This is the vacuum. This continuum. Where I’ve my head stuck up in an eternalist hole. My tail coiled around a nihilistic pole. In-between the body lying languid. Ignorant. Stretched to the limbs. Wrinkled in a fold. If it be told. The head egging me to be bold. Scrambled, fried or sunny-sided. The tail tugging unto the hold. This barricade. This wall. This fence. This division-cell. Begging to be put on sale. To be sold.
From whence I break out. Marked in accidental bruise. Driving. Trying to cruise. Singing forgotten songs. Meeting up mates who’re daddies. Who must govern their kids. The haywire traps laid-out by an unforgiving world. They must take-care. Every parent wants to raise good people. And good-people start out as little-kids.
I understand. But the void is deep. A bottomless pit. Scary at first. Until you hear Sadhguru speak. Where he says, “Jump in!” – A bottomless pit is spacious flight; you fly. You hover. You soar. You delight. Because there’s no fall.
It’s the bottomed-pit that kills you. Not the bottomless-pit. Or the free-fall. It’s the hard-lands. Crash-lands. Knelling the sound of death. Of this reality. Hardened. Unwilling to mush it out.
But not here. Not in this vacuum. This continuum.
Because. It. Is. A. bottom. Less. Pit.
Now won’t you jump in?
From the Tarayana Park, next to VAST. The mountain south of Thimphu sits content. There’s a majesty about it today. Maybe it was the brief showers. There’s a cleansing feeling about its look. A refreshing attitude. The sky behind it is as shiny. Almost translucent. As if happy for the mountain. As if playing mirror to the mountain’s evening clarity. The irresistible lure of the mountain has magnetized a big ball of puffy cloud. Puffy without being fluffy.
In fact for a cloud it looks rather tight. And solidly-light. A 100% pure cotton-dragon. And the dragon flies still. And slow. Coiling the majestic mountain. Unwilling to let it go.
Up north the evening sunset’s liquid gold light’s been caught by another cloud. This one is haywire. An anarchist floater. It may not have found the southern mountain but it’s managed to catch the golden hue. Streaking back the refracted light in a polished gold. Glowing in it. In tits and bits. Enjoying the brilliance.
I’m on the banks of the Wang Chhu. It’s gotten louder by the day. Fed by the monsoon kiss and hug; the river is no more a stream. The gurgle a dripping memory. Now it pours in delight. And sings a river’s roar.
The valley itself is renewed. The grass is wet. The trees are green. The birds perch. And I’m quite ready for a cup of black coffee.
In the fading dusk light
The outline of Thimphu’s southern mountain is a delight
It stands out in the dark
Its silhouette sharp and bright
As raw and as naked as a newborn babe, the truth cries-out. Painfully. And we milk it. Then snuff it out. Pacifying it. There’s nowhere to hide. But newborn babes grow-up, and learn to smile, smirk and play. The childlike games go by. Passing out. And adult brinkmanship comes to stay. Until. Things take a sudden U-turn. And they wanna go back to those games of innocence. But played out with a knowing deceit. Self-deception, walking as honesty. If there’s such a thing. Kundera’s Laughable Loves grins. And Alan Watts giggles some more. At the gooey wiggles and the wiggly goo. Of the things now at display. Waving frantically. Insubstantially. Screaming ‘look at me!’
It’s out on the streets. This paranoia. Parading as purpose. It’s in the cars. Driven as useful-success. It’s in their looks. Pretentious as moral-parity. It’s everywhere present as absence. It’s on the Worldwide Web. Entrapped. It’s on Social Networks. Hanging by a plea. Lost in a map. As the world goes by.
It’s on Facebook. A shifting status. A shadowy-symbol. An abstract-reality. A bit-idea. A longing-solitude. A dejected-desire. Masquerading as the real thing. Not knowing how to be. It’s tragicomedy. And the actors are unaware. Of their roles. The play. The drama. The curtains. The jesters. And the joke. The punch-lines are airy. But the black-eyes keep posting their wounds. The injuries are a pride. The hide becomes reality. And reality hides.
And the numb audience applauds. In automation.
It wouldn’t matter. If it wasn’t misunderstood. But the finger has long become the moon. And the moon a mere reflection. In a digital-pond. Where raw and naked babes are taught to swim. Learning to flaunt. Learning a mode. In a showcase. Cat walking. Falling on their heels. And then blaming it all on wolf-whistles.
Declaring, ‘don’t they know I’m an innocent babe drowning in my own good intentions?’
We do. We do. Now get-out and stay-off that pool. Learn to swim. And then go afloat. And wave-off everything. Remember; you’re also the ocean, waving.
She was in it. The dream. In a dockyard. Where we were running towards a ship. Could it be the Titanic? Bodes badly. That behemoth sunk. Froze. But now it’s the cabins. A sort of a classroom scene. Chairs and tables. A feeling of some examination. What! Dilly Ding! Dilly Dong! Emperor Claudio. Ranieri! What’s he doing here? He headmasters. A tad sad.
My Leicester City blues stretches even after they have done the Premiership. And seeps into my nether-world.
There she’s again! It’s another woman. There have been enough ‘loves’ to make enough ‘loafs’ to feed enough ‘bellies’. Now that I mention it, it sounds awful. But what are they doing in my dreams? There she is again. Someone whispers an accusation in my ear. That she’s seeing an old man.
Is embedded with an old, old man.
I see the man. So what? We’re all getting older by the second. It means nothing. Just as the dream means nothing. I used to dream pretty lucid. So lucid I could get up momentarily. Take a piss. And roll back right into the dream. Wake up the morning after. And write it all down. It didn’t stop there. I used to trace the dreamlike events through the day’s happenings. Lucid. And Rancid.
Draw some connection. Make the lucid-dreaming stronger. It all went naught after the drug-binge. The hang-over killed the residue. The last dream died that night.
I’ve not dreamt in years. And the non-dreaming was the best-dream I ever dreamed. Now they re-appear. The difference is;
I don’t really care. Not anymore.
The dream-dust rise
Sticking to the mirror’s face
Hoping there’ll be a reckoning
Or a fall
I’m afraid the mirror’s long stopped reflecting
No-one looks into it anymore
There’s nothing to mirror
And seeing that
The mirror cracks
Where nothing can ever settle down
Saying ‘I’m the one who haunts you’
The mirror has finally ceased