Of Freedom and Peace

The scorching sun
continues
to rise,
shine,
set.
As if
trying to remind men
of some
twisted
sad
irretrievable past.

But,
the men
have long gone,
in search of wine and shade.
And they’ve found a place
of some song
and some
trade.

And now
all surround
the goose made of gold,
while eggs of gold are bought
and eggs of gold
are sold.

While in a dusty corner,
the hungry caged bird
finally ceases
to sing
even though her
once captivated audience
has long stopped
listening.

For
even the
blinded fools
need something
to gape and gawk at
And her dark, unruly
blood-red mane of hair
tumbles freely around her frame
in a slow caress so seemingly warm
that the entire slowly-turning room
that she has quietly wandered into
suddenly seems to be made of
falling snow and frozen ice
and the coldest things
that have ever been
known to man since
the first ever
storm.

Meanwhile
someone has stolen
the great golden goose,
plucked up from right under their noses
And the
naive princess of sin
knowing not what begins,
instead spends all her time chasing roses.

Every day has its price,
every truth drowns in lies
Every rock pales to naught, besides dark Obsidian
Every memory has its ties
Every last man shall die
But, I think peace can only be found in true Oblivion.

The Individual

This World is a lie
and I’m a lover of truth
There’s one kind of me,
so many of you.
And even if you win,
you know I can never lose
I was born to resist
I was born to choose.

But you throw your parties,
and you make your rules
You pick your allies
and feed the rest to the fools
Thirsty for blood,
the masses clamor for more
While the rest of the planet
groans in anguished woe

So, I stand and I fall
and I take the blame
God knows, I’ve tried,
but it’s always in vain
Your truths are all falsehoods
your gods are all dead
And I’ve seen the Devil’s whore
climb out of your bed.

Your numbers may give you strength
but you’re all made up of me
And your every transgression
seals only your destiny
I shall end, cease to be
but at least I have lived
Your ending is uncertain,
But you get what you give.

The Edge of Chance is the Edge of Destiny

Over the last one year, I’ve been at the edge so often, it doesn’t even thrill me anymore. What edge, you ask? The edge of everything, I say. Surely that’s too vague. But, I do mean it. The edge of life, of sanity, of too much pride and none at all. The edge of being lost forever, of oblivion, of more terrible things. heh. Dramatic as always..

But, lost the thrill, you may ask, how? And more importantly, then why am I still here? Ah, that’s the funny part, you see. I burned all my bridges behind me. One after another. And, I never realized how the further you got from home, the harder it became to find some place safe. But, I know many secrets. And, the biggest one is that you can’t be safe. Not as long as you’re alive.

You can only be lucky.

Maybe that’s the truth about fate too. It applies only to the past, and that’s because the so-called fated are only people who were really lucky.

*laughs* Suddenly God seems so much more reasonable. Anyone would when we’re talking about Lady Luck. Impartial even in her partiality.

I used to be someone else. Someone more. But, in trying to arrive at the heart of any and every matter, to the truth of things, I fear, somehow I’ve gotten rid of too much. And, now, all I have waiting for me is the unbearable lightness of being.

How does any of this matter?

Surely, it doesn’t. Then, why, why, why won’t I back off before I fall off the edge of this planet entirely?

Oh. Wait. That *is* why.

*laughs*

Sometimes, life confuses the hell out of me.

…I would wish that it confuse me out of Hell too, but wishes are the only thing I mistrust more than promises. Because the worst they can do is always the least you can give them – belief. Things that grow darker fueled even by the light are the things you should be afraid of.

And, lastly, because I feel like giving advice even though it’s really funny since I never take my own: Get what you want. No matter what anyone tells you. That way, even if you don’t get it, you’ll be a better person for trying. and, you won’t regret it. Not half as much as you would regret never trying at all. Trust me.*

Peace out!

P.S. On a side note, control over yourself and circumstances, i.e. will and power, are the only two ways you can defend yourself against luck. Which explains all the hunger for power. [Seems humans find that easier than getting a grip on themselves] But, Luck gives with the same hand that she uses to take things away. And, if you protect yourself from her reach, you risk losing more than you gained, which, ironically, is all about Luck.

* Disclaimer: Exceptions maketh the rule!

The Lost Spy

I used to be someone else at one point of time, she remembered thinking, a few seconds before she picked up her brush to smoothen out her hair. Her fiance hated it if her hair was all messy, as was its natural state of existence.

I used to be someone else.

We all were, whispered back the creepy old mirror he had insisted she keep, even though she’d tried to tell him about how it watched her at night. He’d simply laughed at her, and she had gotten nearly hysterical explaining to him the things it said to her. In her voice. When she had said that, he’d stopped laughing. But, the gleam in his eyes made him seem a hundred times happier, as if she had just told him that she was carrying his heir. Then a cloud blotted out the light from the sun, and she realized with a start that his eyes were hollow again. Hollow, like they had been the first time she’d met him, when he had wrapped his bleeding, broken fingers tightly around her narrow, chafed wrist, and begged her to let him die. She stood, frozen, and he watched her, curious now. Then she sniffed, and he was beside her in a moment. “Have I upset you? There, there. Don’t cry. You don’t have to keep it. I’ll take it back to my mother’s.”  And, glad that the spell was broken, she glared at him, informed him that she wasn’t crying, and stubbornly half-dragged the cursed mirror all the way back to her room.

At least some things stayed the same.

Like her hair, for instance, which was refusing to behave in any manner remotely lady-like. Sighing, she tied up the loose strands with a ribbon, her thoughts suddenly, and nervously, wandering to the man she never thought about anymore. The one who drank her up with his eyes so hard, fast and deep that there was  no longer anything left of her for all these hungry beasts. And they knew it, which is why they hated him. But they punished her for it all.

You, you have always been you. Even a thousand years before we ever met, she thought fervently, even as the doors to her bedroom chamber opened. She whipped around, trying not to look guilty.

He always knew.

Hours later, when he had finally fallen asleep, temporarily convinced of her loyalty and satisfied with her adulation, she would crawl to the narrow window and pray to the moon. The Moon, which was the only thing that had stayed constant in her long and insipid life. Everything was colorless. And, the only thing that broke the monotony of the gray was the color of blood, splashed across everything  that she had ever held dear to her.

They would pay, she thought bitterly, but quietly.

Quietly, because he always knew.

And he must never know you.

Arbitrary Honesty

Honesty isn’t really the best policy. It puts you at a constant disadvantage, at the very best. And, at worst, it can kill you.

Maybe the Ramayana is supposed to teach us that when people do something in the name of something else, sometimes they forget what it was all about to begin with.

It reminds me a lot of Troy, though…

…

If I had to pick 7 favorite material, tangible things, in no particular order, I like

(+) Red nail paint

(+) Anything green and shiny and smooth.

(+) Silver stuff! Like chains and lockets and rings and bangles! And swords. *shifty look*

(+) Computers! (And the internet, though I don’t know if it is tangible. @_@ It is… right?)

(+) Denim jackets. And Coats! I just love all sorts of jackets and coats.

(+) Umm. Books? As in, I know it isn’t one thing, but, I need to have one on me at all times, or else I feel weird. It doesn’t matter if it’s a novel or a blank notebook. I just need something to read or to write in. So that I can control my mind. *shifty look again*

(+) Puzzles? Paint? The xBox Kinect? Badges? Boots.

I give up! There’s no way I can pick just seven things. Guess the monastery shall have to wait.

…

Now, if I had to pick seven random thoughts that seem to be most often in my head

1. Moon

2. Fire

3. Rain

4. Revolution

5. Save

6. Kill

7. Hope

8. Madness

9. Sleep

10. A cure**

*laughs* Guess I got a little carried away. If it’s only 7, I’d take out hope along with the last two, and leave in madness. That’s the more likely end anyway. Since my Estel is now buried in a garden that isn’t even mine anymore…

Wow. Today seems spectacularly dark. I’m unsure as to why, however. It’s been an ordinary day. There’s just so much work to get around to. Reports to write, things to draft and applications to submit. Not to mention all the speaking. Oh, god. Okay, must steer clear of all this negativity! Instead, here’s this picture that I haven’t been able to stop laughing at since Tuesday morning. ha ha ha.

Isn’t it hilarious?

-^_^-

_____

** Blood, Loyalty, Betrayal, Truth.

Dear Mankind (Draft 1)

You talk of shackles and bars
but, what do you really know of chains?
You talk of thunder and lightning,
but, tell me, what do you know of rains?
Of summer and winter, but have you
ever been scorched so much
to know that both fire and frost
kiss with the same cold touch?

You talk of love and romance,
but you don’t have a clue
of the feeling it always ends in
that deep burning blue
You talk of honor and shame
and things that wouldn’t mean a thing
if there was no guilt and blame,
if there was no joy in sin.

You think growing older must be the same as growing colder
You think you’ve moved on, but you’ve got chips on your shoulder
You might have a halo, but that’s only coz you’re a devil in disguise
Hungry, and wrathful, and nursing his pride.

And the wrong things make you happy,
while the right things make you sad
and you only like women
because they can be so bad
even whey seem so good
like the little mermaid, so bold
and little red riding hood
and other girls who don’t do as they’re told.

Oh, the World has it backwards
women aren’t looking to tame men
It’s men who have always been fighting the wild
And the forests are dying
Babies, orphaned and crying
But the wild’s truly alive in the woman, and child.

To all my fallen brethren,
(hush now, my darlings, gender’s just a word
and we must choose our battles
to justify this bloody sword,
but the truth shall remain ours
we fight in your name
vengeance surely isn’t
only a man’s domain)
may you not have died in vain
May your spirits find rest
even as they drive us past disdain
May you forgive our celebrations,
and bless our joy
And may we never forget
what must be destroyed.

You’re only so cruel because you’re afraid
afraid of the mirror that spilled blood has remade
Afraid of your reflection, which shall show you the monster you are
a wretched limp coward by yourself, pretending to be so hard
Well, go ahead with your friends, and bury your sins,
burn them all alive if you dare
But, we’ll keep counting, until it’s one too many
and, you know, we’ll always be there.

You talk of shackles and bars,
but what do you know of cages?
Pretty, and old, and broken, and gold
and in all shapes and sizes through the ages..
We know the insides of them all
though you may be more familiar with the keys
Tell me, what is the rain worth to you?
What of the cool autumn breeze?
We need to be free now,
not protected, just equally free
You talk of philosophy and science,
but tell me, what do you know of me?

Nobody’s Chidren

Tilted smiles on dirty faces
Hoods and sweaters with holes
Absent fathers, abusive mothers
and invisible little souls.
Messy hair and sullen frowns
for every slap or blow
And a hardness in once twinkling eyes
that never ceases to grow.
Empty bottles serve as toys
and water must often be food
And in the sunlight their hair lightens
while in darkness, they quietly brood.
Justice isn’t even a word for them
Let alone a concept of human pride
Fragmented, before they could grow
They’re as whole as you & me, inside.
And, they rub their grimy little faces
after they’ve shaken hands with sin
With empty pockets, and small dreams
that die before they can begin.

Guilt and Shame; Don’t the men have any?

Does this, she thought numbly,
does this feeling have a name?
And as they laughed their cruel laughs
she tried to think of shame.
But, the gag, it choked her,
not even letting her scream
When you’re barely old enough to walk,
sometimes it’s hard to tell life from a dream.
Though this pain belongs to a nightmare,
even if she hasn’t learned that word yet
And just as they ganged up on her
they simply leave her for dead
While ants crawl into her hair
feeding on her broken skin
The child is barely an infant
And cannot comprehend the idea of sin
Her clothes weren’t provocative
And she wasn’t out so late
Her lifestyle wasn’t “western”
She didn’t drink, smoke or date
It was an infant that they surrounded
an infant that they abused
And as punishment, if ever caught
they’ll live out years, and die, accused.
For all the guilt is saved for the girl
That’s what Women are really raised to be
Ashamed, hidden, fearful, submissive
and always, always guilty.

For the three year old gang-raped in Kerala. I’m sorry imouto..

Women’s Day: What are we Celebrating?

What’s there to celebrate?

The women stopped being girls long ago. Now, it’s babies and infants. The men used to talk, and be told, shite about how all women are like their sisters and mothers and daughters. Now they rape their own kids. Or, maybe they always did. Maybe we are that pathetic and depraved. What kind of thought process, what levels of desperation, what kind of an urge makes a group of men pick up a sleeping rag-picker’s baby and decide to rape her? Like beasts in a pack, they legitimize each other’s depraved acts, feeding on the feeling of belonging to the ‘winning side’ for once, because otherwise they are only losing, losing, losing. It isn’t just insecurity, it’s a pathetic shallow envy and gutless, cowardly rage. It surely isn’t about establishing superiority. What superiority does a 24 year old male have to establish over a 3 year old infant? What kind of man rapes his own infant daughter? Or, maybe that’s how impotent we have made our poorest. That they have only enough faith in the system to know that their brutality will probably go unpunished.

And, all in all, men continue to excuse other men because, somewhere, every man has been rejected. And, every man likes to believe that if he had been able to fuck her, she would have liked it. The autonomy of women scares those without power, because the class of people who were at least always below them is moving up and away. The autonomy of women scares those with Power, because we have a population problem, and every resource given to someone marginalized means a resource less for the just-as-grimy hands already pushed up against the gate.

Fix this. Fix this now, India. It’s bad and pathetic enough that it is happening. It’s worse that the Nation doesn’t care. Sooner or later, it’s going to be you or someone you know. Don’t wait for that.

End this shame.
For, there is nothing else left to feel.

Happy Women’s day to everyone in this country who didn’t get raped today. Perhaps that is what we should be celebrating. Perhaps that is what it has come to.

3 year old rag picker’s baby:http://news.oneindia.in/2013/03/07/kerela-3-year-old-gangraped-1165832.html#cmntTop

4 year old daughter: http://ibnlive.in.com/news/bhopal-man-allegedly-rapes-4yearold-daughter-arrested/377363-3-236.html

An apathetic misogynist system: http://ibnlive.in.com/news/a-year-on-dhaula-kuan-rape-survivor-says-the-trial-only-adds-to-her-trauma/377356-3-244.html

Medieval mentalities of the Police force:http://ibnlive.in.com/news/shame-in-khaki-indian-policemen-still-blame-women-for-sexual-violence/377298-3.html

Bewildered policemen (But, why won’t she just stop traveling at night?): http://ibnlive.in.com/news/delhi-bikers-allegedly-molest-woman-journalist-police-tell-her-not-to-travel-at-night/377358-3.html

23 year old who dared reject some creep:http://ibnlive.in.com/news/chennai-acid-attack-victim-dies/372418-62.html

And I Always Will [An Ode to Mave]

She tells me I don’t bleed for her anymore
Not the way I used to, at least
With windswept hair, and an untamed heart
and eyes that reflected the seven seas.
I don’t know how to tell her the truth
the reason behind my accelerating decline
About things that hit us all, when we least expect them
and about things that used to be just mine.
I try to write out my thoughts in words
but blood is the only color that shall ever suffice
And I don’t blame anyone for the fire
I’m far too tired from all of the ice..

Someday, I think, I’ll speak to her
Speak out my mind, and all that it craves
But, it isn’t my place to break down and weep
It’s only my place to stand tall, and be brave.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been a sobbing fool
I’ve been lost, and I’ve cried out my soul
But, with every tear that travels down the telephone line
there’s a frozen thousand, burying my heart in the cold.

And I’ve been tired, I’ve been weak
I’ve forgotten the words to all of my songs
But, she hums the tunes back to me
And reminds me of reasons why one must stay strong
So, sometimes, I say to her, you don’t love me
or at least, you don’t love me well enough
and she mistakes those waves of motion
for an ocean that’s wild and rough.

Well, I’ve been accused of paranoia, & a guilt complex before
I’ve been accused of being selfish and mean
I’ve stood trial for things I never did
but, through it all, by my side she’s been
So, what use are words, when you have my loyalty?
What use is proof when I’ve given you my word?
What are terms of endearment when you have my soul
hanging inches above the edge of your sword?
Yes, you must not be the one to impale me
that honor is much too trite for what we share
But, love, never let a lack of my words
make thou doubt just exactly how much I care.

My hair remains windswept
and at least the seas, still free
And I will always remember
what the wind meant to me
In the charm of your laughter
In the joy of your voice
When it comes to sides I’m choosing
even my words won’t have a choice.
And, you dance in my castle
You dance by the lake
You live out your life
And mend me when I break.
In your violent violet hues
I stand, and I laugh.
So, love, don’t ever accuse me
of not caring enough.