There’s nothing in it.
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Spread the word, overdose, enjoy the sugar rush and prove village idiots wrong. There’s nothing in it.
–
I didn’t plan this when I first put up the post, but here it is; even though I’m not sure how it’ll turn out.
The maternal side of my DNA-line has always had issues with cardiac and lung muscles. About a decade back, my Mom started suffering from symptoms of what we’d later come to know as cardiomyopathy. For a few weeks, she ignored it all. Later, she’d have problem with mere breathing and couldn’t sleep for about 6 days, my Dad took her to a particular “Baba Irani,” a well known chiropractor in an area that is also known as the Queen of the Suburbs. Ache somewhere in the chest, nausea, extremely painful to even breathe, being no more than a village idiot with a thorough go-through of a Medical dictionary — and the lack of any comprehensive and detailed diagnosis method in this field of fraud — he came to the obvious, but inane and irresponsible conclusion of my Mom suffering from Asthma. For over 2 years, my Mom was being “treated” under a series of “alternative medicines” to no help at all, apart from some really mild effects, placebos. She still couldn’t sleep. As it became so severe that she could no longer walk for more than 30 seconds, my Uncle finally forced her to get a thorough check-up. After going through a number of scans at the Asian Heart Institute, we came to know about the real cause of all her disease. My Mom’s heart was about 7% active, from what I could make out of the 2D ECHO scanning and she was, well, at the urge of losing it. Intense medication for a couple of months followed, with strict moderation on her every activity, until her heart was at about 17%. Half a decade on from then, my Mom’s heart is at a 43%, something that’s surprised her, me and even her various doctors. I’m quite sure it won’t get any better from here unless she loses a few pounds and cuts off from her typical Sindhi diet, but well, there’s little I can do about that.
Problem is, she still takes those homeopathy medicines regularly, so you can imagine how appalled and terrified I am by the deep penetration this fraud has into the minds of the gullible. I don’t really forward online petitions or ask people to join Facebook groups, neither am I asking this of you now. Just take a bottle, overdose, enjoy the sugar rush and prove village idiots wrong. There’s nothing in it.
Enjoy eternal bliss.
We flood the empty lakes with dash and blast, singing a song for starlit beaches; illuminate my heart, my darling!
I have slept.
Soon the breeze will be gone, all of this happiness will lay rotting with autumn leaves draping the carcass — like vermin — rained upon by the blood and sweat of a million paper sparrows that dart towards the red Sun.
And when you fight your Mom I’ll look down and say, “LOL Kids.”
… I can’t fucking wait for June.
Slowly, but surely…
“This is time, naked time, it comes slowly into existence, it keeps you waiting, and when it comes you are disgusted because you realize it’s been there already for a long time.” – Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea
Strolling on a trodden road the pavement approaches with it’s edges falling down into rubble, rubble into water into earth. I remove the wall of text from my eye, sway it down gently till the pages collapse into each other and a stride towards the four-paned window. I wish to knock, knock and address but I can’t. I’m held back with this feeling, it’s overpowering the environment that I should sense. As a heart with defunct, motionless lungs laying on a broken rib-cage drowning in towards the wet mud hitting ground imprisoned within these decaying bricks for only trying to live. There’s the four-paned window shadowing a cross against the nausea with cold, white rays.
Taking steps back lowering my level with the trodden road I have a flame between my eyes and the smoke engulfs me, I inhale but everything freezes except the smoke, rising and bowing to the audacity of the wind that for some reason seized to exist. Hair shatter the earth and a warm glow reminiscent of the Sun pours out and everything above the follicles feels heavy, slowly, lifting itself against gravity and rigid muscles unveiling leaves and branches and fogged glasses with pages gracefully collapsing against my thumb and I slowly, but surely, must be falling to sleep.
When acting as a CNS depressant.
*click*
Four thirty-five after midnight. Personal note.
Restate my assumptions.
Hippies and idealists never changed the world. They merely gave teenagers something more than their puberty and mate-selection to worry about.
*click*
Catharsis.
Words can only evoke emotions, not magic.
You’ll only be as intense as your words.
Terra Ignorata
Arson of the sleeping giant full of shit and faith.
The sound of cracking branches being crushed in his hands became louder than the falling of the trees behind, the gleam on his back highlighting his gliding muscles. The water he’s approaching shines with both Sun and Moon, glossing warm sand with each wave. A thunder’s droning over his mind with his each step beating into his skull like he’s walking on himself as he steps out in the open.
His dreaded hair and beard with beads of sweat all over it, gazes at the faintly lit sky and the silver sea, a flock of pigeons emerging from the wind above the woods raining music upon him. Hacking and bathing his logs in the silver sea, he’s squatting at the edge, waves washing his feet. And there’s music raining upon him, unweaving. Eyes undress the future ghosts, the rocks, the seeds and the life so small. He glides the log across the sand, flocks of pigeons, lights and signs, the fire and the wind, land and the sea. Carving negations, sedations and all the petrifying waves. Carbon black flowers and ancestors on his arms. Carbon black flock of pigeons drawing circles mean and extreme, drawing way above the fallen trees, drawing way beyond the silver sea.
Music and blood raining upon him. Rests under the shadow of memories, under the palm of miseries, and unleashes the energy within. Squatting at the edge, washing his feet, submerging into grace with every wave that hit. Thunder and current crush his bones as his muscles surrender to the cripple. He sails silently beyond the silver sea. The sea is now sheets and crystal, vast white in rigor mortis. Flight of the carbon black towards morning glory behind closed lids, pale brown mote of dust. Music and blood mean and extreme, above fallen trees, beyond the silver sea.
Thought cookies in your jar of blessings earned. Blossom, soon return. Blossom, soon return.
The trees are dead, and dried out. Wait for something, wild…
Spiral Architecture
Spirals made up of strings. Everywhere.
Carpet of beautiful green grass with a pillar-like tall brown tree with flowers all over it. Flowers falling from it. Flowers falling on the foreheads of a string and another string, in embrace and their minds wandering through virgin spaces. The sense of comfort, protection, completion and ease which no other string can embrace you with. The most beautiful although fundamentally imperfect of all symbiotic relationships. Eyes gaze into eyes and see the same vision in each other, without any mention whatsoever. Hands fall into hands like how you can touch your nose with your index finger with your closed eyes. Love. Spiral. Testosterone and Estrogen spiral. Life and another life spiral.
Eyes gaze into eyes yet again and see themselves in reflection. A prefect, circular portrait of 2 beautiful smiles. Hands fall into hands yet again like they’re meant to be. Loving bed-time, young bodies touching each other. Feeling each other. Reactions, ignorance, indiscipline, adrenaline.
You hear a scream and make a run into a room with an old door. Stagnant air, new worn-out wallpapers and a ’60s style television set. Beer. Old rusty chair, young frowning, budding string. Everything coming out of that ’60s style television set. Palms open, here is your calm down pill. Endogenous and alien spiral. Alcohol and pharmacy spiral. Spiral down the throat.
Death. Spiral. Neck and rope spiral. Life and another life spiral.
In Tyler We Trust
A moment’s leap into pure hypnotics.
Rush provoking stupid nascent dreams.
Sweat and heat raising from the brawl,
rage and pain all about an escaping.
You won’t be happy if drizzles don’t turn to rain.
How good is letting a tilt go in vain?
A smile, a smirk, a wink then wine.
All of this reflecting off a heart’s shine.
Flesh and fluids, flow of endorphin.
Escaping time with kisses as tips.
Denial and self-pity go hand-in-hand.
Whatever’s cheaper comes and lands.
Isolation from the outside,
exposure to the inside.
Breathlessness laying on comfort,
devoid of reason and instinct.
Do I know or do I just feel?
Is it invasion or just a steal?
You wont be happy, if an earthquake can’t shatter glass.
Iota of a moment of revelation can’t be surpassed.
There comes the demon, slaying the god.
A spark, a seed into fertile firing neurons.
Discovery of self-reflection,
answering all of life’s questions.
Scribbled negations on concrete caves.
A dedication to sedation, pleasant waves.
Could of smokes and flames of a Sun.
Are they questions or just a confession?
Misdemeanors and arson,
an equilibrium is reached.
Stand in que or break the line?
Choice or chance, break the line.
A rip-off, really. I am just glad it makes sense and that the rhymes came out naturally. XD
Conflicting Hemispheres
Drenching your sun, pouring my rain,
splitting the river, cracking the masks.
Spreading further, my dissentient cry.
An invisible gun to my head?
Choke its barrel down my throat,
pull the teardrop trigger now.
Sick of clawing dents in perfection.
The path to fate, faith’s all mine.
The way is paved, the command’s all mine to obey.
Meaningless despair, paths both astray,
colliding hate and seek, for a mother’s embrace.
Embrace bloom, embrace burn.
Abrasion of the insides,
clenching the walls of a dissonant cerebrum.
On my side, my own side. Hunting, my own self.
A cry to fly away, into the blurred light.
Begging for Godly hands to embrace me,
with the warmth of calm.
The hunt is on for my own self?
I wish I could just disown self.
