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.