Shadows On The Glass

Realization is a slow process.

I see the body of a frail old man preserved in an ice-box and I feel nothing.

I see a hoard of people crowded around him, red-eyed and unmoving, but still not grievous and I feel nothing. I see not only relatives, but also a crowd of the native town folk who only know the deceased as an upright Revenue Inspector and I let it pass.

Maybe I'm numb from the sudden ferocity of it all. Its not everyday that I wake up to the sound of my Mom crying, and to a hurried departure to a relatively distant native town with only two cups of coffee keeping me vaguely awake, and not fully aware.

Maybe I didn't expect to see so calm a face, or so natural a death, being a part of a generation that revels in violence. But realization is a slow process.

I stand near the unmoving old man, holding a flaming stick of long fingered fire, and by the light of the fire I see his face, and comprehension dawns.

I remember the times we spent, the crosswords we solved. His view on politics, his belief in India. I remember the stories he told me of the times when he was a rebellious teenager rooting for Gandhi in khadis, a remainder of a generation that brought a dawn on an enslaved country. His tenure as the Deputy Collector, and his refusal to bend down to people which yielded him countless transfers. I remember tales my Dad told me of him, including the time when he sent back ten cartons of apples that came as a bribe, even when the family was struggling to make ends meet. One of the few good men on a totally corrupt government machinery. The joy with which he welcomed guests, and presided over their stay. I remember all that he taught me religion and identity. His vast knowledge and his steadfast stand on his conservative outlook. I remember mythology, and the collection of Amar Chithra Kathas he bought me regularly. His ritual of reading 3 newspapers a day, and the scriptures. His will power and his very few medications.

I break through my stony silence with silent denial, when I see my Grandmother sitting speechless near him, her eyes vacant, lost in thoughts whose burden I cannot but imagine, the shock of having lost her her husband of 64 years of wedlock in her face. Sixty four years of a wedlock, and I had never known. It was just one of the things I took for granted, but the enormity of the relationship knocked the breath out of me.

My hands clasped over my grandmother's, she leans to me and sobs "He promised not to leave me till I die. He promised that he would never leave me alone."

I retreat to a far corner, and I see an empty armchair by the window, its shadow stretching towards me. An empty armchair. His empty armchair. What is existence? What is its purpose? What is death? And what lies beyond that?

I remember GS's post as I type this out. His post on the insignificance of our size, compared with the vast volume of the universe. Millions of galaxies and stars, ever changing tides and a constantly evolving universe. Does a life matter in all this chaos?

And I realise, it does.

Sujeet's past words haunt me.

"Life is not about making yourself a prominent part of the universe, on the contrary its understanding how improminent you are. The truth is that you are as small a quark as small can be in this universe..
but a greater truth is that without this tiniest bit, the universe wudn be complete..its impossible 2 chuck u outta it, whether u r on d earth or heaven or watever.. meaning d universe cant do without u.."

Elegant. And that questions the very basis of my Nihilistic principles.

Until next time.

Of Lesser Evils

Been musing for a while now.  

What, in essence, is maturity?

What, exactly, do people mean by boy-tuning-man crap? 

Recently I heard some guy comment that my observations were predominantly immature, and therefore, hard to accept. I would be lying if I said that the comment didn't bother me, because I am part of a species that really thinks a lot about itself. The comment did bother me, because it set me thinking. It did not make me brood over the fact that people thought I was immature, because they all know I don't give two hoots, I don't take my life seriously, let alone others words. 

It set me thinking on what exactly people meant by maturity. You can always spot the so-called wise old men using this term a lot, judging others levels of maturity and crap. If a guy is socially acceptable, that is, he respects rules and sentiments, he follows etiquettes, he takes on responsibilities, then he is considered mature. Basically, anybody who has his life on control is termed mature. 

But nobody is flawless. The nice guy you see may actually be a sadist on the inside. Every human has his negatives, and people create facades and convince themselves to be someone they are truly not on the outside. 

So does maturity mean succumbing to social pressures, acting like you are compassionate and warm on the outside while you are burning within? Does maturity means killing the free spirit within you to please some vain old men and a couple of self-proclaimed mature humans? 

Wikipedia defines maturity thus:

"Maturity is a psychological term used to indicate that a person responds to the circumstances or environment in an appropriate manner. This response is generally learned rather than instinctual. Maturity also encompasses being aware of the correct time and place to behave and knowing when to act in serious or non-serious ways."

So broadly maturity is just another term created to make you self-conscious and to make you paranoid of what others think about you. Why do people need to care what others think about them, anyway? Why shouldn't we be proud of our imperfections, and why can this world not accept us for what we are? Do I have to be kind, courteous, polite, warm, thoughtful, sensitive, resourceful, and constantly on the alert of hurting others feelings when I express my views to be considered mature? Should I bend down, succumb to rules, live the way I have been taught to live? 

Humans are best left unchained. They turn destroyers, yes, but they fulfill their destinies. 

When a kid dances around in front of the mirror, mimicking some actors and wasting time, his father sneers at him to act his age and go back to studies, because he'll never be an actor himself. Well, the theory of probability has a history of screwing the best of us. Even though the whole of mankind may dissuade him, the kid has atleast a probability of one in a thousand that he'll be a Star by human standards one day. Instead of binding people down by rules, laws, norms and concepts like 'acting-our-age' and maturity, shouldn't society work towards the fulfillment of each human's innermost passion? We only live once, and noone on Earth has the right to tell us how to live. 

And then there was this close pal who noted I was too immature to be in a relationship. Maturity doesn't count there. Relationship is just a fancy word we give to the deeper concept of copulation or sex. Marriage, Dating, Flirting, these are but accesories invented by humans as a grand prequel to the basic concept of existence: reproduction. You reproduce for pleasure, for the survival of your species. And you marry for not dying a loner. If love and marriage are such pure concepts, if heart is the lone ruler, then why do looks matter? Why do girls still buy creams to be fair, to look better like their model counterparts? People can, and will give lame reasons like understanding, trust and all that. 

To understand a girl, you need to talk to her. To talk to an unknown girl, you need to be interested. To be interested in her, she needs to stand out in the crowd, she needs some striking aspect that attracts you to her. And after all this routine of understanding and 'love', you fulfill the basic ending. The three letter word. 

Maybe the way I put it may seem crude to all the sensitive humans, but its the truth. I don't give a damn even if I'm not. Cuz we all live the life we believe in.

Maturity is a rusty concept. I'm fcuked up cuz I was born fcuked up, a whole generation of men have been fcuked up before me, and my whole race is one fcuked up race. I wish the world would stop telling me how to live. 

Nietzcshe is, was, and will be God.

Free.

MC- R.I.P

Michael Crichton 1942-2008. Terrible loss to the literary world.

Back when I had absolutely nothing to do during my Class X hols, I came upon a book called Congo near the section of books that were mostly in demand. I was dying for something new after years of Agatha Christie, Hardy Boys and HP stuff.. and Congo came as a relevation to me. I still pat myself on the back for having done the only two worthwhile things in my life: having picked up Congo during my Class X hols and The LoTR during my Class XI hols. 

Congo literally kept me hooked to my seat... I usually try and finish a book in one sitting, but with Congo, there was NO choice. The pace at which the book moved, the rapid no-nonsense narration, the interesting tidbits of science thrown in between, all these kept me riveted till the end. I couldn't wait to get my hands on the rest of the MC books, and Jurassic Park(naturally!), Timeline, Eaters OF the Dead, The Andromeda Strain, Terminal Man, The Lost World and the rest followed. 

Sphere was one unexpected hell of a ride, so was Jurassic Park.

For a guy who grew up thinking that the whole Jurassic Park series(spoiled by Spielberg) was just a commercial mish-mash of special effects + monstrous dinosaurs + screaming ladies, the book came as a sucker punch from the dark. And I simply can never forget the time I spent reading State Of Fear, and my baseless argument in the class debate on Climate Change, fueled by the fact that thalaivar Crichton was on my side :). 

People may argue that Crichton was losing his touch, but hell, he's done more than enough. Writing science-fiction in such a manner that even the common man can understand its nuances, without compromising on its quality or its pulsating pace is not an easy task. 

He leaves behind a void that none can fill for now, a void which is all thats left of a place that was rightfully claimed by him.

 RIP, Mike. 

Ian Malcolm will forever remain in our heads, as the God of all Geeks. So will Richard Levine.

The Wanderer

The wanderer walks wearily through the dreaded desert of the unknown. The eternal nomad, he had no place to call his own... all the world is a stage, and all the roads are his to take. He is hardly steadfast, his thought processes are hardly unique. Like the constantly weathered rock that has stories to tell, his mind is an eroded remnant of all his influences.

He knows not what he is searching for, but somewhere in the deep stretches of the desert, he knows his answer awaits him. The sun beats down on the hardened stone, the rain streamlines its edges, the wind cuts through its uneven corners, and whats left is for him to claim. The journey loses focus with each step he takes, the uncertainity only adds to the glamour. 

There's no regret or loss. His heart's brethen, his head does ache, with the futility of his acts. The answers evade him, his time runs out, but still he walks, along no path. The wind keeps moulding the baseless rock, and only time will play its part.

--The Virus Of Life--

The complexities of the human mind is one thing that enthralls me. The way humans respond to their surroundings, to other brethen, to a given situation is so unpredictable that its almost like watching chaos in harmony. The other day, I was having a pointless conversation about movies with my pal, he told me that there was no dearth of stories because the very people around us have their own story to tell, the story of their lives. 

The more I thought about it, the more I came to realise that no two humans behave or respond to stuff the same way. I decided to observe the people around me to come up with some characters, not merely caricatures, and saw that every single guy is different from the rest of the pack. Compiled them into nameless independent individuals, there are six of them I observed, I post the first three here:

The Pretender:

Glass of wine in hand, his gaze is cloudy, he stares through the mist at what he percieves is life. A life slipping away, while he convinces himself that his head is indeed in the clouds, when in truth the hard Earth is giving way under his precarious tread. A life that he spends, trying to prove to himself that he can indeed do what everyone else can. He lives not for himself, but for satiating his giant ego, for patting himself on the back, and convincing himself that he is, in human terms, the master of all trades. He has no aim, his principles are long since lost. He twists his beliefs to suit him best, and smirks at how he's smarter than the rest. He only has contempt and criticism to dish out at the world, but the world, sadly, has stopped listening. He knows it, but he wants not to believe it. He blames the world for what he's become, but within he knows that the fault's his own. He is the Pretender.

 

The Follower:

The little boy edges curiously towards the shoes his peer left him to fill. The shine of the shoe fascinates him, its mere presence gives him joy. His peer is all he knows in life, the man he adores, his source of pride. It dawns on him that the cause is lost, his tiny feet shall never fill the void. His face falls, his frown deepens, the sad symphony of self-loathing plays, and he loses hope, and falls into that dreaded sea of self-pity. It doesn't occur to him that every being has a purpose, it doesn't strike him that he's unique in his own way. He sees his brethen strike their gold, he sees them find their 'thing' in life, but he fails to see the fire in himself. His very mind is his worst enemy, cuz it curbs his potential, arrests his growth. He follows the ones he perceives as great, he sings their praise and smiles in ache, this victim of fate.

The Clown:

A solitary figure, she stands before the mirror, her face obscured in a mask of white. A smile is etched upon the mask, a brilliant shade of red and buoyant delight. There is no pretence, the hard-earned mask is worthy of the bearer's hold. But deep inside she waits in hope, she wants the mask torn into two. Addicted to the thrill of winning, she made herself a mask to defy the system, to denounce all that men had for years built to choke the rise of the feminine side. Barriers fascinated her, breaking them gave her a high. She encroached more into male domains, she made them kneel and watch in vain. She failed to see the mask grow tight, she left her real self alone. Now that time has played its part, and the hunger is slowly dying out, she wants the unforgiving mask torn. The clown smiles at his reflection, but she yearns... beneath the mask. 

i-Rant

Indians, today, are of two kinds. They are either Engineers, or Terrorists. And bad ones at that.

Anyone can become an Engineer these days in this country. All you have to do is buy a worn-out copy of the third edition of Communication Theory by Simon Haykin, and have a couple of arrears to your credit. Thats that, and no more strings attached. There is an Engineering College around the corner of every street, and admissions are purely based on the merit of your progressive dad.

Becoming a terrorist is the cooler option, you get a whole lot of gadgets and a blow-yourself-up kit too. All you have to do is grow a catchy goatee or beard(if you are a Muslim) or a really bushy mustache(if you are a Hindu). You should have atleast Inzamam-Ul-Haq's communication skills, just for the sake of sending the Government occasional threatening letters in the name of Allah or Jaya Bachchan.

You gotta add an occasional Inshallah here and there, and make up extremely ridiculous and confusing statements to keep the CBI satisfied. And dude, you need no motive, because the Indian Government has a history of discriminating against everyone, from Dalits to John Lennon. So, nobody really cares for a motive. Just make up statements like:

"Inshallah, you have so far ignored the plight of our people(?), and have killed hundreds of our community(?) and have treated the issue of our separate homeland(?) as a complete joke. It is time for all the Indian people to pay(?), we hereby dedicate these blasts(?) to Allah's name."

Don't get me wrong, I'm not biased against Muslims or anything, but its just that everytime I see a Terrorist on TV or in Captain movies, he is:
(a) A Muslim
(b) Mind numbingly stupid
(c) Caught in a mug-shot(how the Govt let him go, I'll never know)

Pakistani Terrorists used to be a rage, but of late they are just has-beens, much like the Pakistani Cricket Team. Everybody's pissed off at the Pakistani terrorist, because these days half their bombs don't blast and are found by the lazy Indian Police(!) and disabled. Also, there is no professionalism. They still seem hung up on good old socialist days, when nobody used to work and everybody got paid. Its a cut-throat world out there, man!

Sample this:
A constable found a bomb outside a cinema hall in Delhi, he took a stone, broke the ticking clock and disabled the bomb!!!! I mean, whatever happened to those good old days of green-red wires in bombs and all those hours of perspiring action when the Bomb Squad tore their hair over which one to cut???

And of the bombs that do manage to fulfill their lives destiny and blast, three-fourths turn out to be low-intensity blasts. Whatever happened to those good old days when each bomb churned out causalities by hundreds??!!

Imagine the terrorist's plight, when he leaves behind his family for years, goes through a lot of planning and methodical strategy, and ultimately ends up hurting a homeless drunk and a roadside romeo...! Sad.

But the plight of the Engineer is much worse. Atleast the terrorist has placement opportunities in whatever field he's interested in. There are famed organizations like the Lashkar-e-Toiba and the Al-Qaeda(thats like Microsoft in engineering terms), or the Shiv Sena(strictly for Hindu extremists) or the newly created Maharashtriya Navnirman Sena(MNS) where you get to harass celebrities and do moral policing on Valentine's Day just for the heck of it.

The Engineer doesn't get placed ,dude. Even if he does, there cometh no call letter to stifle his hunger for work. Four years of ridicule, broken aspirations and dreams... you get ragged by seniors, then kalaaichified amidst pals, then the love of your life rejects you, your dad sneers at your marks, Anna University springs a sudden surprise and offers you an arrear in the subject you're least expecting one in, and you go through the trouble of sitting for placements, when you know that your chances of getting placed are worse than Advani's chances of winning the next elections.

Being a terrorist is a better option. Atleast you get your face printed on newspapers. Better to die an outcast, rather than dying a non-entity. Or you could write a blog, and get your pals to comment on all the crap you write.

Thats what I do. Its pointless, it doesn't pay. Who cares, even hardwork doesn't pay. Atleast its fun.

Free..

i-Muse

Spirituality is a drug.

Anything that helps you transcend reality, anything that takes you to the surreal, anything that kills the present in you, and creates delusions of the future, is a drug.

The Alcoholic lays his hopes, dreams, sorrows and aspirations on a sublime glass of wine.

The typical Junkie shoots his insecurities out of his vein to the ethereal through the prick of a needle on his skin.

The Spiritualist?

He pins his hopes on the unseen and the unknown, stews in the ecstasy of belief that his karma is being fulfilled and that enlightenment is right around the corner, while in reality the clock of opportunity is ticking ominously near him, and is beckoning his blissfully unaware self to give sanity a chance.

Why, then, does our holier-than-thou community not hate the Spiritualist with the same fervor with which they hate the Alcoholic and the Junkie?

If productivity in life by human standards is the utmost virtue, why this blind-sided bias? Why this conscious denial of common sense?

I have seen men sauntering about in the name of discovering themselves, while their families squalor in poverty and in dire need of help. These men proudly renounce worldly pleasures, thinking that bliss for them lies elsewhere in the mystic realms of existence.

Either I'm crazy, or I live in a seriously tragicomic world. Jeez.

Free...

Of Guevaras In Gandhian Land...

New post... been long, I know. Only, my thought processes are getting more tangled than ever. So free... to the topic, then.

I was never a big worshiper of the Gandhian ideology, nor was I particularly interested or impressed with his life till recently. Back at school, studying history, I spent hours dozing off trying to read about our struggle for independence... the darn salt satyagrahas and Quit-India slogans were complete/alien crap to a guy like me, who had been raised on daily doses of gut-wrenching action and violence, courtesy, the good ol' cable-tv revolution.

My dad gifted me 'My Experiments With Truth' for my birthday... it spent a whole year in my bookshelf, crisp and untouched. Then, during my 1st year at college, something happened. Mouli man, always the one for a controversial comment, entertained us with his views on Gandhi...

"Over-rated, man. Thats all he is. We would have attained independence long before, had we waged a complete war like heroes. The guy slowed the whole thing down, with his non-violent 'I won't eat, I won't speak' crap."

Now, I was accustomed to Mouli's extreme views... the guy's sole aim is to contradict popular perception, but what infuriated me was the ease with which his comments were accepted. One guy went so far as to tell me that Mouli's comments had totally changed his views on Gandhi, and had influenced him. So I dug deep into some history again, confused over my generation's disdain for Gandhian values.

Fact of the matter is, we have no right whatsoever to even comment on the man who worked day and night for his country, toiled and struggled with a mighty empire, and brought it to its knees, fetching us our freedom in his own way. The guy LIVED his ideals. Compare this with the materialistic Indian of today, basking in the IT glory, living the Apple i-Lifestyle, working for Caucasian bosses, dancing like a puppet without caring about who pulls his strings, as long as he gets the money to buy his next i-Phone.

Truth and non-violence may seem trivial and laughable today, but the man gave these values a new makeover. I hear voices, voices echoing half-baked notions of protest that they have been programmed into believing as true. A guy told me:

"I hate Gandhi, man... I read that guy's autobiography. Jeez, man... You won't believe the SHIT he's done when he was a teen. I mean, goddamn it, he did everything he stood against later in life. Shit, he was doing his wife when his dad was dying, man!"

Yes, Gandhi had done stuff, I told him. He had sinned( if the religious rules imposed by our vedic ancestors centuries ago are held to be supreme, then yes). But he had the courage to admit his mistakes, on record. How many of us are willing to do that? Do you have the courage, I asked the guy, to go to your dad this very moment and tell him that you have been stealing from his purse for the past two years? Gandhi had nothing to hide. His life was an open book.

Unlike other revolutionaries, Gandhi did not force his philosophical views on anyone. He did not play the blame game, he criticized none, and he did not give up when the British Empire ridiculed him, unable to digest the fact that a thin old man was slowly, but steadily axing his way through the mighty oak their Empire was. He had the nerve to walk inside the Buckingham Palace, dressed in his usual single dhoti. Such nerve is a rarity now.

How many inspirational leaders can Indians boast of, anyway? In a country of a billion people, how many can we count up and say 'They lived for the country's pride, and died for it!'. Very few. In a land of leaders who suck up the blood and money of the citizens, leaders like Gandhi, Tilak and Vallabhai Patel are revelations.

Some people think that Gandhi was too mild, his methods were too soft. Well, these methods worked eventually, did they not? Look what happened to Subash Chandra Bose, a man who believed in fighting might with might, and disappeared off the face of Earth. Look what happened to Bhagat Singh. These leaders fought, yes, their commitment was never under question. But they failed to achieve their life's aim of seeing an independent India. Gandhi lived to see that. But he wasn't happy, because he saw an India torn by religious and cultural differences. He couldn't bear to see his countrymen killing each other, vandalizing and rioting in the name of religion and caste. Anyone can take up arms to rebel against the existing system, but to destabilize them by peaceful means requires nerves of steel.

Many Hindus believed that he was biased towards the Muslims. His advice to the Hindus was simple: ' Do not harass the minority, because every Indian has earned his freedom'. The seperation of Pakistan came as a blow to him.

The man inspired other great leaders like Nelson Mandela and Martin Luther King with his ideals and his undying spirit. And what did we do to him? We shot him dead. Are we so pathetic a country that we remember the most singly influential man of our nation only through a series of comedy capers like Lage Raho Munnabhai and on television polls going 'Is Gandhi a social icon in Emerging India?'..?

Emerging India is a myth built around decades of poverty, communal tension, corruption and unemployment, by the ever changing forces of chance, lop sided growth and mere opportunistic buy-it-while-you-can commercialization and consumerism. The country is bleeding, reeling under obscene levels of inflation, while the so-called new generation Indians look around at the Mercs and Skodas cruising around their urban locale and convince themselves that everything is all right, and their country is rising fast, just behind China.

You have to be on the rural side to see the real picture. The hunger, the pain, and the incredibly corrupt bureaucrats.

Gandhi-bashing is not cool. Any self-respecting Indian has to think twice before mindlessly criticizing Gandhi over the other 'cool' alternatives like Guevara and Hitler. Trust me, half the guys who voice their admiration for Hitler's command and Guevara's attitude have no idea of what they are talking about. They care not about history, its the In-thing that matters.

I hope Indians learn to respect their own heroes... we are losing our identity in a flash of globalisation ... let us not lose our icons too.

"First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, and then you win."- MK Gandhi

This is me, signing off. Peace.

--Of Gods And Mortals--

" I cannot believe in a God who wants to be praised all the time"- Nietzsche

Thats a funny way of putting it. Typical Nietzsche, the father of Nihilism.

Much has been written and said about God and His influences in the affairs of men. It is a topic that has raged on for centuries, every since the very first human-ape looked around his environment, got paranoid, and started fearing that someone, somewhere, had gotten a lead on him and created things already.

In a bid to appease his unknown adversary, he started showering praises on Him, and later used Him as a tool to control and tie a leash on the relentless savage force of the Mind. It was not soon before God became an excuse to control the lesser populace, to organize an empire, to wage war, and to attain absolute power. The degradation of religion started with the Church rule, as scholars started questioning the very basis of religion.

Humans have always had a history of being remarkably wrong all the time. We live on illusions that we ourselves create, we believe what we WANT ourselves to believe, and we never fail to maintain the smug smile of being impudently cocky all the time. What a man proves in his time, is always challenged or disproved by another, because the very basis of these discoveries are mere human interpretations of what constitutes this Universe.

Our egotism deters us from accepting the fact that we, indeed, know almost nothing at all about this Universe, one so vast and unfathomable, that we can only sit back in our chair, and fight over whose obscure 'theory' is more believably stupid. The same goes for God.

Man tries to explain, time and again, but always falters in the end. God is hope, because in Him lies our 'salvation', as history puts it. For a species that seldom repents, this is unattainable. Our only major flaw is that, we think a LOT about ourselves.

For a species surviving in a far corner of the endless Universe, we proclaim ourselves to be the highest form of life and intelligence. Going by our own crafted laws of Probability, the mere vastness of space points at the strong chances of life existing elsewhere in the Universe. We may never know. But we believe that we are such an important part of the Universe that, God has no other job than keeping an eye on our affairs and deeds and judging our actions along. Like I mentioned before, we believe what we 'choose' to believe. We choose to believe that whatever we do is right. We choose to believe our own laws and theories. We live in a world of changing moralities, we live in a world with our own half-baked definitions of success and failure.

We try our best to control the things around us, and are always unsuccessful at the end. We try to control Nature, but it always slips out of our grasp to hit back with unimaginable force. We try to control our own race, and the other creatures, but inevitably war breaks out, and there is no winner in war. For in war, the loser loses his face, and the winner loses his cause.

If there IS a God whose sole purpose of existence is keeping a tab on all of us, I feel really sorry for the dude. It must be the worst job anyone can ever get. But thats not Him. He's something that we will never fathom, he's something thats eluded us in the past, and always will in the future. Yeah, and Nihilism prevails.

"I don't know if God exists, but it would be better for his reputation if He didn't."- Renard

And last but not least, here's a laugh.

"God's last name is not Dammit, dude."- Unknown.

--Trigger--

The moment of truth.

When you realize that the moment you have anticipated all your life has indeed, arrived. And not quite the way you wanted it to.

When you stare down the gun barrel and marvel at the thin line that separates you from mortal life to god-knows-what.

When you realize that all that you thought you had accomplished is trivial in the face of an enormous universe.

When you are one among the various, nameless, unimportant souls, wiped out of the world without even a smudge to stand testimony to the fact that you were once alive.

When enlightenment strikes, when fate loses its worth. When all you pray for is an error. A mistake.

When your entire life flashes by in a flickering reel, and you realize that you want to live.

When you know that for the last time in your life, you're screwed.

The moment of truth. That explains the background, then.

--Screamer--

A blog to pen down all that I feel.

A blog to speak to myself.

A blog to contemplate on all thats real.

A blog my thoughts can engulf.

To diss at the world, to stare at the wall.

To piss at the Sun, hereby I blog.