Nemesis

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek at daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

I have whirled with the earth at the dawning,
When the sky was a vaporous flame;
I have seen the dark universe yawning
Where the black planets roll without aim,
Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name.

I had drifted o'er seas without ending,
Under sinister grey-clouded skies,
That the many-forked lightning is rending,
That resound with hysterical cries;
With the moans of invisible daemons, that out of the green waters rise.

I have plunged like a deer through the arches
Of the hoary primoridal grove,
Where the oaks feel the presence that marches,
And stalks on where no spirit dares rove,
And I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers through dead branches above.

I have stumbled by cave-ridden mountains
That rise barren and bleak from the plain,
I have drunk of the fog-foetid fountains
That ooze down to the marsh and the main;
And in hot cursed tarns I have seen things, I care not to gaze on again.

I have scanned the vast ivy-clad palace,
I have trod its untenanted hall,
Where the moon rising up from the valleys
Shows the tapestried things on the wall;
Strange figures discordantly woven, that I cannot endure to recall.

I have peered from the casements in wonder
At the mouldering meadows around,
At the many-roofed village laid under
The curse of a grave-girdled ground;
And from rows of white urn-carven marble, I listen intently for sound.

I have haunted the tombs of the ages,
I have flown on the pinions of fear,
Where the smoke-belching Erebus rages;
Where the jokulls loom snow-clad and drear:
And in realms where the sun of the desert consumes what it never can cheer.

I was old when the pharaohs first mounted
The jewel-decked throne by the Nile;
I was old in those epochs uncounted
When I, and I only, was vile;
And Man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in bliss on the far Arctic isle.

Oh, great was the sin of my spirit,
And great is the reach of its doom;
Not the pity of Heaven can cheer it,
Nor can respite be found in the tomb:
Down the infinite aeons come beating the wings of unmerciful gloom.

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek at daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

HP Lovercraft

Found this rhyme on a drowsy early morn. Think I should go back to sleep and try to live those moments that inspired such drudgery in words. My Nemesis...

Where's the party yaar?

For the past 24 hours, I've been sitting in front of this dabba looking for stuff to do...

oh and blogs were just this crappy diessertation topic till now, but now is a directoral thesis....sounds like a big deal no??

Oh and I need Flvours too....finally making that movie...got camera and boy....and nope,,, doing this all alone. lets see...time for a disappearing act soon...

But most of all I just need to party man!!!! organsie one and call me....

Warped & Twisted-IV

No inspiration. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing...

Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead...

Nothing could be duller than this wobbly mass of consistent monotony and sheer boredom...

The Mirth of Jest...perhaps

Diwali day has many blessings hidden in its fold. Like a curse, maybe. But no. It would be wrong to blame
curses on such pious days. It would be wrong to think of anything unholy, defiling, dark or walk amidst dark auras. Not today of all days...

Yet today of all days, I have time to think. And when the prospect invites such idleness to spare thoughts to tears welling up for years, its difficult not to comply. So here is yet another nonsensical post. Can't call it an outpour. Random thoughts? Maybe, perhaps, yes. Unsure? completely. But to wet paper with pen I must. Scared of release, these words are taking more time this day to come. Suppressed for so long, maybe the pigeon is not sure is she wants to fly today.

Happens...happens when you push constraints of your self behind curtains put up while chasing what I think are my dreams. Class by morning, work by evening...have I forgotten myself?
Where is she? What does she look like now? Has she grown...grown wiser, more kiddish, more sane, more wired or she still the same?

Does she still dream of the Greek Coast, the rocky edged cliffs, the open green fields, the glass house,
the white space and the book in hand?
I can't peer deep enough.... Have I lost my inspiration, my muse, my Diwali!

Maybe I need to pause for a while. Take a break, remap where I'm headed, retrace my path a bit.

But will I still find my Wizard? Will I still reach Oz? What would Dorothy have done?

Did she pause to think?

Funny how the most important things in life have moved beyond this stagnant mass. Met my best friend the other day (hope she still is). Happiest moment...she's becoming a mom. Couldn't contain the feeling. Seeing her aglow with the gift of life nursing in her ripe womb and reflecting on the cheeks and the affection filled satsifaction oozing from her gaze...
"These have been the best months of my life," her tone hinted a complete feeling. She was full.

My heart skipped a beat. She's happy. He's been kind. Life's been kind. The most elated feeling in the world. I sensed her calm and shed a tear. Drank it in, didn't let her see. Profound happiness. Those two hours, listening to her jounrey this far, were the best moments of my life.

Still living it. . .

Maybe, maybe now I can stop searching for those smells in the office, all in a satiable search of a few seconds of guilty pleasures. They'll always be guilty.

All constructs of festivity

cold morning nose
breath balm on the nape
:
sunshine breakfast
on alpenglow grass

:

in a corner in a forgotten library
hidden behind world stories
:
erratica writes
fake pearls & real pretenses

:
longing for the schoolgirl blues
love poetry for distant odds
:
a subterranean script
raises its hood
:

resign and uncap the pen...

:

and then echelons of zillion lights adorn

and echoes of triumph and thunder swarm

:

sudden jerks and calls ... "Sherry, Bachhe neeche aao. Diye jalao"

shrug all slumber, romantic disposition and the ever-running thinking mind

:

between noise from the dholaki wala outside and guitar from Aseem

Oh yeah! It's just Diwali....I could be merry today!

:

Why not!

Why not?

I will leave words too and be
A gunrunner, keep a boy to thrash
When he's lazy or stupid or because
I feel like it.
Give up cigarettes, take up
Opium instead ... because, you know,
it sends us dreams.
I'm packing my things.
The sun can't be much brighter there
Than here ... but ... anyway.

We all like to feel so special.

An afternoon by the brook & vacant conversation

"I want you to get swept away. I want you to levitate. I want you to sing with rapture and dance like a dervish."

"Its hard to let go isn't it?"

"Yes it is"

"What can I say...that's LIFE!"

The Inheritance of Pain

Living life in a screen of irony, its strange sometimes to wonder ... have I become mechanical?

I crave the touch, but not the heart - please keep the throbbing for someone else

I seduce all senses, but not emotions - please I could do without the drama

I can be with you, but not wholly - please lets cut the bull shit and just make love

I love to talk about my (un)exciting life and what cosummates my whole; but all vacant conversations - please don't get personal and keep things simple

I love to listen about poetry, music, drama and action - please don't make me the muse, I'd rather the inspiration stem from other sources

I love to be a part of the play, but not the lead - please don't put me in the spotlight...

And then you ask me why am I dead.... Its the inheritance of pain - but please lets not stake claim to what is universal to my existence... I just wanna party and leave all the tears for another day!

A first

My first investigative story.... Although a refined version, considering the sensitivity of the subject on the website, here's a bit for those for those who want to read the helpless chaos behind the colouful canvas of a cirucs.....

Sheer abuse.... here

It took seven dusks, a minolta, a heavy weight on the heart and objective ears to witness.

Die Another Day

Yesterday found this story reflecting self... a face to pain, a word to thought... everything fit. Last three months battling for time and delaying all that makes lifes battles worthwile. Worthlessness of stolen moments with strangers in search of a volly of emotions. Constant search for a muse makes the wonder in smaller gestures seem grim. Thanks Balpreet for putting in black 'n' white my shades of grey...