Pandora

I have been running free and wild. The old forests have smell of wildflowers. The wolf howls under the full moon and pain has a new meaning. The intersection between the old deodars and the stream running down the mountain in the middle of the forest has an internal meaning. The rabbits play under the faint moonlight which gets filtered by the aged forest trees. The spirits of the forests young and lively dance madly with desire of love. The insects crawl to their homes in the trees and the monkeys pluck fruits. The streams have mermaids which come out in the moonlit night to sing songs of love and then there are little dwarves and fairies which play around the bushes.

Natural beauty and cold running water of the mountain stream. Cold water and green grass around the river where the jungle spirits do their dance of love.

A fraction of iceberg

The waves of different particles hit the brain cells. Fantasy has never been this difficult. Fantasy is letting go of reality. He used to talk all this before he became a deep sea diver, to explore the depths of the ocean. He wanted to find the underwater kingdom of mermaids and mermen. He had heard that they have gills on their necks and their lungs are connected to both their nose and gills. He dived in the endless darkness of the ocean to find the city. He swam with unaware sharks, fishes and octopuses. He saw them preying on each other just like the jungle. He saw a wolf in the water, which no other human being has ever seen. He named the species Lupino marinus. He kept going deeper when he saw the kingdom of the mermen. It was like Diwali there. The whole kingdom was bright with shining plankton. And the mermen and mermaids were swimming around.

Fantastic word salad

Bodies like porcelain, they walk around in tight fitting dresses gently swaying their hips from side to side. Their hair tied in a bun. The train to Marcohl will is still 3 hours late and these stewardesses are not going to be in my train. Marcohl is a boring city and nobody wants to go there. It’s a city with lot of factories and not much has been built there except for factories and workshop. It is a mechanics dream come true, and being an engineering student, it is my mecca. I throw a glance at the stewardesses again and then getup to get a coffee. I am a coffee addict. And though coffee is a bad thing according to Trandza people, I don’t believe it. I got this habit when I went for upgradation of my skill benefit in Yufop. My parents still don’t know about this, and I am trying to quit, still i won’t feel that coffee is bad.

Salad Dressing

The deep woods have deep meanings hidden beyond them. A realm of fantasy awaits the escapist. Fiction is always a lie, though sometimes based on truth. Fantasy is fiction. When the wolf howls in the terai of Himalayas, looking at the moon through the dense trees, the whole jungle listen to the call of the wild. The bat hangs comfortably, waiting to get out in search of food. The creaking of the insects in the forest and the cold winds getting neatly filtered by the dense trees. One can get lost in this jungle. One can perish. This jungle takes lives, but also gives lives. Jungle teaches about nature, and the wonderful workings of it. Creatures walk, crawl, climb and slither, and the jungle stands calmly. Things are beautiful and things are dangerous. The wolf howls in the cold full moon night. It looks like call of the wild is calling someone.

Sublime Reality of Real World

Thoughts getting filtered, and filter paper is still moist. Potato gardens and windows with iron bars. Rooms with a peculiar smell, like something sweaty and alien. Floor, cold, and fingers with skin and bones. The brick lane leads home. And yellow walls have blue doors. Berries from the trees and an approach to know things. A tree and cold soil, barbed wire protection.

Cold water flowing and things happening around. Guava orchards and happy squirrels on mango trees. Rains pouring, and causing ecstasy. Circuits being made and designed. Switches being fixed. Fear creeping through skin. The monkey god is Shiva avatar.

Sometimes what you can do is either save yourself or fulfill your dreams. There are some foolish people who decided to do both these things simultaneously. You need rewards for living, pleasure is needed for motivation. There are things happening while documenting the world. We can have deep systems and love it the way we can. Fear when it overcomes you, and hatred when it starts flowing in your veins it lets you see the world in its other true colors. Flowers are bright and fragrant but only to attract creatures to assist for its reproduction. The power has been granted to destroy or create. It is a choice most of the times if not always. Crabs keep fighting, and they are too busy to know that there’s a sea just outside the bucket.

A reason to do things is always required, too much satisfaction is bad for growth. Multiple thought processes corrupt the experience. Loneliness has no meaning, because one is never lonely. In a way. There are problems but those can be solved. The real world is too junglee to be an idealist and still ideals are flowing like free alcohol in an election campaign. The real world is actually surreal, and people too shameless.

Word Salad

A response from the soul when I throw in deep questions. Freedom has been achieved, all that remains is the fear. To exercise this freedom, fear is a block. Much pain has followed and troubled the soul since very long. Now the muscles beg to be better. They beg to be used. Metal compartments moving rhythmically, and things happening like that. When these things matter, they should matter like that. A fear of forgetting, of not being possessed. Can the thing be done? It can be along with the mundane things. A balance between the calling and the mundane. A balance like never before. Katana has to be pulled and arranged to the best level. One can shift between cultures and find his self. The mistakes must be corrected, and one knows how. Culture shocks are culture shocks and one can only judge other cultures according to their culture.

Smooth Things and How

A playground has its clayey colour. The sword once picked has to be carried. The flesh of your back works as a scabbard. Imagination runs wild without any obstruction whatsoever.  The things get smoother and smoother all the time. There are a lot of things to do and ways how would one allow such things to happen to oneself. Creation is a great process and possibly it doesn’t even matter. If something needs to be created, that thing needs to be believed in first. We are smooth and everything is going well. Things are going particularly fine and ok. I have been building things like this. Causal tendencies won’t go away like this when the universe around you spreads beyond perception. Things have to be demanded beyond the particular setting. The rooms are like this (how?) and I wonder how things are happening. 

Fear has it’s way, but when things are available they should be used. Smooth things in the bad bad world and ways how you prepare for the worst things around you. Demanded perforations in the jacket of the world and things go like how they are going and that’s how they function up to this level.

Plea-sure results

You slip and tumble past the slanting green meadows of joy into a blue river of pleaure filled with piranhas and think about fish fry, and the piranhas think of something else. Something pinches your pericardium, moving the pericardial fluid beneath it and troubling the bacterium that resides within, ready to eat away your heart with its mates. You start swimming against the current in your utter shock. You are in a grave condition and you are swimming with all the strength you can muster. The piranhas are having their pulpy, juicy relish and the bacteria in the pericardial fluid are busy copulating without condoms to produce young ones of their own kind. Your almost non-existent feet are moving with the speed of propeller of a motor powered boat. Luck helps you and you manage to get to the ground with the stumps of your locomotive appendages and then a giant eagle picks you up and takes you away to a discotheque where, with a gun pointing at your face, you are told to perform bharatnatyam. You look helplessly at your once football conditioned legs and try to get up. But there is one problem; you don't know bharatnatyam. You ask if you can do locking and popping. The bacteria inside your pericardial cavity have gathered enough force by now to squeeze through your capillaries and spread all over your body. You cough a little and get yourself ready for doing your version of bharatnatyam. You perform mudras in a locking and popping style, which is well recieved. Your stumps pain unbearably with the weight of your well fed plethoric body. You are then shot in the head. And the bullet lodges in your cranium, liberating your soul. And the poor bacteria in your blood die a disappointed death.

The gravedigger

When nerves feel weary as if all life has been squeezed out of them, you sit wondering, about the reasons of it. The apathy that pervades your psyche. What makes you like this? And you get a million options for answer reeling through your mind. You know that you love life, like all mortals, it's just hidden in the background. Functioning like a puppeteer, pulling the strings as you dance on the stage. Your hatred of life is just an excuse for you to display your failure to love her as it's ought to be love. And you convince yourself of hating the life. You overwork your nerves, just to overcome this strange sensation this hatred produces, in all ways. But they refuse to be soothed. You burn in the fires of hell, created by yourself. An agony which is indescribable to anyone else. Is a fallen angel still an angel? Or he is a devil? Can one choose to be an angel even after falling into deepest pits of burning hell? Questions. A hatred for life is not the same as the love for death. You realize this vaguely. In a hurry to approach your end you set on digging your own grave, and in this process you make friends who with all their intellect and might, help you in your endevour. To the world you are Kalidasa, before enlightenment; for yourself, you're the same, only with a chainsaw instead of an axe. You are also amazed by the fact that one can also make enemies while digging a grave for himself, as there are a few people who do not want even a little piece of land to be wasted on a creature like you. But you in your frenzy keep digging deeper and deeper; your muscles getting stronger with each blow you impart to the ground, and each pound of earth you lift out that hole you're digging for yourself. There's a saying, that, the one who digs ditches for others falls himself in it. But what about the ones who dig it for themselves? And then to your utter amazement people who thought you as before-enlightenment-Kalidasa, now begin to think that you're searching for a treasure. But you continue your work, so obsessed with your end that you never realized that you have crossed the given standard of six feet long ago. And then as you strike the ground in your unbearable anguish and search for an end, a stream of water erupts from the ground. A stream of sweet, fresh, nourishing water, which quenches your thirst and soothes your fatigued nerves. And what was supposed to be a grave is now a well. A well of the sweet, refreshing elixir of knowledge. You realize that it is the end. Or if not, a means to the end. And you readily drown yourself into it.