For whatever its worth, there never really were any deeper feelings when things mattered. What exist today, exist in the realm of imagination. They are exaggerated feelings given unrealistic depths. These bloated emotions can never be acted upon and if ever the intended read these feelings they would have to read them knowing that they're reading fiction.
Silence has that strength which is unrivalled, not even time can compare. Silence is representative of human convictions and if it is nurtured it can yield concrete results. I write now knowing fully well that I am beyond boundaries that cannot be breached, and that I will not allow them to be breached. The original relationship has been solidified in the past and a copy has been made of it. All imaginations are run over that copy so as not confuse the original with the altered newer versions of the story.
If there was love then that love would not be able to recognize the one which reveals itself in the copy today.

The human end

In some torn hemisphere is lost the key to some token that was to reveal the identity of how I was to become whole again. That identity is there but unattainable now. I must persevere to gain it but I can't be certain of how long I can sustain my stamina. Sometimes I give in early, other times I prolong my inevitable end.
What surrounds me bewilders me, when I touch it I feel goo overcome me. This is what I've known since the day I was born. It feels as though this revelation I am seeking will kill me and in my wake, only I will be reborn again. My old limits will escape me then and I'll be able to pass through without any common or uncommon hesitance.
But for that I will have to maintain my strength. Beyond my windows are only storm clouds and unrelenting rain, what then do I await so eagerly? For what do I make such efforts, albeit carelessly?
In my old home, under the different atmosphere, nonchalance was the prized virtue. Those truly blessed wore it healthily while others found themselves striving for it. There I was known for my variety. It wasn't indecent nor did it wear some rich garb - it was dressed. When I spoke heads didn't turn with extreme wonder nor did they disdainfully shy away from me in some motion of swift. But my voice wasn't meant for any heads, heads don't listen. Heads think. My voice was meant for those instruments which listened and if those instruments subsequently talked to the respective head then that I considered a strictly private affair. Whatever it is that my voice aimed to deliver it never, ever, dared to breach the sanctity of privacy. And that is where the virtue is sufficiently and entirely understood. It isn't in the display of grand self-service that profits it, certainly not for then it is one or the other vices and nothing else. Nor is it just careless abandonment of self, where self like a feather glides from the wind's this tangent to the next one. Nonchalance is a gentleman, the utmost gentleman who is also a man among all men but lacking the insistence of being a man when among other men. Nonchalance is the definition of existence as it reveals itself to the being who is conscious enough to know, but not just one who knows but also one who has questioned. But just a bit less than that. To question isn't necessarily implying a desire to seek answers. To ask a question is an act independent from all other acts that can succeed it, it may not even be dependent on acts preceding it. Asking a question, by itself and without the yearning for resolutions, lies then at the core of Nonchalance. Nonchalance can ask but won't seek answers but it will certainly seek questions from time to time. Just so it will deliver its voice but it will not probe for reactions, it will move on before any such arrive. It isn't self-serving, rather if a nonchalant person indulged in the act it would find itself frustrated beyond any relief; for the answers are missing. For Nonchalance answers are no more important than the questions nor are the questions any more or less important than anything else. For nonchalance there is only one thing that is of any value and that is whatever it decides it to be at whatever instance of time.
It simply stops short of being entirely random before it becomes absolute chaos. Random it is not, it chooses and therefore it has some reason. It assumes reason but reason isn't presented as if it were a trophy. Reason is assumed to be the river and it: driftwood. The flow is calculated but the motions of driftwood appears random, chaotic. Whatever can be said about appearances being severely divorced from reality need be said in an unsaid manner here.

Do not post here a face which I do not want to see.

Do not walk in on us, as we indulge in this deed of ours. You will find embarrassment. We take no pleasure in it, we are made of utter guilt, and yet here we are - compromised.

Making a joke of life and its constraints - what a rebel he is? As if when waves crash ashore, like a boulder he stands fast to greet them, and yet nothing so sturdy comes across from his demeanor. 

What is in it? There is nothing to it. A little shift back and forth and it is done. Finished. It becomes a pursuit out of boredom and nothing more. Fancied and made to appear as if it defines life when it can barely even describe a lifestyle. 

No flesh, no bones, no eyes, no hair, no breath, no touch can mesmerize without the aid of the mind. The evil lurks in the anticipation of something mysterious. 

Put your heart at ease, let it sway in the wind but let the mind do its duty. The heart is an instrument of boredom and lies if some say it does more. 

What is it that I've missed? A woman's warmth, her embrace and some opportunity to take care of her. That is what I've missed the most. There is none to whom to give. 

To peak the sunset, 

 to not drown with it. To whatever maybe the ocean or mountain beyond it or if only particles of existence lay there, I will embrace it all. Hell, if it breaks my conscience, hell so if it turns my soul so. 

In silence, in silence

in the most profound

absolute

pure

radical

intoxicating

ambivalent

seducing

silence. 

There is only the whisper of your memory lurking. 

And then there was the sudden discovery of death. 

Oh the glorious, enchanting and brilliance of this sunset. 

Where has man to go to lose in his day?

His oceans are here, his beaches are afar. 

Where are the glorious tangents of despair?

Those lovely blemishes, those curving trenches?

My loss and my utter dampening glare,

here I am at the eclipse of my perils. 

There is then here and forever, a sudden silence. 

Till death do us apart. 

And in heavens, 

Yes in heavens

shall be created new time. 

Where mine mind is mine,

its dwellings are so inclined

that belonging to me is nothing

for again is to be just you and me. 

And in heavens,

yes in heavens,

you and I again, in heavens. 

...and then

there was a fracture in the very institution of love. Its aimlessly flying fragments indiscriminately piercing the lovers who will no longer be lovers. Their world has come to an end, this man has lost his leg. And she, she has lost her everything.

Contradiction is the perfect description of existence, it is THE description of being alive. For what is alive? Alive is that which is living. What is the goal of the living?

The goal of the living is to live. And yet what is the one certainty of the living? That the living are living till they are dead. In that sense, the born and dead are one and the same. Birth and death are one and the same. With birth, the human is united with its goal. It has it. When it starts to live, it moves away from its goal in search of that goal. Before death the human has to stop living. With death the human is united with its goal. This goal is not desired, yet achieved. In fact it is the absolutely undesired and it is still achieved which is why it is of the utmost purity. There cannot be a goal more absolute in purity or in goodness than this goal for it is entirely devoid of any human bias. There is no desire for this goal, the more it is undesired the more purified it becomes and it is guaranteed to be achieved. If it is desired it is still achieved because it is independent of human choice, but if a human chooses it, it doesn't lose any of its purity in comparison to some other goal except a more purified version of itself.

And then in love there was a goal too. But that goal is broken up now and it is decomposing into something else now. Love is no longer, if it ever returns it'll be alien - unrecognizable. In my heart there is only the intensity of the contradictions brewed by the reality of this life. I am at the most pinnacle of my discoveries.

Said I did something

Every touch gives you the smell of the other until it should overwhelm you. It is so repulsive otherwise when associated with something else why then isn't it considered repulsive regarding this? Your taste upon their taste and their sweat upon yours. You're in them and they are all within you and they behave as if they're experiencing some degree of satisfaction yet their moans, huffs and puffs and all exclamations sound rehearsed. It is a play, it isn't real.
Real is silence. Real is the quiet, the unexclaimed where the beast is untamed and yet not savage. Where the touch isn't a touch but a revelation, where the breath IS the breath of life, where the act isn't a play. In the real the play is love. This wasn't that. That would've been surreal, this was just thighs and ribs rubbing each other and nothing more.
Men have spirits don't they? And they have souls do they not? How is it that this can be considered real when it births neither? It can't be attractive, it can only be deceptive. The touch was coarse and the smell was vulgar. There was acid on the tongue, mine and hers, and our minds were corrupt. Our minds were miles apart. I was fixed on HER but she was perhaps far from even speculations. There was no unison. There was no reality. This was a hoax.

Hum nahi to tum nahi

tum nahi to hum nahi

Yeh hum hai yaa phir koi aur hai

jab yahaan pe naa mein hun

na meree parchayee hai

yahaan pey mein thaa

per na tu na teree parchayee hai

yahaan aaj phir ek tanhayee hai

aur mein na mera jism hoon

na mein mera zehan

mein woh aankhein hoon

jo pehchantey hain yeh tanhayee yun

Nice. :)

From my madness:

There is no her, there is only the imagination of her. She isn't what you think in your mind she is for if that were the case you wouldn't have been able to keep away from her. She is your compromise for your oath. It is what balances you; it keeps you sane. Your solitaryhood is your real passion, it is the result of all your yearnings. If you were to suddenly sleep, you would dream of yourself in a closed room with walls that stretched for eternity and whose walls were transparent enough that you could view the world but firm enough that none could penetrate them.

It is your objective to be the true solitary king, the master of utter silence but for that you need a person. You need her insofar as she only remains in your mind but she can't be entirely fictional. She can't be someone you haven't interacted with for your interaction with her lends her the real world credibility. It provides a pair of real eyes and a real conscience that is there to judge you. A fictional love would be easy to manipulate and rather than anything it would lead to utter insanity. Her real eyes will continue to test you, they will force you to keep on path. You will yearn her and you must for that yearning is your realization of your suffering. Your suffering is the realization of your achievement.

You see how the night slowly creeps over the boulder. It discolors its daily resolve to a terrified inertness. There is no change lesser than that of a metamorphosis happening. The coolness restored there is perhaps only the disdainful players to howl through the peasant sands.

I did reply to her and I was silly about it. She will most certainly not be prompt for that isn't her way but chances are she will send about a befitting reply over in a day or two. And that will be the end of it.

For her. For me, this is regular living - anxiously waiting. Only in the waiting is my life free enough to revolve around other things, and therefore I am glad for her habit of delaying.

To be fair, there is no proclamation I am waiting for. If she came out with someone significant and serious I wouldn't know how to react for I will not commit as that would be a defeat. It is only in her silliness that I can find some possibility of a seriousness within myself.

Relationships without grief cannot be called proper.

I am terribly excited and I will not respond so as to savor the moment. Yeah. I still haven't replied and will not reply till tomorrow night. For after I reply all the goodness will sink beneath the reality of the situation. I had waited ever since March for this moment and here it is and it shouldn't be wasted just so easily. For example, it makes little sense to drink by gulps for it is in the sips that the drink is going to be most potent. When the taste lingers on the tongue for a few minutes you feel the growth of its power before you casually allow it to consume you. That is love.

There was once this somber vague

it had veiled this silver rage

Upon whose dwelling did it shine

it did make right for none but swine

When the candles had been lit to show

that summers and nights dont breed behind doors

For that which is beckoning

swirling, behaving around you

Is some malign liquid birthing within

the murky blown voids of rains alone so misty.

Maybe in the future someday I will tell her all my stories. Perhaps tomorrow might present itself to me as that future. I highly doubt it. For me to do something so consequential is unlike me, I cannot. I will not surrender to my passions. But grief? Isn't grief a passion of sorts? If one were too immersed in maintaining it most certainly could be looked upon as a passionate endeavor. She thought of me, out of fluke or out of thought, I was in her mind in the present for a second or for an hour, I was there. Since she is always in mine then in that moment, an hour or a second, we were one.

Correspondence? No. A slight opening in the window. A peek, is all. Nothing more. There were words addressed towards me. I didn't respond, I couldn't. Everything would've overflowed out of me. It was the simplest of questions and I was moved to utter tears. I could not have responded in any coherent fashion then, I had to abandon the enterprise all together. After this long silence, I can't imagine if it was difficult to reach so deep into the past? I have wrangled with it for this long, ever since day one and yet here I am, with no means. But things have changed suddenly. I have been reached. There, I see the hand. I could've simply said "everything is fine, I'm good." and that would've been the end of it and the possible beginning of another short-lived conversation. But if these continue to emerge after centuries of dead silence then would it be too crazy to read into them. Would it mean something about my placement? Am I here or am I there? Or am I simply insane. I have no means to rectify this motion, I am thoroughly ashamed and yet I was told I wasn't the only one to be blamed. Does that mean there is a somewhat similar thought process at work over there? Problem is, how can I know if this reopening was spontaneous or the result of months of deliberations? How do I deduce the conclusions of that answer? If it was spontaneous then was it because something random triggered my memory and thus I was contacted? Or if it is the result of deliberations was a result found? If so, why haven't I been able to find it? What is it that I am missing? In my entire process I am thoroughly entangled in all sorts of confusions. At times it is the confusion that almost drives me to make first contact, but then my shame and my guilt overcomes my confusions and I retreat back to my solitary senses. Maybe, today, the confusions were overwhelming and they flowed over and above all obstacles. Maybe the decisive battle was fought today and all shackles were broken and true passions raced out of the door. Maybe no longer were they to be contained by the curious nets of confusions, no longer were they to answer to any feelings that could tie them back down. I can't imagine any of this happening in anybody's head other than mine.

All I have is the email staring back at me, that is all I have got. I don't even have a reply. I remember I had made some kind of a promise but everything is forgotten. My reaction to reading the name, even before the message, was to run with pure elation to somebody whom I could openly disclose this new development to. And then the swift and sudden reconciliation to my present state of affairs slapped me back towards my reality. I was not surrounded by anyone who expects me to disclose anything to them. I am the brooding, silent being occupying a certain space on this planet and within whom life finds enough resources to sustain existence.

"Thus the Truth is not introduced into the individual from without, but was within him." If truth was within then there has to be something that which prevents the individual from accessing it entirely. Naturally the truth is going to be an activity of the mind and not that of the brain, or the physical body. For if the two were not disjunct there would then be the necessary requirement of presenting an organ which contained truth, or a collection of organs that contained truth and a bio-physiological network that accessed that organ for truth. So it would also be necessary for an organ to somehow restrict access to the truth organ such that the individual does not know everything. For that is an assumption that man does not know the entire truth. Had he known it all he would have had no need to seek any and the curious nature of man would've never found development. Truth is mind's activity, and mind is assumed disjunct from brain. There has to then be something which prevents the individual from accessing all truth. This is the basis for the existence of religion.

Some words on regret and such.

She will not know if she were ever asked about me. She will not know what it is that you're speaking of. My inertia made sure that how we presented ourselves, at least outwardly, those presentations were maintained. Internally, she had been left with no choice but to choose to the deny existence of anything substantial and she has most certainly been able to make that choice. And though how painful it might appear in admitting this, it is quite possibly that she has been able to do so comfortably. She has had the presence of fast friends, a network of comfort that prevents her from ever relying on her personal domain. In my own bosom, I am a convict for I failed. I cannot rely on it nor can I find in others the possibility of protecting me in the way my own bosom could. So I am in misery and forever facing the reality of the situation. Forever I am contemplating over that which could've happened didn't happen and why when it did happen it was made to not happen. In my confusions and inglorious judgements I am convicted whereas she, she in her glorious judgements is free. Her free passions are given flight by the social comfort she enjoys. In failing my bosom, I failed my core and a failed core cannot be a bridge, it cannot connect. Its natural tendency is to recoil unto itself some more and sort of, under tremendous pressure, like a star shrinking under its own weight, at some point disintegrate. So if some were to stand her on trial about "us" she can deny any knowledge of such an existing entity and she would not be a liar, neither to the world nor to herself. It was essential to me that she remained just as free, it was essential to me as well, that I remain just as free. But as soon as she chose deviation, my freedom was snapped from me. Freedom is a gift, or a right, presented by life to a conscience. Life has taught conscience that there are times when freedom can be used at its own discretion, times when freedom may not be used at all and times when freedom must at all cost be utilized. For the last, life also issues a warning that if the conscience were to ever fail in utilizing freedom when utmost necessary then life reserved the right to snatch it away. When freedom leaves the conscience, the void is consumed entirely by regret. Regret isn't specific to an event. Regret, once entered into conscience spreads uniformly throughout. Regret has no conscience of itself, it has no sense of direction - it can go anywhere, do anything. It doesn't "do" as much as it destroys. But the real point remains that regret is devoid of any direction. It is a virus that comes with one ambition alone, to consume the conscience (its host) as much as it can so that the conscience survives and therefore so does it. Through regret is born the indestructible depression. There is no cure for depression because it can't have one. Just as love, when presented is exists eternally so does depression eternally survive. Depression can't be sidelined. Everything a person does since giving birth to depression is done in spite of depression. There is no escaping it, there is only tolerating it. It never leaves you and the fact is, you can't ever want it to leave you either. For its birth is in birth of that freedom which left you, so you don't have the choice. And suppose it did leave you, there is nothing other than regret or freedom that fill that void. Conscience can't exist simply as conscience, it has to exist in relation to something either to freedom or to regret. Conscience is the space upon which these notions stand, and so in a way it precedes them BUT it can't exist without them according. It has to exist with them as their foundation. And such is the nature of regret and the depression it gives birth to. It is entirely a sympathetic depression which it gives birth to, it couldn't ever bear to be an egotistical one. It realizes the follies only in itself and therefore in the host's conscience and nowhere else. That is its entire domain. There cannot be an egotistical depression, there never arises ever any possibilities of its existence. It is pure ego and no depression.

There can be no start right now, only nonchalance can consume me.

Just the mere acknowledgement of my existence would suffice. She needn't look towards me, her look is already assumed. Her looks keep me in check and I needn't be drowning into her deep, dark eyes. If only there was a way by which she signal be the acknowledgement without directly addressing me. Everything would be allright if that were to happen. I will wait till my birthday. She will surely contact me then. Birthdays mean a lot to her, she was crazy about them. In front of me she would always keep her enthusiasm for them under check. I regret now that I had forced her to change in that fashion. I should've let her be free and I should've sacrificed more of myself to gain admission into more of her freedom. She would've become mine then for eternity. I was far too centered on my ideals, on my agendas of life and I restricted her. How my follies never cease to surface. I shall end this here.

There aren't enough hours in the day to finish all the work, there never were. I wonder if people in their dying breaths think of things they still have to do. Maybe breath itself appears as work to me. So would the beating of the heart. Death is no escape, it is the end and so we never escape work. But work is fine.

It is cold now. I am efficient in cold and heavily distressed in heat. Summer's are annoying and taxing on my outgoing abilities. The cold rejuvenates me, perhaps it is because of my solitary nature. In winter people escape the streets, gardens and trails - they are hidden away. The social institutions are blowing steam from their chimneys and for that reason the street lamps are essentially pointless. Which is where I come in. My pointless existence in perfect harmony with the light of this new world. The cold seeping through my forehead, relaxing my over-sensitive conscience - to surrender my passions to the world.

A new rise brings with it new revelations of olden dreams. The peace and tranquility of yesterday was disturbed by the grief and loneliness of last night, yet nothing harsh was done besides the spilling of a few words. I went about my quiet ways, in and out of social institutions without any new worries. There was that fifteen minute walk by the river that healed my conscience, it is the way to cope. Here, the sun is up again so fresh and infinitely glorious. Three hundred years from now will I still be existing in a form that can appreciate that? Probably not but when one tries to think of things of the future, like the year 3000, what are we actually thinking about? If we get excited by the news that in the year 2050 the world will have flying cars but we also know that we can't possibly expect to live till 2050 then why do we still get excited about it? There is no way we're going to be able to enjoy it and yet the fact is, we are excited by that news. We are moved into our dreams and we see the world as it is today and say, "pfftt... this is all gone by then. Things will be so different."

But they never are. Things are forever the same. We are different from 300 years ago and different from 1600 years ago but my life has seen no difference. My life has only seen its existence.

The other day I walked into the library and was caught off guard when everything had been changed in there. From the furniture to the location of some of my favorite books. But this generated mixed results. While I could not longer maintain some organization in my random selection of books it forced me to develop an entirely new organization. And since this was the beginning it was an entirely random process. I picked up Tolstoy's War and Peace for this new beginning. Though just before I could get anywhere through the introduction I was distracted by a reminder on my cellphone. I had to get back to work, which I did.

One two, one two three. 1, 2, 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 1, 2, 3 is the sequence that people use to walk past the library. Just about everyone uses that same sequence. First I had ever noticed this sequence was over 6 years ago while reading age of reason.

How is that I never knew what I was feeling when I was with her? How is that when the realization came that she had left me the realization of me loving her didn't come with it? How is that it took me four years to come to terms to it? No matter how much I want to redefine the word, or how I define it, no matter what it was I do believe now it was love. It was unique in its presentation but I suppose for every other person their own love is unique. Is it like saying, all mothers love but all mothers don't love the same way.

She would've held my head near her heart and comforted me. I would've taken her hand and walked her to the balcony. We would've watched a sunset together. we would've fallen asleep there. I was at death's door she was the one who saved me then - without ever being present, without ever saying a word. Just the mere possibility of her being with me for the rest of my life held me together.

There will never come a smile upon this face, there will never come a love again for which this heart may ache. I will never allow it. In my solitaryhood I will bury my grief.

Do you miss me? Do you often stare outside your window and face a day so beautiful, the kind I used to describe to you as my favorite and do you then think of me? The kind that you'd call to report to me, does the weather ever remind you of me? Today was a beautiful day and I spent the entire day in your memories. I didn't move from this room to the other, I simply had my window open and I sat besides it. The hours melted into one another and they all became one wherein all of my reality was beginning to be consumed by my existence. And my existence was entirely devoted to you today. Your voice, your words, your laughter were all over my mind. I feel so hollow as the sun went down tonight. I saw the neighbors had thrown a party and they all emerged outside. One man came out with two beautiful women on his arm. I am sure they were all just friends, they seemed far too formal to be lovers nonetheless it made me think I only ever shook your hand. I only made you laugh, I only made you cry. You only made me think, you only made my days, you only told me stories. We never shared the sensual touch, we never needed to. It isn't what I regret for it wasn't what I'd wanted. I only wanted your presence, your existence consumed in mine and mine in yours. We were on the path of eternity and then it all went asunder. I blundered, I hid things and lied to you. You tried hard to forgive me but the distances proved far too large and here I am, far away from you yet so close to you in my thoughts. It was a pledge, a silent untold one that if I would ever form a proper union with anyone in this life it would be with you. And I will live up to it. I will make no moves to acquire you, no wishes will be made for you to reach out to me, I will only eternally wait like the shore yearns to reach the horizon. You will be my horizon.

No don't take away that one thing that could motivate me.

I wish I could write the following on a piece of paper and give it to the wind. In your world, the wind would carry these words to you. You would read them and think of me and for a while you and I would be in the same world. Your friends would then pull you away back to yours and for centuries you will forget me again.

in my misery alone shall i shall,

gift you alone shall i shall.

we may together be happy,

if i'm in misery

you alone can be in happy.

shall we shall pass our moments

in our moments there shall be moments

of our contradictions,

my solitary confinement

and your well earned happiness.

had this one day: my hand read

had this one man: my life's grand

had this one premonition: my life's all

had this life one fine day

when you weren't gone

in my misery alone said he,

in my misery alone willed I,

can i be of anybody's happy

can i be of substance, be filled.

Those that are close,

and of all those that were distant

can my exuberance be excused away

for they sake let me inertness stake its place

and many more words pertaining to the subject were written. four full pages of a poem that i'd never written while i existed for you i have now written to your name, to your free hair. how so full of night were they? how so smooth, they simply flowed off of your fingers. how they centered your smile between them... i have not forgotten. Some stranger can possibly read all of this and I will imagine that stranger to be you to console my mind that you now know my feelings. That you know I am not strong, that I am only weak. That all that I was in front of you was a facade. CURSED representations. CURSED. cursed.

People are fires burning together in some pyre. Crackling and bustling, mingling and disintegrating. You find the truth through goggles that discolor the known world. You will find the orgies that confuse your mind and your realities are exposed then at their very seams. Why must the holy grail be lost, forgotten, when it abounds in the presence of everything that is unnatural and insane in this world. For what is this sanity's worth if it begins to milk the very foundations of grandeur ruminations of some called arrogance.

There my hand is where my hand falls from me, there my being is where my essence deserts me. This is me the unholy me, the sadist me, the violent screams of me are in my soul the culture of me. And where this violence invades my peace of mind is where I am at most in ease.

That the laws which exist today had some justification when they were enacted, and while it is rather natural for people to want change one shouldn't necessarily assume that the laws are just so for oppressing. Oppression of course isn't just the inability to do what one desires, that is suppression of freedom. Oppression is forcing others to do what you want. Either can be manifested internally and externally. Suppression of freedom is the limiting of individual freedom with the intention of optimizing overall freedom. Overall freedom is the sum of all individual freedom which does not infringe upon the freedoms of others. That which does not infringe upon the freedoms of others is that freedom which is not in direct conflict with another freedom. A freedom is in conflict with another if that freedom requires the limitation of the other freedom. It is a conflict because one individual's freedom is equal to another individual's freedom and neither can be said to be over than the other. However, noted here that overall freedom is indeed in conflict with individual freedom, yet noted also that the conflict is of a different type where overall freedom is more than an individual freedom and therefore of potential to be over in importance.

I miss her terribly today. But that is all I will say about that.

This particular support for Roman Polanski bothers me. Someone in conversation raised the issue of the trial of Oscar Wilde. And a weird thought occurred to me.

There are discrepancies in Roman's case, legally speaking. Perhaps the prosecution and maybe even the judge had ulterior motives - a solid argument could be made for that. There may even be doubt of him raping a minor but there really is no doubt of him having sex with a minor.

The way some of his supporters go from there is insinuating (never directly stating) that sex with a minor is a society dictated norm and not a natural norm or not a norm that is consistent among human beings.

What seems to me to be happening is that once it begins to be designated as a society dictated norm and since societies are constantly changing this line of thought provides a direction for a change.

But while people call society dictated norms negatively shouldn't one wonder that this norm existed in response to a situation. That it was enacted not merely to oppress people.

Quite certain that no promises were made to maintain this journal on a daily basis, and yet there is a pinch which says that I failed somewhere. That is of importance if thought in a slightly different manner. For what is the daily that I speak of? The daily is nonexistent for it implies that which returns from yesterday into today and hence it relies in the partition of days. But there are no days nor are there any nights. There are only either days or nights and not both or not one after the either. Life is just one long day, for that is the reality as the sun never really leaves the Earth nor does the Earth ever leave the sun. Nor does a man or woman ever leave the earth and they are always in step with the earth, then the earth and they essentially one in their movement concerning the sun. Since men and women in different spaces around the world are one when in relation to the Earth, a man here is a woman there and a woman there is a man here. They around the world in relation to Earth are just IT. Hence, if the sun never leaves Earth and the Earth never leaves the sun and if IT never leaves Earth and if Earth never leaves IT behind, there can never be a sun which leaves IT so as to allow for the traditional demarcations of dawns and dusks. IT essentially is never in darkness and never in full light, yes. There is a darkness, yes and there is a light, yes but IT is never in either one entirely for IT is bound as a unity with Earth.

In other words, I couldn't have promised to maintain this daily because daily doesn't exist. When and ever I write it is on the same day that I had written on before. This is my first mode of action against the curse put upon me by Againity, when I refused to tango with her after seducing her to attend the ball with me.

Rose out the Spencer of the market and 'let all the poisons in the mud hatch out'. For there remain no litters anymore, there remain no Kings tonight and only the blossom of this young catastrophe can salvage the knight's shine tonight. There are then only rumours of unknown tragedies which will pass on from this ear to the next eon, and whatsoever is of a sentient cast will find in itself the remains of my bones. 

In my bones are etched then the tales of unknown heroes, who are murderers and villains and consumers of all innocese. They are in all honesty, the bearers of humanity upon whose pillars shall rest the last generation of humankind and when the mother of humanity shall give birth no more it is then those tales will speak of us to eyes unknown. 

Neither the most handsome nor the most revolting, I can't be highlighted. I can stand casually in a corner and people will notice me like they'd notice a common car on the road. They will see me but I will do nothing that will make them remember me. Safely they can pass their eyes over me and not register anything about it. Something as plain as the color white, so simple, so unchallenging. It exists but it really isn't of any striking contrasts.

But what I am is that I observe, I will see them. The same eyes that will pass over me in a second, the same I will observe deeply. I will remember the occasion, the time and the weather, when it happened. From my abode of silence, I will observe them earnestly.

I am, however, not the greatest observer.

All of your statements, everything that you have ever said and everything that you have ever thought of is a repeat. Your entire unique life isn't yours alone, you share it with the past that has been. Your essence isn't yours alone you share with everything that you exist with. The you in the mirror is not you but an other you who pretends to be your reflection so that you never realize that you aren't alone in your reflections. The handprints of yesterday are all over your remains and they do not relent. Neither can you. It isn't you who says but everyone, it isn't you does things but everyone. You are not an individual, you are a part of everyone. Each and everyone is consumed by the past which is only barely behind us. But the future is yours and only yours for the future is only an illusion. But when that future time arrives your future will disintegrate from within and everyone will join in to consume it. It will be gone.

I do miss her, I terribly miss her. If by some boon she were here, with me, I'd be ashamed of myself. If she saw me in the mess that I am in she would miss the strength that she once saw in me. My weakness, my yearnings cry through my silence into every corners of today. She had questioned my solitaryhood and mocked my versions of future which I had described in detail to her. I had scared her when I proved to her my willingness to pursue them and she had not wasted a breath prior to declare me mad. When others call me "weird" or even "mad" it isn't of any concern but it was significant when she did. She knew me through and through and her judgements were educated conclusions. It was always about "why?" the same whys to which I had no answers for. I wasn't asking those whys. Without asking, I had already traveled down their valley and it was almost as if too late to ask then. Now I know, however, it isn't ever too late. I wish I had her hand near me so that I could reach for its warmth. That her smile be here, near my reflection in the mirror. She had enough freedom in her to hold me if she'd felt like doing so, but she wouldn't have. She liked her distance and was comfortable in her personal space, she needed no support. Neither did I which is what made us belong properly.

In these moments I miss her; in about 15 minutes I most probably won't. Maybe in an hour, as I prepare to sit outside to watch the sunset I might miss her again.

Maybe a touch would've never been granted to me and I would've been fine with that. We would've grown old without feeling the erotic and it would've made no difference to either one of us. It was only her whom I wanted within my silence. All I ever wanted was that. Only her. It has been almost a year now since I last spoke to her. It was such a futile conversation. This was the first year since knowing her that I forgot her birthday. It is what made me realize that I was indeed drifting, that We were indeed drifting away. I could very well call her and wish her happy birthday but that would make me transparent in front of her. Transparency never allows for silence, and talking is a nuisance. Never before had I placed importance on birthdays for I always felt as though they were meaningless. She has always, since she has known me, wished me on mine and I will see if she too realizes how far we've drifted when that day arrives. It is weak and unfair but all of it will be consumed by silence in due time.

A different try

Once again the feeling of keeping a regular blog has returned to me and here I am, 2 years hence, back to dear old Againity. Even at times such as these, when the desire is at its peak, I cannot say I'm entirely motivated to indulge for there is this knowledge which seeks to restrain me. What am I to write about? More so, who is to read this? My desire merely allows me to peek over these hurdles and somehow, with the force of blind resolve, I am expected to overcome them. But that only gets me over the hill and not down into the valley where keeping a blod is almost second nature. I am still with the fog looking down. 

The problem really is, what is it that can be written that hasn't been written before. What can be said that hasn't be said before? I am silent in the presence of strangers or on occassions that demand opinions. My opinions are formed but where is my motivation to present them. Most times all I can offer is agreement and at times I can counter other presented opinions but even then I am not presenting my opinions in my own ways. But what is the need for doing that? Why do people feel the need to express themselves at all times? 

If by expressing myself I would not be presenting an opinion not previously presented then perhaps there is a point to it. A point that serves a purpose beyond self for certainly expressing oneself serves one to realize their freedom. But if that freedom is only limited to benefitting self then that freedom is a very small freedom, in my opinion. But just as in this case, as soon as this opinion has been presented I am likely to feel it commonly known. I am likely to feel it already explored. 

Also the dictum "Whatever you can say has already been said and probably has been said better" (paraphrased) applies at all times. So my opinions come out broken hearted and are not at all pointed. They fall vaguely on the ground and get digested by it right there and there. There is no force in them, even if I make them extremely closed. They have no edge that can wound a counter-opinion. And while my opinions are of that kind so are the opinons of others. There really is nothing new to hear anymore. 

In silence then, I spend majority of my time and if that is the case what is it that I can write? I can't express myself efficiently because I question the need to. Why then would I force myself to keep a blog? What could be the purpose of such an enterprise? Perhaps the only appeal for me is the fact that I have not thought about it. This here, was a spontaneous decision that sprung right before me. I grasped it and engaged myself instantly. Had I thought about like I did in the blog I might've never returned to this place. 

In the whimsical movements is where I find my progress. For if I were to plan something out, to contemplate over something and if I were to analyze something I would most likely all motivation for it. This makes me wonder if I can ever fall in love? Perhaps the first moment, that first moment if unplanned would be spontaneous and therefore beautiful. It would be devoid of thought and therefore so innocent. And that innocense then would rub off on her and she would be presented to me so desirable that I would be given no breath of time to think over it and would reach for her instinctively. However, it isn't the first meeting which I dread it is the second one. For between the first and second, while the desire remains, it no longer is presented to me in a hurry. It might be planned and therefore no longer beautiful and no longer innocent. She would then be presented to me analyzed and thereby disintegrated and I'd be able to see her insides. She would be scarred and no longer desirable. I would have to recoil from her then and with regret and shame confine myself once again into a solitary hole. 

She would remain desirable only if the meetings remained unplanned, as if each meeting was just a whim. That it would just fly by and I would merely have to wait for the next moment. It would keep me from analyzing because I would have nothing to go with. From the first to whenever the second might happen I could only wait and with sheer anticipation alone. And then the chance meeting would happen. The exhillaration would boil through my blood and turn my skin blue. It would put in a feverish frenzy and there she would be complete, whole, without scars and entirely beautiful as ever before. 

How much can a person claim to know of another if they can't tell where that other person is? If I don't know her whereabouts and she doesn't know mine, how will we be able to claim to be in love with each other? What level of relationship would that be if all our meetings were the workings of meer chance? That she would remain beautiful entirely but "serious" relationships are hardly ever between two beautiful people.