Page torn from the Diary: Gypsie Travelogues : In Short: A Letter

Dedication: "At sunset, on the river bank, Krishna
Loved her for the last time and left...

That night in her husband's arms, Radha felt
So dead that he asked, What is wrong,
Do you mind my kisses, love? And she said,
No, not at all, but thought, What is
It to the corpse if the maggots nip?"

To Consciousness,

                                Dear You. Haven't met you for days, ages, time's chore... unending nights stole you from me, you see? The misty chill of frothy remembrance, some memory trapped in the memoirs of paranoid resemblance cuts off reality. Distance screams, scary eyed dreams, smoke trapped consciousness, how have you been? Time meanders across the miles, like a corpse dried motif in surreal style, roads changed to nightmares, darker agile.. I changed my me, a drifter by now, they know this indifference, not the why or how's! Elusive am I? Oh Consciousness, stale is your epiphany, wild lurks your gaze... Have I been oblivious of living... in a maze? Pardon me Consciousness I am late, the last boat sailed, the last star slept!
                                You awake? On the shore???
                                Conscience (still) knocks my door
                                 Fire froze , illusions dazed ,
                                 Memories chased, passed and more  
                                 As we see "there" instead of "here"
                              Dear Consciousness  can you hear????
                    
    The rattles of wind, roars of fear as far as the eyes can see
    Noise of fire, blows of admire as though hope mock and flee
    Drums of silence, roads crossed in tear, the drudgery of smiles, afraid to be near
    I am drawing the canvas of perception from the hemlock strains
    Where Imagination is obscured from the love locked veins
      Conscious Consciousness, I am on the edge of your calf, jubilant highs and pensive lows,
     Plunging into depression with making up steel brows
     Still I Know I can't stop, will fight the way until the last drop 
     Smothering my will, I choke my words, that once chose the poesy of life.

                                                                                               From Bohemian Antigone. (Forever Yours)

 
                              

For Those who have Learnt to Listen to the Unheard, Unexpected Voices..

.

. Isolation is my epitaph,Alienation I say, Solitude my Better half, idealism my way!

• A

Of naked depressions, of Joyride vanities, of hysteric quick witted slaughters

Of short breathed recoveries, of charged up toxicities, of bombarding numb laughters.

Of living by thoughts of existential droughts; of Narnia journals trajectories!

Of sandstorm decadence of asphalt treats of dreams, though torn raspberries.

Of Solitary travelogues of Kafkaesque transcendence, of endless "I Live" feats;

Of Themes, Of motifs, Of flames of surf Of swim swam like blue retreats...

The dreams, symbols and Tidal waves, Smokey hallucinations, obnoxious consciousness: do have a consensual mating.. will you??

• B

Of realms and overwhelms Of scary witches, dreary traces.. the ugly faces do I dread

Of meandering silhouettes of gray, silver linings, Of detachments songs am I Dead?

Of Lost opportunities, lost possibilities of mutual masks we wear, and the makeup we don'

Of Frozen seas, of quietude flees, of subversive front fears ...and the wages for con!

Of epidemic like moods, of licentious shrouds.  And the happiness that was never born.

Of the Walls of Bethlehem, of Prophetic wisdom, Move On or you Mourn..

• C

Of tempest upsurges, of long distant calls, of sinful knowledge of moonlit strolls

Of benevolent bridges, of clairvoyant balls, of nymph like the bondage of night star falls.

Of pastness of the past, of the cries of the unjust, of the words spoken last, of surface peace bursts

Of  Iron gates of Fate, of forced obliterate dates, of deception point crates, 

Of Silent Drowns Of unheard screams of lost symbolic states.

Do have a ride with me sometimes, will you?

Old New Year. How far is the land of happy lot? The world of Forgetting by the world forgot..

As this New Year goes back to the pavilion the Old year arrives.. (Yes, you haven't read it wrong), Nothing seems new, nothing: shattering illusions, stand like bizarre monochromatic rusted purples of attainment of self knowledge. : Let Ibsen explain if he can why the building of happy homes isn't the Ultimate destiny of man!...
 তুই চলে যাস একবার .. ছেড়ে যাস বারবার...      Solitude thrives to be a pedestal towards what "they" term: lack of psychotic neurosis I normality! I am not Unfit, Misfit serves the purpose. Existentialism runs through this freedom craving brain, engulfing yet transcending the self walled barriers of time, place consciousness.. Of the cross roads of counter culture,. Pulsating, brimming. ও বিষাদ বার বার হাতে হাত রাখো..ভয় নেই হারাবার যদি পাশে থাকো ...আমি যদি ভিড় হয়ে যাই।।।
Self preservation and destruction are not merely antonyms, they have a conspicuous camaraderie with my sense of self. I have chosen to learn the second one. I am destructing myself, self willingly; as I say it’s an art. You gotta have guts for that. I have. I have nothing to lose. You can snatch nothing else from me. I am desperate. Lonely, without any hope of Resurrection.
I am lonely, solitary, lost contact with those who knew, Her:

Adrita may be her name. It is the time for self indulgent mavericks of self reflection... I am Solitary.. The way I desired! Yes self chosen, imposed by the circumstantial web. U term them intricacies, I put them as fate. I have blocked the doors that vowed to bring Life; again defined by You. I am indulging in the art of Self destruction. Clinging onto the old desires, Sorry Singular. Only one desire. (In no case you are going to fulfill, why do you need to know?) I just want to shut down. Close up and go away into myself for a while. I want to not exist until I'm ready to be real again. I want to be in a coma, just close my eyes and not wake up for weeks, months

ঘর কেন ঠিকানা হারায় ? কে তা জানে।।

"Let us go then, you and I/ When the evening is spread out against the sky/ ---Let us go then through certain half deserted streets.. through muttering retreats." The unravinquished dilemmas do give way to the reinvention of memories. I feel like a vigil idiot at times. A saboteur of unfulfilled aspirations.

The doors won't be opened. Go away! Shoo... I am an outsider, a stranger in this strange world of furious abstractions... abbe-rations, where bridges give way to roads which crosses the lines, yet worlds never meet, roads don't give away to the doors to open up-to me and welcome. Upsetting the status-quo, have had been more exciting than following the well traveled road. Some presence of the loss, of the absence is eternal They reiterate with time. Nothing seems new, not even hopes.

Blank eyes never speak, Life at times is a sea of sounds: records Moments. People. Words. Silence is the new language. Time. Faces. Masks. Gray. Even Language dies every 14 days. I do so!...

And you want to travel with him And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body with his mind.

I move into the world of alienation to find myself, one is company, two is crowded. I go out, for me it is exaltation, profuse, and profound. I go in Search of solitude...
             

I Learnt....

Life, sorry time has taught me lessons, specific ones that I cannot forget, let alone, remind my subconscious to  refill the same with a magnitude to forget. I must jot down,  before I allow my ever wandering mind to forget, the lessons of a lifetime as they are!

• People build too many worlds and not enough Bridges, ; 
• It's funny: people who know the least about you, have the most to vomit.
• One can have anything; if one can sacrifice all; (life will gift you all the bitter experiences for the arousal of your consciousness)
• To remember, we must FORGET! 
• We meet people for Reason, in my case: LESSON.
• People criticize you for being different, but deep down the psycho-Neuro chess obscure, they desire they had the courage to be like YOU.!
• It's better to be alone, solitary than being like them (best friends) who lack a "self" slave mentality!
• What does not kill you; makes you Iron strong, at times so much that people consider you to be cold, emotionless! 
• Some barricades are forever, one of the self; no-one dares to cross, no-one desires to undress your conscience, and make love to your thoughts,: what consumes my mind; controls my life.  
• Life operates by the fuel of loneliness, despite all the opiates,
•  The shrill tinsel gaiety of "parties" without the sense of purpose, the false grinning faces we all wear.
•  And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter - they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
• You and I are like islands in the sea, separate on the surface, but connected in the deep: To you from me

• It's better to keep silent than tell others how exactly you feel! They can hear you, but not understand.
•   One day you suddenly realize you can share no more. You have become quiet. .. Like a cancer silence  grows!
• Welcome to the lost world! You are on your way to neurotic traumas. They kill you: memorize every moment, yet you can't cry, you can't share. And they start calling you STRONG, INDIFFERENT. 
• There's a difference between loss and lack. The emptiness inside is less, and the vanishing of the essence itself with all its magnitude and decrepitude is lacking. Lack is the absence of the whole. I desire a lack of memory.  
• You need to be where you belong, err, Homelands... take me home.
• It's hard to let go, when someone is a Part of you.
• I belong to someplace else, some other world;  nothing else matters. 
• Chance encounters keep what us going.
• It's too easy to be strong, it's hard to be vulnerable. Vulnerability breathes life, makes you love, trust. 
• Wild, irreparable grief? Unquestioning acceptance? Complete integration? Yes, I dwell amidst these..
• Silence is the only peace

More to come.

Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Ægæan, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery;

"You tell yourself you shall be gone to a distant place, to a distant sea..
 To  a city far lovelier than this could ever be or could hope to be"

                I write to reach out, for once, to be heard, for once, to be touched, for once to be accompanied, to be understood! I could only wait, as one who watches, wondering while TIME & RAIN was pink and fragile, quick to fall at the merest of breath, the sleepiest of breeze.

.

A lack of the sense of belonging, where do I belong? Am I really an OUTSIDER? They make me interpret, untold; yet felt! I write, as I have lost all the leisured measures to reach out, to CONFIDE! May be the nights that my loneliness have envisaged as grotesque nightmares have their unending innuendos! When words fail, you revert back to silence: pitch black, and self explanatory! .. There lies the castigating difference between quietness and silence: "quiet is peace, tranquility, turning down the VOLUME knob of LIFE! Silence is pushing the off button of life shutting it down all of it. "The self exposed silence of the common faceless, nameless mob, often indulges in self imposed one, "who seek CONVICTIONS to speak their cause by not speaking at all!" What I dwell amidst is the quintessential silence, of a self confined existentialist, who has taken cover in a dark attic, curled up all the edges, and tucked them under! Once had I been a LEGEND among men, who sought LOVE, and was I there like the mystique aura of kopai borne veil: of languishing peers and ever accessible hues. Ashes, I am now, all clustered into the hollow walls of silence like the ruins of ancient Mahenjodaro,  the echoes fade with the poised lustful dusk. The echoes never chose to come back like pyramids of time, the devourer:  Tempu deux rerum! Only the hollow wind that passes through; distilled and condensed, is impregnated with the far away music, not the one of retreat, but the roads less traveled, less opted, less explored. Music is there. Within the hollows of the ashes...whoever searches my traces will find them carefully protected within the darkest corners of their OWN lives. Music speaks even today, barring the noise, the cacophony of existence cavalcades of masks in the busy streets. It's the way of life they say: some men leave a trail of legend behind them, because they give their spirit to the place where they have lived, and remain forever a part of the rocks and mountain streams. It Isn't the Time that's   passing by, It is YOU & I.

                          Mr Ruin moves with time and place, like you do, in life. Moving on. The stories we all have, our own, in the intense corners of of our being. The ruins speaks of our tales, our subjective experiences, not the habitual tendencies we acquire and develop like the Super Annuated man! But the tales that we don't speak of, half forgotten by others and half uncured. We all have a story, as we grow the story changes, the starting does not fortify itself with "once upon a time" and the ending hardly ends with an "they lived happily ever-after". Rather, it takes the course, like the delta of a river, accumulating debris on its course, and leaving aside the unnecessary. Much like us. We chose to befriend and ditch, according to our own carved principles of need, convenience, and rather term it as a limitation. The path is always with us, for it feeds the present.

                                   A wind waits for us, when I stand on the terrace. Once my twine snapped and the wind took the kite, took it over flat roofs, and the waving trees and the river, and the blue hills forever, I could never see the kite anymore, my companion during my moments with Mr. Sky.. I have learned to let it go, and explore its mouthful of sky, the horizon its seeker. Ever.

. Even, My window is my window on the world. If i crane my neck sideways, and put my nose to the bars, i can see the extremities of the building, a narrow courtyard, where the carpenter mates with the wood and the tarpin oil brings to me the long lost flavors!  As they speak of Krishna and Gopi saga, the varying prices of vegetables and alcohol, I remain the bespectacled spectator, the   listener. They never get to see me.  That's  the only essence of life I ruminate upon throughout the day. The rest is quietness, stillness, and its malevolence.

                                                         ----------------------

But I have stopped complaining. After all, we chose our ways of life, and I have chosen this myself. However,

For once did I understand or I was forced to: I can't BELONG! They won't let me. Why do they judge? afraid am I? FEARS! :: they move a long way... they remain, reiterate with time and transcends beyond the timeless! I think I had known for a long time that life was over for me, but hardly did I hammer that in my brain, until that day. Now I know I am as much dead, frozen like those corpses which collectively move towards disoriented nonentity after those natural calamities: destiny tossed, destination lost REFUGEES! ! ! Do we have our hegemonic identities after DEATH? Will I be ever TAKEN or incorporated after death? Or even death classifies? I know questions would remain unanswered as they remain forever! Sometimes I do feel like shouting from the alienated rooftops, just for once to be heard! People arrive and move on. They mean business!