may not open the doors! You ready to wait? Shout... I don't hear you, I can't... can't you see? I am down with fever.. Fever of importunate postpartum Reflection, fever of disbelief? What? you want to wait? Do, I may See you once again, when the moon sweeps through the rain drenched cloud on a lonely moonlight light as I stroll alone, against the tides: of existence, of companionship, of human touch. <b>You Coming Right?</b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
After all, you only grow when you are alone. Life is a solitary cell, whose walls are mirrors.. the mirrors reflect your "I", the past meandering into present and the solitude ever understanding, ever accepting. Your desire globe may blur away with time. You feel stifled yet realize; the space between fact puts a scope for subjective creativity with another fear of only to be bridged.<i><b> I never loved bridges. Do we need them? Why don't you come? Bridges mar interpersonal communication. I am living! Alone, against the TIDE.</b></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
They tag it as: unnatural living as we become a kind of a recluse who avoids connection, who stops being sensitive to the world’s suffering, who stops being passionate about life. Being recluse is not a stage; it is a concept, it is a way; a way of living. Constant imbroglio of psychological suffering is what guides us to alienation. No, it's just the passing on. Intimate Indifference is the defense mechanism; a permanent tattoo that leaves its imprint on the sea of brain cells. Intimate indifference keeps me going, living.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-43523569947777599232014-12-20T06:45:00.002-08:002014-12-20T10:32:30.559-08:00An Ode to Madness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
(For madness is nothingness)<br />
<br />
Madness is the answer, reluctant.<br />
In madness, lies the answer.<br />
With approaching madness,<br />
Reality-fantasy line diminishes.<br />
In madness, i find myself.<br />
In madness, i love my self.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-511831875503913536.post-72453612261170435892014-11-26T07:37:00.001-08:002015-09-12T13:55:53.892-07:00তবু যদি ঘরে ফেরা যায়..(2) বুবু কে !<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
হলুদ থেকে গোলাপী হওয়া বিকেলগুলো বারণ মানছেনা . সবুজ ঘাসের কার্পেট নরম পশম বুনে হাবিজাবি আদর গলায় টানছে না. নিষেধগুলো পেরিয়ে চলে যাচ্ছে. বর্ডার ক্রস করা কি একেই বলে? শোনা সুর, অচিন পাখি ভালো, কিন্তু না শোনা সুর? অচেনা হাত? ডাকনামে ভরা পুরনো বছর পাঁচেকের ডায়েরি? সব ফেলে দেব? ডাকলি না তো? ডাকনামে? কোনো কোনো বিকেল শুধু তুইতে পায়..কোনো কোনো বিকেল কেবল তুই নেই বলেই পেরিয়ে পেরিয়ে যায়!<br />
টুঁটি টিপেও চুপিসারে বললি না তো ফেরার কথা? প্রথম বৃষ্টির জলের মত নরম ফেরা..স্নিগ্ধ! যেন কাচারাতে জোছনাবিলাস! তাও বাধা মানছে না..ছাইদানি ঘিরে রুপকথা আনাগোনা...ফিরলি না?<br />
<br />
আসলে, যে যায়? সে ফেরে না, ফেরে অন্য কেউ..অন্য কোথাও. সাথে সাথে চলে ঝড়-উথাল পাথাল করা . যেমন সাথে চলা পুরুষালি মুদ্রাদোষ ছাড়া যায় না, (আমি কিন্তু আসলে নরম- সরম )চাই কিনা, সেটাও বোঝা দরকার. অবশ্য, তুই বলিস, বোঝা ভালো নয়, বোঝা বড় বোঝা! সাথের ঝড়গুলো পুড়িয়ে দিল...ঘর.<br />
<br />
"ঘর বলতে ছায়ায় ঘেরা বাড়ি<br />
দুয়োর খুলে উঠোনে পা পেড়ে<br />
ঘর বলতে ফিরব তাড়াতাড়ি<br />
ঘর বলতে তোমায় মনে পড়ে"<br />
<br />
আমার ঘর আমার ঘোর, আমার দেশ. তোর্ আর আমার এত by এতর দেশ..আমি এখনো খুজি সে দেশ.আমি তো জানি..তার নেই অবশেষ! তাই দেশের টানটা আর জ্ঞানটা টনটনে! দেশের, ফেরার পথটা খোলা পরে থাকে...কেউ ফেরে, কেউ ফেরে না. আমি কিন্তু ফিরি, রোজ..তোর্ কাছে, নিজের কাছে, তাই দেশের কাছে. সাঝের প্রদীপ জ্বেলে, শিখা জ্বালানোর অপেক্ষা. বোঝা নামিয়ে, তরী ঘাটে বেধে, পথে পথে খোজা ছেড়ে, কেনা বেচার দায় মিটিয়ে..আমি ঘরে ফিরি, তোর্ কাছে ফিরি. মেয়েবেলা গোধুলিগগনে, দোসর, আসর সব ছেড়ে..তোর্ দেশে. asideগুলো ফিসফিসিয়ে সময়ের ছায়াশরীর ঘিরে খেলতে খেলতে বলে: "ফিরব বললে ফেরা যায় নাকি?" তবু ঘোররের ঘর ডাকে: আয় আয় আয়!<br />
<br />
"ঘর বলতে সন্ধে নেমে এলে<br />
পিদিম জ্বেলে বসব পাশাপাশি<br />
নিঝুম পাড়া, আটটা বেজে গেলে<br />
দূরের থেকে শুনব রেলের বাঁশি"<br />
<br />
তোর্ তাপ আলো হয়ে কলিং বেল বাজায়নি. হুরমূরিয়ে এন্ট্রি নেওয়া আদরের পথে -ঘাটে তোর্ অরুন রশ্মি ছায়া দেয়নি..ওই যে দেখ...দোরগোড়ায় থমকে.তোর্ আলো ...বেলা পরে এলো..এলোমেলো হয়ে গেল...যাবতীয় জাহাবাজ সব! আমি তাই দিশেহারা, খামখেয়ালী, সৃষ্টিছাড়া Robbed! ফিরব..একদিন, কালে, দেশে, তোর্ আর আমার দেশে..অবশেষে!<br />
<br />
"ঘর বলতে সমস্ত রাত ধরে<br />
ঘুমের চেয়েও নিবিড় ভালোবাসা<br />
ঘর বলতে তোমার দুচোখ ভরে<br />
স্বপ্নগুলো কুড়িয়ে নিয়ে আসা<br />
<br />
ঘর বলতে এসব খুঁটিনাটি<br />
ঘর বলতে আকাশ থেকে ভূমি<br />
একদিকে পথ, বিষম হাঁটাহাঁটি<br />
পথের শেষে, ঘর বলতে- তুমি। "<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Truly yours: Antigone
</div>antigones phantasmagoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18376957806314452402noreply@blogger.com0