Perhaps.

Hello world. Pardon my disappearance for a couple (months).

Blogging was never an obligation for me, and i say that with apologies, for i doubt it'll ever be. Maybe it should (though i don't see how), but perhaps in knowing my posts live on a certain something for its existence, would aptly explain the lack in its frequency- 'inspiration', they call it.

However with that said, this post is none of inspiration nor motivation; just a mere case of fatigue, frustration and the unfortunate lack of a listening ear.

My life, (or school life rather since there's all there is t it now) has been going downhill. My job, school, dance class, table tennis.. t be entirely honest it'll take superman t cope. And i sure ain't no superman. My mom's making me quit the job at GV. "You can't cope", she says. And perhaps she's right.

Perhaps she's always right. Perhaps I'd prefer t have this honourable gift of thought taken from me- this inquisitive nature t question; t find a reason for everything. Perhaps sometimes things just are. Perhaps sometimes it's okay t follow; t conform; t not stand out. Perhaps it's fortunate not t be that one in a million (that everyone aims t achieve). Perhaps heroes have it hard (and never recognised only till after their deaths). Perhaps regrets are excuses. Perhaps prevention isn't better than cure. Perhaps it's not death that scares us, but the life after (or the lack of). Perhaps t get more, we should expect less. Perhaps all it takes t do more 'Right's, is just t do less 'Wrong's.

Perhaps.

Secrets of an innocent world.

No hatchery, no plot
of innocence and secrets
pure naivety in thought

No guessing, no doubt
of love and contention
the ignorance of flout

I'm tired of trying, trying t comprehend
those things i don't know, those things i can't understand.
those neuro-mechanisms, within cartilage and skull-
i implore t know why; i seek t know how.

Why can't we be like them-
like how we were at young,
simple, honest, sincere
like the songs, we have sung.

Truth, therefore i ask-
nothing more, alas.
t break me free from these chains of speculation,
these surges of contemplation,
only, for a little more innocence, inside.

Grow old with me.

That is what learning is-
You suddenly understand something
you've understood all your life, but in a new way.

-Doris Lessing-

And everyday, i learn.
And t hone, t master, the ability t discern-
fact, from fiction.

Alone.

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.

The things i do- some, cant comprehend.
Theories i derive- some, cant understand.
Giving it my all, all for a friend.
and for the mere lock and key theory; fitting in- I pretend.

I always thought I was different, somehow; different from the rest.
Or maybe, I'm just too ordinary- amidst these exceptionals.

It's part of a greater plan. It always is.

On the cross-
of gore, of blood,
of nails, of pain,
of cruelty,
almost inhumane.
Jesus, his name
unnerved, unstained,
for he died for us-
for our sins, with fain.

I know, i know,
or i think i know.
Come what may,
let it be so,
engulf me whole,
but i'd never,
never let go.

I know; or i think i do; maybe, i just hope i do (yes, hope came back). Whatever I'm going through now, it's happening for a reason- a much larger reason. A reason I believe, attributed to Him. It's possibly due t the recent exposure of films like 'Evan Almighty' and 'Bruce Almighty' that has inclined me t that perception. Life isn't that easy, and you ain't going round getting your prayers just because you want them t happen; it's makes perfect sense t think that He doesn't give you what you want, but rather the opportunity of getting what you want.

And i think, this is an opportunity.

It's funny, because just the day before, i made a prayer before i slept, and on the contrary t what i prayed for, i received (possibly) the veracious opposite. For a moment all i did was t question, deprecate, and ascribe my misfortune t Him. It spoiled my night, for the most part.

And then i thought different;
It meant something else, as i slowly overturned those cynical and blasphemous paradigms, i saw how everything could turn into a chance, into a learning opportunity. I felt much better, after.

So.
The next time something bad happens, don't blame God.
Ask, and you shall receive;
Pray in his name, and he will never deny you.
He'll give you what you want... in due time.

It's all part of a greater plan. It always is.

I remember it well.

I remember it well,
the year 1936,
ships engorging the docks,
as vessels pass continents-
people flocking the theatres
t watch you play
your august scene;
'The lies of obsolescence'

As the curtains draw,
your enigmatic demeanor
-with it an elucidative carriàge-
puts Shakespeare down upon his knees
you, the discountenancer, triumphant,
as you take center stage
the pedestal beneath your feet,
unreservedly yours.
I remember it well.

The acts played out,
in seven ages,
your exits,
your entrances-
you, the leading protaganist,
you, the adversative antagonist
you; assuming both the role of cast and of crew.
Oh yes, i remember it well.

The curtains coalesce
-a sheet of red-
behind the commoving applause,
of whistles,
of clamor,
superseded by an auricular confession on my left,
'Subliminal performance.'
I pause briefly in aftermath,
that breathtaking éncore-
I remember it well.

The stands clear,
seats empty,
the marking of the end-
the end of the play,
of year 1936.
You waved goodbye,
t faces of enthusiastic crowd
in waves of curtsy
in pulses of bow.
That, i remember it well.

You were 45.
mid-life, gorgeous, charismatic.
Your soul-sundering pair of blue-
I remember it well.

The year 1946
ships scarce; none in sight
docks empty; void of light
only through the filter of neon signboards-
your august play;
'The lies of obsolescence'
still carried on.

I remember it well.
The curtains coalesce,
-a sheet of maroon-
behind vague claps of silence
deafening in its context;
no shouts,
no applause,
no éncore.

The irony of your last act,
'The lies of obsolescence' ;
as gradual transformation take its place,
the highest notch of roleplay,
when you and play become one;
Obsolete.
I remember it well-
I remember, you were forgotten.

A simple lesson drawn : Whatever you possess is temporal. It may be long-lasting, assuring while it still exists, but never eternal. There can never be a forever; humans remain, unfortunately (or fortunately, if you ask me) mortal. Death draws a line, however fine you may perceive it t be- perhaps in your aspects of the afterlife. It puts an end, even if for the most minute second, t whatever you own, whatever you've achieved. This does not apply merely t the silly defects of materialistic possessions. Ideologies, emotions, and even something as great as love comes t an end when you depart; a dead mind does not have the ability t think nor feel. We are- as are all other human beings- but a living entity; clasped in books of history if you're significant enough, but when life as we know it ends, we cease in existence t our present world. We may be remembered a little, for a while- grieved over, perhaps- but eventually, at the very very end of time... we, are forgotten.

We will be forgotten- that's an unspoken truth- but honestly, do we care?
No.
Maybe infinitesimally, yes, we feel an inexplicable tingle of unjust, for the massive belittlement of our individualistic presence, but in all truth- i can assure you- that doesn't matter.
It doesn't.

For years, millions have tried thrusting their names upon the glamour of "Guinness World Records" or history texts; books which might leave a trace of their once, minuscule existence in years t come.

History? -laughs- It could be as much of a hoax as the man next door being President of India. History's written by victors... so the extent of truth? Not reliable.

Why then, may i ask, would people want t do that?
(The following part is pretty controversial, just my two cents worth.)

These are the people, who are terribly unsatisfied with their lives. They wish t be remembered; t show others how wonderful (or shitty, really) their lives were. T be held in high esteem, maybe, for things that they might or might not have done. These are the people who require evidential proof as t how amazing their life is. It explains their lack of meaning and their overwhelming need for constant reassurance as t how their life should be led. I dare say this, for a person who has led his/her life with satisfaction, wouldn't see the need in seeking substantial proof for their wonderful years spent here, in mortality; they are clear of what they have, and they are contented.

Bottomline: Cherish whatever you have- it won't be eternal, it won't last forever, but it's as real as it gets- for real things don't last.

Let's embrace death; the dawn of a new life.

over a cup of long black- let's talk about our death.

Through the gates of heaven;
the way down need not lead t hell.
Conformity seizes individualism.
Populistic perception -as we see it- kills us all.
I don't want t be.
I recognise my difference- in ideas, in views, in life.
Yet I can never break away.
Merely for two words - social suicide.

Sports and society.
Of two cohorts.
12 people-
You.
The odds?
Jesus.

And i find, with gradual increment, i am alone.

Erasio Memorio

Dissociative identity disorder (DID)- a mental condition whereby a single individual evidences two or more distinct identities or personalities, each with its own pattern of perceiving and interacting with the environment.

Otherwise also, an apt solution t the current situation.

Taking it t be entirely honest, it would be a decent idea t have two individualistic replicas of myself-
one unaffected by the other.
I like t think i have control over my thoughts and emotions, until what i have recently found, with most misfortune, t be terribly impossible.
That very much reflects on the way i act, the attention i give, and the things i do (which all fall under the same category- my life!).
Have therefore engaged myself in various activities which, i had hoped, would divert my attention from basically, everything else.
Following a series of failed attempts,
i have went on t read about books like 'how t deal' and 'managing your life' which have since made me feel more revulsed by reminding me how i would rather throw away my money than purchase such rubbish (which i have made a mental note never t happen, ever again.)

That has left me where i started.

If a mental condition is the answer t it all, please, let it happen-
For pain and torture are two things i'd very much prefer not t encounter.

it might have been.

For all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been.'

This remains, till this day, my favourite of quotes.

Picture this:
You saunter down orchard boulevard, taking a slight halt at the junction. You're at a technical crossroad; will it be left, or right? Amidst what some people would refer t as decision making, you caught eye of a girl, merely steps away from you. You looked at her; she glanced back. It could be the terrible sweatshirt you're wearing, but it didn't occur t you then. There was a momentary pause, the mercurial pace of the city didnt stop- she stopped, and so did you. It was almost like a telepathic recognition; beyond the superficiality of appearance and wit; the possible intersection of the lives of two strangers- friends rather, who merely just didnt quite know each other t begin with.

But time, being its transient self, forbids the lingering of such a moment. The green man(along with its flashing indication) you soon discover the unknowing movement of your feet- and that that moment, is gone. You could have done something, something that would reflect less on your idiocy and possibly more on your reflex. But no, you let it pass. You start t think t yourself, what if i had stopped? what if i had said something- anything? what if?

You dont get that circadianly in a lifetime, probably only a couple-

Or once.