Give me the wine, I shall dance the world around the undependability of human consciousness....
The eminence of parallel existence and phenomenal synchronization or encountering of my subliminal doppelganger with the cognizance of my ubiquitous existence elevates me unto a state of crazy hyperactivity. The penumbra of my clone is mostly like a phantasmagoria, almost completely foreign to my interests and tastes. I think, I’ve manipulated the possible readings of yin and yang. Hahaha!!!
You left me incapable to do so!
"How many did you love after me?'
"None. You left me incapable to do so. The insatiable hunger and desire i once had for you, there is only one thing i demand now with the same intensity; Death"...
The ecstatic soul dancing with pertinacious impeccability, of itself and myself, orchestrates my subtle congruence with parenthetically parallel existence. Reserved Epicureanism contends with the extroversive but strange figures drags me towards the unconditioned and enigmatic spheres. Intellectual monomania adorned with the determinism of the universe and the randomness of human intellect injects crazy thoughts into my cognitive hemisphere. The Lone Rider and the Alpha badge I wear upon signal the impertinent tenacity of my absurdist. The way words originate and behave, things occur and enact....
Incineration of soul with antagonism often credits the incredible insufficiency of my material sociability. Sometimes, it’s really hard to survive the inessentiality of a stupid “mob” especially when you know incongruous codes of their guises and play. They are all self-trained thespians of a floating opera; a masquerade enacted for material gratifications. Their lineaments are of folly and their masks are of self-declaring clowns of self-mockery. Polluted smiles from their hollow façade crucify my existential credos on the 'altar of "Frailty"', what 'he' once called. It is true that a dead fly causes the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking smell.
I found a space between foundationalism and anti-foundationalism. Here I stand!
There's ontology on the one side and epistemology on the other. Me, the new born baby, wonder on their alien outfits.
Here they come. Ontology asked first: "What’s out there to know?”
Well, not in a micro-nano-micro seconds my receptors passed the waves of the utterance to the brain, epistemology appeared and asked: “What and how can we know about it?”
PS.1. Reality is largely light bouncing off particles and into your eye.
PS.2. How does dream occur to a 'born blind' person?
“Your sign is there everywhere around the globe.” I looked at her again and again. Each time I look....
Apart from the structural and dual or multiple paradigms of existential life, of theories and definitions, of meanings and of beings I fall in love. I am a little Keats singing the songs of love. A conscious undertake from the self to keep the equilibrium of life and imaginations. My love for her incinerates the credibility of human comprehension over the archetypal images and experiences of love. I’ll never get exhausted writing about her and the unusual affair of love ever told. She’s beautiful without knowing it. And possesses charm that she’s not even aware of. she’s like a...
The realm of my feasibility struggled itself for a stationed equilibrium of responsibility and existential credos. The inconsistency of romance often withdrew into her absence of silence. Pastness of the present and presentness of the past along with the absurdity of the future, but the certainty of death made things more vivid, though with a thin frame of perplexities. The universalized-self triumphed over the perceived meanings and languages of humanity. Time was captured within the gargantuan vacuum of absolute nothingness. Sound was trapped, light was trapped, and momentum of the entire vicious cycle was trapped within that monstrous non being of nothingness. Theoretician of mine demanded the theoretical frameworks and critical edges of every existing being and non being, the imagination weaved a ...
Yes, I am a narcissist, but not selfish. I celebrate myself, I love myself and I love my life, what else I can be other than a narcissist? I have prayer now as Gibran prayed, “Keep me away from the wisdom which does not cry, the philosophy which does not laugh and the greatness which does not bow before children.”
‘Who am I?’ was the next question I had to answer. An age-old and worn out thought extinguished within itself was worthless to answer, but I had to; everyone has to. I didn’t...
I stopped searching for the parochial extensions of my existence. Like every youth, burning inside and blinded by definitions or interpretations I fought well like Don Quixote raging a war towards the shadows of existence and vanity. A paradox disembarked on the shores of my constructive paradigms and horizons of freethinking. Like a free bird, soaring in the endless azure sky, I trumpeted shadows of thoughts, which were repressed, subsided, othered, and muted by the elite, socialized, civilized, classed reverberations..
During the 1960s and 1970s, the notion of American identity as performative was becoming increasingly evident in the works of African-American playwrights who were often presenting race as a series of roles based on cultural expectation rather than as an essential and stable core of being. The performative identity of the both black and white Americans weren’t just restricted to the discourse of self or the individual, but the identity which entertained the notion of race enjoyed the freedom of African-American playwrights; they brought forth the issue of race beyond the cultural expectations making the voice heard of the marginalized...
The resettlement of the myth is one of the major characteristics of the post-colonial literatures. The configuration of myth found in the narratives of the state is to encode the resistance to the hegemonic drives. It also emphasizes the evidence of precolonial cultures and methods of organizing.
Myth is the belief of a particular culture in relation with its practices and existence. The myth of a particular culture emphasizes its deep rooted beliefs and practices which establishes the culture itself an entity.
For everything, there's a reason, as such, a time for birth and death. I just wonder what makes my life so different. I lovely fail before love. Love for life, what art thy shall remain until the last breath of my life! Romantically I would like to be killed by the love I love, but I am not stupid enough to bury my precious life for the love unloved. I drink wine and I have tasted almost all the precious of them. I drink and I love, I love and I live, I live and I am loving it. I love the mystic charms of life, the way it behaves, woos, and ravishes, what a piece of romance. ...
I move like wind,
Lush like heavens,
Talk like silence,
See like sun;
For, everything I possess
‘How’ is everything,
Life is 'life' everywhere no matter what it takes,
But matters how it takes.
‘How’ is everything...
Be sealed with thy mellifluousness.
Mind, burning with thoughtd and memories,
are they real?
are they fate, destiny or
anything that i wonder to know about?
whatever it could be,
i read it
i am haunted!
the crazy utopian
i wonder, now,
could she be an utopian or
a myth of my dreams that
പ്രണയം! ആത്മാവും ആത്മാവും തമ്മിലുള്ള ആകര്ഷണം. അതിന്റെ ലയം, അതല്ലേ പ്രണയം?
ആത്മീയമായ ഏകാന്തതയുടെ ദുഃഖം മറക്കാനാണ് സ്നേഹിക്കുന്നത്. "അതെ, ആത്മീയമായ ഏകാന്തത. അതിന്റെ ദുഃഖം, അതു സഹിക്കുവാന് വേണ്ടിയാണു സ്നേഹിക്കുന്നത്. അതു സഹിക്കുവാന് വേണ്ടിയാണു ജീവിതത്തില് എന്തും മനുഷന്..
‘That’ is Yahweh, says Jew. Yahweh is omnipotent; only the one and he judges on the last judgment day. ..
"To whom shall I hire myself out?
My dog has died.
Why do I fall in love with every woman I see who show me the least bit of attention?
...I'm a bit of every man who see nothing but blank pages, anticipating the the formless and disordered impossible dreams of every sleep and day dreams, never may come to its fullest....
who am I ?
I miss myself often,
not in the ecstasy of the soul,..
i don't want to write poetry,
but a piece of my voice.
i'm not much fond of the sound of my own voice, but still i'm haunted by the voices of my undefined ego. if i have a defined ego i wanna kill it and i will replace it with my undefined ego which is not the captive of my body and cultural and conceptual ideologies.
We feel lonely in the midst of plenty. Nature gives us such precious moments to know our Self and loneliness is extremely beautiful.
The transcendental self can communicate to the Soul there by it can transform in in any form. Experiencing loneliness is highly metaphysical and transcendental, i.e., it is only this time the undefined ego communicates with the soul which is captured in the body.
things, they are nothing but merely things only.
waiting, nothing but waiting, since life itself is a long waiting for the uncertainties of the anticipated certainties life, just athing. we make things out of life and the things beget again and again.
love, romatically beautified thing.
i just write things i just can't get through and imagine that i never meet. what if we never have our absurdities, life would be apile of mess of mere things. and i started to love my absurdities and make it beautiful.....
"I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you....
Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
The question itself is dubious the very statement of the question! can anyone actually define himself or herself?
"I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other."(whitman)
i strongly believe in the celebration...
"I came and saw
And I conquered."
I am the man !
I fight and win.
Seven seas and
Seven worlds , they Obey me.
War, she is the art Of mine,
I fight with swords
Surrendered before me and opened
Before me another World, another Kingdom.
I lived somewhere,
Sometime and died