She sat in the dark room, watching the thin sliver of light. It moved towards her - motes dancing and shining in its path. She, of the darkness, and for the darkness. The light - a threat to who she was, and her way of life.

What was she to do? The light was different - harsh, sharp, yet composed of warmth. The darkness - cold and damp - yet comforting and non-threatening. At a level that no warmth could ever reach. The level at which the cold sliver of ice that lies within each heart resides and rules over the selfish part of each man and woman.

She considered the light. Felt it on her skin, felt how it made her feel. The light moved through her and within her, giving her a peace. But - it was new. It felt dangerous. Sin, coming in from outside the darkness. It burnt her eye in its brilliance. It represented that which was not comforting, which was different from all else.

She felt the darkness bathe her, and let comfort choose her as its future. The bright blue sky and its many wonders abroad never saw her face, or graced her with their presence. She avoided it, even though she missed the sensation. Such was life.

And such does life prove itself to be. Over and over again. Must everyone lack courage?

Justice.

So, today - while perusing through Westside, I found some vindication for my general apparel while sleeping.


Guess in what section the lovely garments above were found -


Men's Sleepwear.


:-D

"SARTORIO"

The pile giveth; and then, the pile taketh away.

There is always the desire to rise to the top. He felt it, too - the need to rise above all else, be the chosen one. To be favoured and be so close to someone such that there is nothing separating them. That intimate feeling that overrules all other sensations. And one day, after so long, his chance came once more.

A great hand from the sky came unto him and picked him up and lifted him upto the gates of heaven. He felt himself being weighed and considered; and, after an interval where he held his breath, he was Chosen. He had been personally picked to protect and preserve. It was his turn to bathe in the glorious light. He hoped to never have to return to his damp and dark home - the glory had come to him and removed him from it, and saved him from an existence of ignonimy.

He spent an infinity of glorious occasions with his charge, being an inseparable companion at all times - being right with him at mealtimes, with him on his his, with him even in the gentleman's room; this sort of complete access made him feel incredibly special and favoured.

However, the glory trip began to lose steam. He felt an aura of disenchantment - felt that he could no longer feel as bright or happy as he had previously done. Could not serve quite as well. Tired, wrung, wrinkled, jaded, and worn.

Suddenly, the pain of separation - being discarded, as yesterday's good. The pain of rejection, the humiliation, the feeling of being used all crashed unto him. He was no longer his smart self: no longer as sharp or fresh. He felt dirty and shapeless.

He knew that there would be another chance, but for this he must lose himself and remove the baggage and the dirty habits from his time of decadence. He was removed, with some of his peers, and taken to where he might be Redeemed.

He felt the cold sharp sensation of being drowned in the waters of introspection, and the sharp abrasion and pain of the removal of his dirt, his sullied nature, from himself. He then faced the harsh sunlight - baked in it, heated until all his burdens were burnt away, revealed to himself and all; yet, this made his worries evaporate.

Soon, he found himself flat on his back - burned, pushed, and pressured. He was forced back into the right shape, the right form of mind - return to what he was, as opposed to what he'd become. It wasn't the same, though. He was a paler and thinner version of his old self. There was, however, hope. Always, there was hope, even as he returned to the pile in his dank neighbourhood, awaiting the moment of his delivery once more. Once again, he waited to be picked.

To rise to the top of the pile.

To him, there was only being used and worn. This was his purpose. And he gloried in it. And this glory came to him, as once more he was picked.

Vipul felt his sleepy mind playing tricks on him as he pulled on his t-shirt - he seemed to be hearing sounds of celebration and rapture. He shook his head and carried on.

I don't use drugs; my dreams are frightening enough. - M.C. Escher.




Walking down the path, he couldn't feel his legs - they seemed to be walking their own path. Like those times when you've walked so long, but you're walking further, and you seem to be moving on your own accord. Floating, with no sensation; lost, in thoughts and considerations and fantasies that distract. He found there to be no destination that he had in mind, nothing to look forward to. There was only the walk; and a strange restlessness that pervaded his being, marking his thoughts with an urgent need to be elsewhere, doing something of true import and meaning, stretching beyond the confines of his narrow life.

He was in a featureless place, and there was nothing but the path, and nothing to occupy his senses. No breathtaking sights; not even sights that might cause him to continue watching. All there was a dark sky, starless and cloudless; flat ground.

And the path - paved in gold, and with yellow milestones that passed, with no indication that there was any destination that they were heralding. No numbers. No guidance, and no points of reference.

He dreamed within the dream. He dreamed of lives of meaning. Of companions of learning, of whispered conversations in the moonlight with glasses of wine with friends and lovers of things that had come and gone, of the structure of the universe, and the structure of the human mind. Of whether there was only what one perceived, and not what truly existed. The reduction of reality to electrochemical impulses in the brain. Of the nature of a reality where there was no pain.

Pain, acting as a guide. Basic instincts which keep you from harm. What would happen without them, he said aloud to his companions. How would you know where you were going? One of them laughed, swigged the blood coloured spirit in his hand, and said - you could measure the distance travelled with the blood you leave behind. The lack of pain would deaden you to the monotony of existence. Pain makes you strive. The hallmark of a tedium that owns you is one that causes you no pain, not until you're caught. And there is realisation, and a thought that salvation lies only on the other side. And you just keep on walking. In the hope that you are still whole when you get there. For even if you are on your knees, and you're submitting, you might just escape.

Suddenly, his little fantasy faded. He was back on the path. After some minutes of walking, his gaze shifted downwards. He noted without much surprise the sharp ground that he was walking on without footwear. The world exists, he thought, without the brain realising a lot of it. Without pain, it would realise less. The only way to truly know existence was to see the blood you leave behind. He turned his head to see miles of red behind him. His bleeding feet, torn; with chunks of flesh being cut by sharp rocks. Yet, there was no sensation, and no escape.

There was only the walk.

He began to whistle jauntily, as his big toe fell away. Life would only be on the other side. Perhaps it was fatalist, but he might as well try and make it there.

----------------------------------------------------

He awoke - slowly, as if he was coming out of a warm bath. A slow emergence, a heavy brain trying to emerge through the clinging fog.

Another day. He had to face the nightmares.

Reflections.

As he raised his clenched fist, he recalled his observation - that reflections aren't ever accurate; they cannot be.

His fist came crashing down upon the glass, and blood flew, as he tried to make it as accurate as it could be.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Slow thoughts trickled down his mind, teasing slowly, like the sensation of sweat moving over skin. The prickling feeling that moved to the forefront of his consciousness and made all other thoughts unviable and difficult. Obscuring, irritating, and yet alluring in a strange fashion.

He moved, shifting his weight, as he considered the nature of human character and the many conflicting impulses it engenders within. How every course of action, every choice is an amalgamation of all the different facets of you that drag you off in different directions. About how the many desires that one has can cause such a dilemna that is not easily explained or sorted out, for the many different perspectives which cause a rational mind to come to different conclusions, simply because of the different weights you give to different considerations.

He looked down upon her trussed up form, wondering what to do with her. He traced the curve of her jaw with his knife, and smiled as she strained to move away from the weapon. He smiled at this, and yet inside he felt disgust at his own actions. Remarkable. He loved eliciting reactions to stimuli within himself.

He hated using himself and other people like lab rats. Manipulating them, controlling conditions, opening some doors to make them run into mazes, chasing something elusive, while you watch from above. He loved the sense of power, the way he could determine their actions, decide who gets to live or die. He loved the look of abject terror in his victim's face. He hated the way they screamed. He loved the way he could cut it off. He hated the smell of death. He loved the sight of blood on his hands.

He paused once more, and marvelled once more upon the inherent strangeness of a fragmented brain. About the convoluted nature of man. Of how misleading it was to state that someone was single-minded. How stupid the concept of 'second thoughts' as a specific instance.

We all doubt. We all second guess ourselves. We always hate what we do, and love what we do, all at the same time. There are no absolutes. No images. No identities, just a cacophony of connected images separated bizzarely from each other yet fitting in perfectly to form a visage that truly represented the fractured reflection of a tortured and torn human being. He realised that mirrors were false, for they showed one image and one person; but a person was many, and existed in many places and thoughts at the same time. The real person was a fractured reflection of his broken physical self.

He turned to see himself. He saw it wasn't true. He decided to fix things.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Three years later, law enforcement finally caught up with him, he was found in a room with a broken mirror, writing apologies on the wall. The victim's face had been cut in a disjointed spider-web pattern, and he was caught laughing and crying alternatingly. He begged forgiveness from the world one second, and tried to kill all of it, or at least the parts of it near him trying to keep him in custody during the other.

The papers found on him were a long psychological treatise upon the variegated nature of human thought, reflected in the many fissures in society.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

He was found dead in his cell three days later, killed by a shard of mirror that had somehow come into his possession. Investigation revealed his left hand had been found attempting to stop the right.

In the defence of Atheism

*Sighs*

Forgive them, Father. They know not what they do.

These words, spoken by a man who was not the Son of God, are the only things that redeem him, in my eyes. It is a good principle to live by - forgive those that harm you through ignorance, through unintentional action. For a lot of these things are motivated by fear, and fear makes humankind act in a manner not entirely 'human'.

So, I got my response from the Ex-atheist. I think I'll call him 'The Ex', from now on. It'll make matters simpler. So, The Ex messages today, and begins by complimenting me on my blog. Thank you, I work on it occasionally. I'm glad to know it bore some fruit. He then went on to say that one must have 'trusted sources' of information. Also, agreed. However, trust is an issue, because I do not trust the Koran one whit.

He stated that his method of research was as follows -
1. Does God exist?
2. If yes, then which religion is the true one? He says he went through their authentic sources.
3. If the source had some scientific error, then it couldn't be the word of God. Since the Koran stated many 'scientific facts' that have only recently come to 'light', it must be the word of God.

Hence proved, he says. Of course, he follows this up with the scientific facts, and substantiations. He mails me some text that I am sure is taken off some website or the other, proving the perfect nature of the Koran.

This particular part of the message speaks first of the theory of probability, of which I am sure anyone reading this will be familiar with, and states that the Koran predicts, primarily, 3 scientific facts, before they were discovered or realised -
1. The Earth is round.
2. The Moon reflects light.
3. The human body is made of water.

He states that there are some 30 conceivable shapes of the Earth, hence odds of the Koran guessing that are 1 in 30. The odds of the moon reflecting light are 1/2. And the odds of the human body being made of water are 1 in 10,000, assuming 10,000 other possible substances. If one multiplies these three odds, there is a .00017% chance that this has been arrived at through guesswork. Hence, this being so overwhelmingly likely that God wrote this since it is right, and so unlikely that this is guesswork, this is the word of God.

There are two parts to the logic above - one, that these can be likened to guesses, and hence probability applies; and second, that such overwhelming odds would create a definite tendency to believe that God wrote the Koran. There is a third part to my defence of atheism, but I shall come to that at the very end.

Guesswork
These three statements by the Koran are called 'guesswork' on the basis that the 'prevailing viewpoint' at the time was to the contrary - the World was supposed to be flat, the moon was thought to be auto-luminous, etc. However, these are the prevailing viewpoints only in a certain part of the world - in Europe. It is a testament to the westernization of education that we truly believe that the world was conceived to be round only when, during the Renaissance, it was shown to be so.

This is ridiculous in the extreme. The Koran is estimated to have been written in the 8th Century AD in Arabia. In the 6th and 7th Centuries AD, there was an Indian philosopher by the name of Aryabhatta, who had come to these two conclusions already. Also, given that trade between the Western coast of India and Arabia was common at the time, such ideas were easily communicated to Arabia, and in fact the Renaissance was borne out of these ancient thoughts being transported to Europe through the interaction between Europe and Arabia many centuries later.

To the credit of the Europeans, though, they came up with this even before Aryabhatta - the Ancient Greek Astronomer Anaxagoras, from the 5th Century BC, had already thought of this, too - more than a thousand years before the Koran was written. So much for 'guesswork', really.

There is, of course, the 'guess' of the Koran with relation to the composition of the Human Body. It is stated in the Koran that the human body is made of water - well, this is a gross misunderstanding of biology, as far as I know it. While the cells of the human body are composed of 65-70% of water, it does not mean that the human body is 'made' of water. There are no components, the arbitrary 10,000 number besides. It is a ridiculous statement to make, and if God exists and did write the Koran, it must be something that causes him merriment.

Odds and Proof
Even if one assumes that the last four paragraphs have not been written, and that the Koran does make these statements against prevailing thought at the time, I think it's more than a bit of a stretch, to use probability to prove something. Probability gives odds. There is no proof in saying there's a .00017% chance of something being false, hence it is true. To mandate that millions lead their lives the way you want them to, to make them bend, bow, and scrape to an idea which may or may not be true, given that these are odds, is a crazy one. To prove something scientifically, it is not enough to prove that it is likely - a single exception would prove a scientific theory false. Hence, the mere chance that the Koran is guesswork is enough to disprove the definite existence of God. His existence might be likely, even overwhelmingly probable, but that is not enough. That is not proof. Proof, in science, is beyond any doubt.

God Existing v. Atheism
The final, little bit. Assume Atheism is wrong. Assume that God exists. Assume that the Koran is his word. What, truly, binds me to follow his word? Nothing, really. Merely the threat of punishment in the afterlife. If, in his infinite wisdom, he gives us will to do as we choose, and to follow or not follow his words, than clearly it is a decision for us to make. We can choose to take the paradise and the houris (I always wondered what faithful women got - forced lesbianism?) or we can choose hell.

I choose hell, honestly. I'd rather suffer that torment than force myself to do things that don't agree with my conscience. Islam means to 'submit' - your morals, for someone else's. I won't do that. I do not submit.

I thank you for you patience in reading this horribly long thing. If anyone is interested, I shall be glad to forward you the Ex's message, and/or send you links from Wikipedia dealing with Aryabhatta, etc. Also, if someone could find out what the real prevailing notion in Arabia was with regard to human body composition, I'd be much obliged.

Atheism, and Why There is (Fortunately) No Heaven For Atheists.

My mother has always been concerned about my immortal soul, to be honest. I displayed a disturbing tendency, in my youth, to concentrate on the wrong parts of the holy lessons I was meant to be learning. Being brought up in a 'good' Hindu household, I learnt a lot about Lord Krishna. I would pointedly ask my mother why he was allowed to steal butter, but I was not. Not to mention, the clothes of women (I never understood why till much later). This, perhaps, set the stage for my subsequent lack of belief in God - he was permitted to mess around, but I was damned if I did anything of the sort.

Atheism came very naturally to me, even while young. Show me God, I would say, to my perplexed teachers in the Christian school I went to as a child, where under the guise of Moral and Remedial classes I learnt a good portion of Biblical tales and fables. While I found these stories interesting, I always questioned their veracity. To date, I am fascinated with religion as a way of life, but continue to stand against anyone who wishes that I believe in something I have no evidence to suggest exists.

My belief, if it may be so called, in the non existence of God or heavenly beings at all was further reinforced when I read the excellent book The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. He looks at the 'God hypothesis', as he refers to it, and summarily rejects it. He considers all the things God has done, and proves that since these cannot be proven, there is no reason to believe that God exists. And being the healthy pessimist that he is, he states that he will not believe in something unless there is proof.

What is the proof most often given by the religious? They speak of the miracles that their texts claim to have witnessed. They speak of the resurrection of Christ, or the ascension of Muhammad. They speak of Christ turning water into wine, and of Gabriel speaking to Muhammad. And all the antics of the Hindu pantheon - don't even get me started. Nonetheless, I have continued to be absorbed in religion, which confidently refuting my faith in a so-called Higher Power.

I made a friend when I went to Pune, notwithstanding the fact that she was primarily responsible for me wearing shocking pink lipstick due to a dare. I recall that at some point while sitting down, I noticed a small bracelet, which I picked up, looked at, and then asked who it might belong to. It was a beautiful little thing, with a verse in (I'm assuming) Arabic/Persian/Urdu inscribed upon it. It is likely to have been a verse from the Holy Quran (or Kuran/Koran/Corran), and I handed it back without issue to the person whom it belonged.

I thought it'd be the last of anything religious I'd see for a while, from her or from anyone related to her. I had no reason to believe that religion would ever be something that I would discuss with her, or her kin, considering that I knew very little and next to nothing about her. That was before this message from her brother found its way into my inbox:

DUDE I WAS WANTED 2 SAY THT I WAS AN EX-ATHEIST BUT NOW AFTER MUCH RESEARCH I CAME 2 KNW THT THERES NO GOD BUT ALLAH N PROPHET MUHAMAD WAS LAST N FINAL MESSENGER!!!!
DUDE FIRST I WAS OFF DE OPINION THT PLP WHO BELEIVE IN GOD JUS HVE BLIND FAITH N THT GOD WAS JUS IN THEIR MIND BUT DUDE I GOT A SHOCK WHEN I STARTED RESEARCHING ON DE TOPIC!!!!!!
1 CAN PROVE SCENTIFICALLY N LOGICALLY DE XSITENCE OF GOD!!!!!
N KNW ALHAMDULLILA IKNW THT ALLAH XSIST ....
SO DUDE IAM SURE U MUSNT HVE RESEARED ON DE TOPIC CAUSE IF U WUD U WUD DEFINELY KNW DE TRUTH WITHOUT A DOUBT!!!!!1
SOO DUDE BEING N X-ATHEIST IKW XACTLY HOW IT FEELS BUT JUS WANTED 2 TELL U THT START RESEARCHING BEFORE ITZ 2 LATE!!!!!
IF U HVE NE DOUBT OR NE INQUIRIES 2 MAKE ILL B GLAD 2 HLP U!!!!!
GIV ME A CHANCE N ILL PROVE IT 2 U SCIENTIFICALLY N LOGICALLY THT THERES NO GOD BUT ALLAH N PRIFET MUMAMMAD IS HIS MESSENGER!!!!

I spent quite a bit of time staring at the screen, trying to reply in some fashion in my head that I thought would make sense. None came. None, at least, that I could send back as a personal missive to him. Unlike many others, he is trying to do 'good'. Given such sentiments, my normal vitriol is best avoided. I shall attempt, as far as possible, to understand what has been written.

Let's look at this, then, through kindly eyes - or at least as kindly as we can make them. The first thing stated is essentially a declaration of sorts. I was an ex-atheist, he says. I researched, and found that Allah was the only God, and the Prophet his last and final messenger. Now, I would like to respond by simply stating that I am an atheist, and have done enough research of my own to determine for my own purposes that there is no higher power of any sort.

The question, of course, now becomes what research did he undertake to thus turn him around? I cannot fathom this from the message, and anyone who can, I'd like to know what it is, so I can respond to it. All I know is, and continue to know, is that I know more about religion(s) than the average individual, because of my avid interest in mythology and religion. This stretches from the Ancient Greek and Egypt to Scientology, and I know quite a bit about Islam. While I agree that I am not a scholar, I find certain parts of the Quran to be so completely alien to my morals and my principles that I cannot stand by that text. There are several examples I could cite; however, I know that my morals are not something that I can expect others to adhere to, nor are my standards. Since these are, in essence, beliefs of mine (in the mould of "I should not do this"), I do not want to compare Islam to them, for that would be inappropriate as well as unnecessary. But the texts of Islam often condone or encourage behaviour that would be bizarre by the standards of most This is one such example: http://www.islam-watch.org/MuminSalih/Breast-Feeding-Man-Islam.htm
*NOTE: The above site is an anti-Islamic site. It's views are not mine - but the episode it alludes to in the life of the Prophet is accurate, according to the Koran. Nonetheless, it's not very intelligently written. Please read with caution.*

Let's see, shall we? I don't need saving. I don't need paradise. I don't need belief in anything but myself. Those things might be good, they might help others when they need sustenance, but I need myself in those times, and I really can't have so much to deal with in one go. I don't believe in things - they exist, or they don't. I exist. I believe in that.

If the existence of God can be proven to me, I shall believe. But I shall still not follow his precepts (if they are indeed, his) nor his rules, for I am me, and I have rules of my own.

Hurt - II

A small chain
A bond you can
Never escape.

A small happiness
A belonging you can
Never displace.

A tiny hope
A big weight that you can
Never embrace

A transient touch
A beautiful sensation you can't
Disdain.

This hurt I can't erase;
And in our strange need for pain
I need this torture now.
Now.
And forever.

Hurt - I

A lonely impulse
Acting on what you
Never knew

A fleeting glimpse
A flash of what you
Never show

A small gesture
A smile and look you
Never share

A small enigma
An attraction you can't
explain

Our eyes meet as we consider,
The strange nature of our desire.
Our ends are as near as we are -
Galaxies apart.

Sermon on the Mount

"What is the meaning of life?", he asked.

"Do I lead your life?", the monk replied.

"What is the meaning of ALL life?"

"Do I lead everyone's lives?"

"Who the fuck taught you the Socratic method? You live on a bloody hilltop!"

"Who the fuck taught you the Socratic method? You're just a stupid urban hippie!"

"What's the point of this?"

"If you see no point, why are you doing this?"

The youth's mouth worked for a bit, but no suitable response came to his mind. He turned in a huff, and walked some distance from the Holy Man of the Mountain. Many of his friends had told him of the learned man who answered all questions put to him, but none had mentioned that he was incredibly annoying.

The Holy Man looked upon the back of the rich young boy and despaired. He didn't know why all these idiots came and asked him questions. He was just sitting up here, begging for alms. He'd sent a little boy to the village after paying him five rupees to entice rich travellers to come up the mountain. Tired of the annoying questions the first time, he'd responded rudely. Apparently, that boy had not wanted to look like a fool to the companion below; he'd pretended to have had an out of body experience and what not, and now these brats came to him regularly. He tried to get rid of them, but they all persisted. It had become so bad that he was considering shifting mountains, but he knew that there were four other Holy Men after his patch, and his stubborn possessive nature prevented him from moving into their hands.

He sighed, and wondered how he could get rid of these damn yuppies. Annoying kids with their flashy clothes. All he ever wanted was some food and alms, and not all these damned questions! He wondered why anyone would imagine he was wise, since he spent all his time on the mountain without doing anything particularly knowledgeable. He sighed, and remembered what this horribly stoned Israeli tourist had once explained to him while being incredibly grateful for the meagre amount of hashish the Holy Man had managed to procure and given to him.

"You! Brat!"
"Excuse me?"
"Stop being silly and listen!"
Despite himself, the youth did just that. All the thought of figuring out a fake story for his friends was exhausting his two brain cells, and he needed the break.
The Holy Man realised he had the brat's attention, and decided to end this properly.

"Take this."
"What is this?"
"Hashish."
"What's that?"
"You smoke it, it makes you happy. Er, Holy, also. Bob Marley said so."
"You mean Hash. You have HASH?! Why didn't you say so before?"

5 minutes later, the brat was quite mellow, in the afterglow of the Hash he'd been given. He sighed, and looked towards the Holy Man. The Holy Man looked extremely confused and perplexed. The Brat wondered why.

The Holy Man didn't know what to do beyond this point. He had hoped the drugs would be enough, but this brat was obviously persistent. He decided to take the initiative.

"What is your problem, basically?"
"I want to know the meaning of life!"
"Why?"
"Please don't start that again, I'm actually feeling good now!"
"Hm. Fine. Let's try again, shall we? What about the meaning of life is important?"
"Well, won't it explain who I am? What I am doing here?"
"What is your name?"
"How is that important?"
"Well, isn't that who you are?"
"Not that who I am. The real me. Who I want to be. Who I feel like being."
"Okay. Why are you asking me these questions? Why don't you know the answer?"
"I don't!"
"Fine. Have you heard of Occam's ... er, what was it? Hm. Blade? Something like that ... Come on, help me a little. Don't you know about this one?"
"No!"
"Fine. There was this Israeli gentleman named Occam, who had some trouble shaving, alright?"
"What kind of trouble?"
"Um. Wait, I knew this one. Yes! After the first time, the razor wouldn't shave right."
"Okay."
"So, he wondered what the solution was - and it came to him! What did he need? A razor which shaved only once. Then, you'd need a new razor. So, he invented disposable razors!"

Brat's drug addled mind couldn't quite grasp the earth-shattering implications yet. He was sailing the clouds, and had trouble grasping the importance of disposable razors, and their impact on the meaning of life. He stared at the Holy Man's earnest expression, and couldn't quite understand why this man was considered wise. As Brat thought about it, the situation became murkier - he didn't use disposable razors, he used those Mach III things, the red one with the hot girl in the advertisement. It was, he had been assured, the best a man could get. Clearly, Occam's Razor didn't have much of a presence in the Indian market; Brat considered, for a second, a business of importing these bloody razors. But a moment more of contemplation convinced him that this was far from the meaning of his life.

He chuckled at the Holy Man. All he needed was the meaning of life, and here this supposed wise man was, dithering about razors. He was so ... stupid and inefficient. Words that he'd learn to despise, while worshipping what he thought were their opposites, through his time in Business School - Wisdom and Efficiency. He chuckled some more.

At this point, the Holy Man was beginning to lose his patience. He looked upon the chuckling bandicoot of a brat with more than a little alarm. Not only had the Israeli gentleman's approach towards shaving problems not impressed the fool, he was now pointing at him and chuckling. The Holy Man realised that the Brat had now begun mumbling about how the Holy Man was Occam, and that he himself was Gillette. Now, the Holy Man was not ignorant of the ways of the world, and was aware of what Gillette was. What he could not understand was why the Brat would believe that he would need any of their products. He couldn't remember the last time he'd shaved, and he was rather proud of his long, matted and dirty beard. It took a lot of time to make it look professionally vagabond-ish. What was especially bothering him was that the Brat was now passing out, and that this meant more time spent with him.

The Brat was beyond cognitive thought now. He drifted off to sleep, dreaming of Israeli women, and wondering if he should go there and sell Mach IIIs, if they were so busy using substandard disposable razors. He giggled at the prospect.

The Holy Man sat on his haunches, in his default Holy-Man contemplating position. He had to make this worth his while, and somehow get rid of the Brat. He thought about it for a while, and considered what he needed, and how he must get it. Then it hit him - the perfect, and obvious solution. It was so simple! He couldn't think of anything simpler. He grinned.

Many hours later, the Brat awoke as the sun rose upon his prone form on top of the mountain. His head felt like several trucks had run it over, and he felt sick to his stomach. Wait, no. The sickness was rising from his stomach. After leaving a patch of the Himalayas bearing a part of his organic matter, the Brat looked around, trying to get his bearings, and trying to remember who he was, and how he got here. He began recalling the events of the last evening. He realised that instead of being on top of the mountain, he was in the valley. He felt his backpocket to feel his wallet - it was there, but it was considerably thinner. He pulled it out and looked at it, his panic rising.

Inside, the only things that were left were his credit cards, liscenses, and a little letter. It stated that following -

You are a brat, and that's what you are;
But for all that, one imagines you'll go far
In life, for it is made of the silly things,
One never knows why this happiness brings.

On the other hand, you feel dissatisfaction;
For you feel the need for immediate action
In life, for there is a lot you want to do,
One never knows why one is such a fool.

Just stop making your life complicated;
Do what you want and stop becoming inebriated
In life, there is little one can do,
But say - the simplest solution is always true.

Fear and Choices

I've been watching V for Vendetta almost manically for some days, now. It made me consider quite seriously human nature and the nature of the fear which is the primary motivator in it. Most human actions are determined by fear. Governments are based on fear - fear is the underlying principle that seems to unite all human actions. Fear of some sort determines every institutional mechanism. Freud tried to unify all human action through the perspective of sex - but sex is about fear, is it not? Fear of not being able to procreate. Fear of not being able to leave a mark upon the world. Fear of not performing. Fear of even talking about it afterwards.

Bertrand Russell, on the other hand, attempted to determine human behaviour and the existence of the myriad of human institutions through the perspective of power. He essentially stated that since the desire for power is the greatest one, individuals and institutions seek power. However, this is incorrect in that power might be desired, but Russell did not actively consider why it might be so. The reason I believe that any entity would seek power is to protect itself or to cater to the fear of being harmed, or the fear of not being allowed to survive, for any number of reasons. All entities are essentially self perpetuating, hence there is a fear that they shall be unable to perpetuate themselves, hence the need for power - to prevent such an eventuality, or at the very least, make it seem less likely.

Also, what seems to surprise me the most is that when I think of it, nearly all human actions are governed at least partially by fear of some consequence or the other. Even when were have "conquered" our fear, we are still doing something which is in fear of some other eventuality. Let me explain this, if I can.

Consider a soldier in a war, who is showing extreme amounts of valour in attacking the enemy positions, and so on and so forth. Think of all the propaganda that has gone into making him that way. Think of all the possibilities of losing the war and what it will do to him/his family preying on his mind. Consider his understanding of what his comrades or commanding officer will say if he isn't brave.

Sex and power are mere manifestations of fear. We glorify lack of fear to person, without realising that the fear has merely transferred unto some other subject, that you care for enough.

When one looks at one's own actions in such a light, they make a lot more sense.

PS: Arbit speculation about my own motives started somewhere through the middle of this particular post. Spent about two days writing it.

Complicated Thought

A maelstrom of extended convoluted thought, that pervades many parts of my extended consciousness. Creating a labyrinth of epic proportions, as I attempt to untangle my many thoughts, feelings and considerations that seem to have no end, no limit and no boundaries that can be clearly understood. My feelings on several matters are rather muddled, and I need to spend some time contemplating the same before deciding to do anything about any of the various events and people that currently seek to affect my life.

Erotic Dreams

A fleeting touch
Gentle sensation
Flooding
With memories
Of love
And reflections
Of affection
Screaming
For attention
Those glances
Burning
Those eyes
Mesmerizing
As they entrance
Confusion is caused
As lust
Overruling
Controls limbs
Movement
Sensual snake
Rustles
Against my body
As I close
My tired eyes
To dream.

Feelin' Groovy.

Ever since I heard the Simon and Garfunkel song, I've been aching to be able to be so crazy as to go out into the world, greet lamposts, keep the fauna growing, and look for fun. In other words, I've always wanted to feel groovy.

It's been a strange kind of goal - one's ever-present desire to be 'cool' which encompasses all else is common, but a desire to be groovy - it means something substantially different to me. It means a more fundamental change in the nature of an individual which allows him to do crazy, happy, insane things without really having to worry about who's watching.

I've met and loved and been with so many different people - and I don't mean love in the strictly relationship/sexual sense. I mean that in the varied spectrum of people I've known, I've been lucky - but that my reactions to all of them has been the same, in the sense that it depends upon a clear and present standard that I apply to everyone beyond a certain point of proximity. Further, I've pushed some people away because of my nascent feelings of a certain type, for the simple reason that I don't want to do anything 'casual'.

Well, why must I take these things seriously? If I can't be happy and enjoy my life now, when will I? Of course, there are some things that must not be done, which would cause harm or pain to others - but if there is no harm, why must I have a guilty conscience? Why can't I live?

It sucks to be un-groovy. I'm trying.

Wish me luck.

Give me as many reasons as you want - I just want to leave.

It's very difficult to explain something to someone entirely self absorbed. In fact, it's impossible to do so entirely. To be able to understand what someone's saying, you need to be, to some extent, in their shoes, and thus begin to construct what they mean by what they're saying, and why they're saying it. For self absorbed people, this isn't possible. It's also difficult to understand self absorbed people - they're so busy making sense to and for themselves, that other people don't matter.

The worst kind of self absorbed person is the self absorbed coward. These creatures don't tell you what they want, but expect you to read something they've written or conveniently left around for you, so you can stumble upon it. And they try to molly-coddle what they're saying, and what they want from you, so it ends up with the other person sitting through a ridiculous medley of 'What-I-Want's and 'What-I-Need's which no one should have to hear. It's torturous to be told that something you say to express yourself doesn't seem to be 'serving a purpose' for her, so it shouldn't be said.

Oh, every word I say is not for the other person's benefit. It's because I want to say something. This is where communication becomes a problem. 'Meaningful' conversations are conversations that the self absorbed find meaningful. 'Useful' things are things they find useful. It's ludicrous.

And to think I've been making an effort to try and be nice. Well, screw that. I can't believe I sat through what she was saying as long as I did. I put the computer away because my mother took one look at me, got me a glass of water, and whispered to me that my look was scaring Ria. It was. I'm just glad I didn't say anything then. And I'm glad I was able to blow her off without saying anything particularly nasty. Ria's been following me around since then, and won't leave me alone.

It just annoys me so much to know that I was making an effort, and that effort was to be able to show someone I care about (can't say any more about it. Don't feel it anymore. For the first time in two years. It's over) that there is a better way to be, and that's she doesn't see it. But it's quite disappointing to learn that my trying to show her these things wasn't 'meaningful' enough, simply because it didn't suit her frame of mind.

There is no compromise. She just WANTS. She just NEEDS. Everyone else is secondary.
Empress of her own little universe. With no one in it. For they're all leaving. Because they can't bear to be there too long. It's interesting that half of the people she mentions as people looking out 'just for her', are people she's called selfish half the time she's known them. Her hypocritical nature is beyond belief. I spent a substantial portion of my time around her listening to her say things completely inconsequential without complaint. And now what I say is meaningless.

That's it - I really don't have to take this. At all. I asked her what she wanted, and she got it. In the beginning, and through the end.

She wants it clean - I'll give it to her.

Times Like These

I am a one way motorway,
I'm the one that drives away,
Then follows you back home
I am a street light shining
I’m a wild light blinding bright
Burning off alone

It’s times like these you learn to live again
It’s times like these you give and give again
It’s times like these you learn to love again
It’s times like these time and time again

I am a new day rising
I’m a brand new sky
To hang the stars upon tonight
I am a little divided
Do I stay or run away
And leave it all behind?

It’s times like these you learn to live again
It’s times like these you give and give again
It’s times like these you learn to love again
It’s times like these time and time again
--------------------------------------------------------
The Foo Fighters - Times Like These


This song has somehow affected me more than I could have expected. I know that I'm at a threshold of my life - I've had to leave some parts of me behind for nothing better than satisfying myself, and because I'd taken a burden upon myself that I couldn't quite carry. It was causing pain and conflict. So I moved out of that obligation. But it does make me feel like an utter coward, somewhere.

Now, I feel more optimistic about life, and its trials and tribulations. I find myself looking forward to things. Looking forward to spending time with that special someone. Finding things and emotions within me transforming - into something new, but not bad or wrong. It's like getting into a new pair of clothes, or looking out at the world from under a new set of pince-nez - it's a revelation to realise that there was more to Heaven and Earth than was known of in my philosophy. (Yes, that's a shady Shakespeare allusion. Deal)

I'm going to learn how to live. On my own. Not have it shown to me. I shall learn, and live. I shall be happy. It's times like these which determine the real character of a human being. I'm going to make my life something greater than it was.

The entire idea of having a hurdle, of having something to climb, is to find that moment of perfection of standing at the summit of your effort, to recognize the beauty from high up above, and live for that moment - before enjoying the 5 seconds it takes you to fall down off that height, and celebrate the death of that which once was.

Some things, you just can't believe.

How can ANYONE be serious when they say that they'd rather go to Roti Park with you than go to Peco's with someone else? :-)

On the other hand, why would anyone stay up nearly all night just to come up with some shitty legal case for some shitty hypothetical woman?

Why would anyone ruin a week of their life for almost nothing?

Why would we stop ourselves from doing what we would really, REALLY like to do?

Why can I not express the love I feel?

Too many questions, and too few answers.

But life is a quest for such answers. And I'm looking as hard as I can.

Open Your Eyes

All this feels strange and untrue
And I won't waste a minute without you
My bones ache, my skin feels cold
And I'm getting so tired and so old

The anger swells in my guts
And I won't feel these slices and cuts
I want so much to open your eyes
Cos I need you to look into mine

Tell me that you'll open your eyes

Get up, get out, get away from these liars
Cos they don't get your soul or your fire
Take my hand, knot your fingers through mine
And we'll walk from this dark room for the last time

Every minute from this minute now
We can do what we like anywhere
I want so much to open your eyes
Cos I need you to look into mine

Tell me that you'll open your eyes

All this feels strange and untrue
And I won't waste a minute without you.
-----------------------------------------------------------------

It does feel strange and untrue. Numb, I'm moving through everyday life waiting for the equivalent of 20,000 tuns of emotional pressure to fall upon me. And the Gauls were worried about just the sky ...

And I've realised that I have enough of CGL boy rubbing off on me that I feel like a self sacrificial martyr for a whole 10 minutes after this happens. But then I stop, and I calm myself down, and realise that I have caused pain, as well as borne it. There is no reason to believe that I am the only one suffering. That'd be idiotic.

I don't have a clear, snappy one sentence 'why' as I used to. I used to be good at making that happen. Waiting until something crossed my self imposed lines, and then punishing it. But this is so different - in fact, beautifully so. It is, as some silly debater would say, a 'sophisticated' argument. That is, unlike a straight assertion of some fact or reasoning, it's an argument of balancing relative needs, and arriving at a compromise for dealing with them.

I'm doing this because I need to. No other reason. Why would there be?

I just need her to open her eyes. Just be aware. Have that long-awaited epiphany.

Love.

Dreams.

Things aren't quite as I wished they'd be. But they're still happy. Things still move, and we still move with them - ideas, hopes, dreams, and memories. All the things that one creates in the mind, but each are things which are so extremely tangible to us that many would give their lives for them.

I've discovered Haiku recently. It's given me the ability to write poetry without having to think. It's too easy. Just spill out three lines, the first and the third being the same length, with the middle line being shorter; and none should rhyme, or be connected. Or, so I was told. I've been writing such silly doggerel all over my notebooks, because it's far more interesting than Administrative Law, at the very least. And don't get me started on my Civil Procedure classes.

I've had the recent experience of being asked out on Orkut, and it has made me question some of my most fundamental beliefs about human beings. My profile clearly lists me as committed. Furthermore, the individual in question stated (on a public scrapbook) that the reason for her attraction to me involved me preventing her from making sandwiches when a group of us had been at her establishment, and the other greedy pigs had started demanding the aforementioned snacks as their right.

Now, why on EARTH would anyone even DREAM that such a thing would create any kind of bond between us? Yet, that is the stuff some dreams are made of. Flights of fancy, great overarching thoughts that we dream connect things that are otherwise entirely different and distant, relative to each other. The connections that we seek to make, we desire to make, are made in dreams. The things we are, and the things we hope to be, and the things we dread, and the things that our waking mind cannot conceive ...

That is the stuff that dreams are made of.

Anarchy.

Antiestablishment: opposed to or working against the existing power structure or mores, as of society or government.

I never thought of myself as an anarchist, or someone who was particularly anti-establishment. I was just, always, myself. Doing what I thought was right. Whenever I do the right thing, I often find myself blocked or barricaded by some authority which purports to have the job of doing that very thing I was planning to do - except that they aren't doing a good job, which is what causes me to try and do what they're supposed to be doing. And at this point, the authority does their utmost to get in the way. Sometimes, I manage to get what I want out of my efforts; other times, I cannot.

I'm currently in the midst of such a situation - I'm trying to help some people, and do something I'm good at simultaneously. But, as usual, the authority (in this case, an activity based committee), is seeing it fit to be about as helpful as mastadons trying to stomp the ants on your lunch at a picnic. They're repeatedly blocking us, without understanding what that means. We're trying to help them do what they're doing. Nitwits.

But I shall do what I want to do. It's not that difficult dealing with people obsessed with power. It's only difficult to deal with those people whose motives are transparent. For when they are, there's little that can be ostensibly done. But it's known but not admitted that the problem stems from ego issues and insecurities.

I'll play on those if I need to.
Manipulate them if I have to.
But I shall have what I want.
Because I can.