Clandestine.

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I have nothing to say right now. In fact i have nothing to write or think. In this silent bid to be at peace, there is noise. This is a world. A small plan. A fragment of an immeasurable universe. Of space. And vacuum. And spirits. And sounds. And noise. And silence. Catastrophe followed by cure. But i have nothing to say today.

We are all a creation which is clandestine. The larger plan…clandestine. I have nothing to say.

If you scratch the surface and the pore of any particle of any element of anything, you will find melancholy and despondency at its very core. Thus we all celebrate a history of sadness. Never together. In isolation. Most do. But..i have nothing….to think.

The poets and the saints and the sages and the vagrants and the vagabonds and the sailor and the martyrs and the soldiers and the child and the human and the not so human–everyone and no one…dwell here and there, linger and stop. And wonder where emotion comes from and where does it go…and what is vacuum and what is dark and what is light. But that, i can not think about.

Time. What an enigma. What an unasked question. An unmasked parable, conundrum and….

Do we make time or does time make us. Who creates who….Who destroys who? Who? Why? And how! We stare vacantly at time, and we do nothing. And nothing becomes everything…. Yet i have nothing much to say.

In clandestine hope, some wait for time to rot and the world to reverse and become undone and some hope for it to keep going so and some simply hope for silence. This is a hope where we all vacantly stare in darkness so we can see something and we desperately cling to the light hoping that it does us good. It never lasts.

In clandestine hope…we wish to unfurl beneath the great blue gig up in the sky. The unfathomable. The void. And what not…We die every minute in hope o get rescued.

But….i have nothing today upon which i can brood. And ponder. I am not at ease. Nor at peace. Nor in a state of melancholy. Neither in a state of  ecstasy.

Clandestine…….

 

Back to Bedlam

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Dear Emptiness.

What art thou? What feeling are you–I want to know today! The only reasonable explanation i have is very confusing..Ha. Emptiness. What are you?

The only explanation—you are the feeling that everyone succumbs to one way or another. The feeling of having smoke inside your heart–smoke that just wont dissolve and turn into vapor, like everything else. 

So many faces and so many feelings they all hold and hide simultaneously. Emptiness–the feeling of lost sorrow. The feeling of never being alive–not even for a split second. Are you sadness? Happiness?

You are indeed the feeling of getting lost inside the same smoke that perturbs the heart and screens off the mind. The feeling of going on a shaky boat and not even being scared. But does that make you somewhat resemble being brave? Nay.

Brave is facing the open intense sea–you may not survive. You on the other hand are the feeling where one just sits on a shaky boat on a rough sea–not scared, not worried–yet making it out alive at the end–and not even ecstatic.

Emptiness–death before dying. Aloofness before pain. Harm before hurt. Blood before water. Tiredness after the storm has passed. But who cares. One simply puts emptiness aside–apart. And rejoices with the nature. Because see, nature is not empty. It holds secrets, luxuries and many many more things. But then–there is us. We, who are filled to the brim with a thousand and one dreams, hopes, fantasies and emotions. Yet–we are empty.

All of us! Like the stars..up above and faltering and alone and still shining. We look at them and are consumed with awe and fascination. Without knowing the cost and the effort and the force and the gravity behind their being up there. So we–just then suppress it all–shut everything tight inside us.

So tight that it creates a space–a crest–a hole—Emptiness.

We put a smile. And a brave face. We rejoice….with the rest of nature. And forget the empty hole…

But then we come back to life. Ha. Back to bedlam..back at last.

Alas dear heart….we travel back to the drudgery they call life. We all land right back in the empty hole–so we leave the blue sky behind..and fall right back in.

This is you Emptiness… And this is precisely me.

Dolefully Yours