onsciousness is an inborn ability buried in the rebellion of timelessness when many fail to imbibe the data of minute observations that propel the psyche from the contextual environment due to shorter attention span. We are metamorphosed into diabolical skin bags of satisfaction as the waves of pain are constantly being broadcasted across the universe from millions of sacrifices that cannot be concealed through grace.
magine for a second you were transposed into a karmic driven world of time moving in the wheels of dharma carrying a sustainable existence. If so, could you be satisfied with the many of the reputations you have achieved so far without giving conscientious care to your fellow living things around you? The branches of the deep soul connection that the olive trees of change begin to create in you become feeble as the sacred forests which have been enslaved to so long dehydration are liberated by wearing wildfire skirts.
f the whole world is considered as a cluster of gigantic neuron, the transference of thoughts from one species to another is a viable possibility, as long as you know how to perceive them with the combined effort of your senses. From there onwards you can learn how the orphaned wild bees turn words left in broken honey jars of premature spring into heartfelt poems. Thoughts awaken like torches to light the world gone wrong beyond the windows as we welcome the soul into the primeval green living spirit that transforms the dancing wind into autumn snowflakes.
ou can feel the growling cold water slowly dissolving your introvert flesh, while the northern lights rushes and decorate the murdered leaves with knitting blizzards of the hell. How can you enjoy the splitted lines of agonizing music that orchestrate through the heartbeat of the debacle as the frozen rivers stand still in the awakening eyes of the night? If you want to know the inner conflict or the helplessness of a caged bird you have to turn yourself into a bird. You can see the sun rising and setting every day from the same angle of grievance, but you can never experience the colossal amount of energy it delivers to flare up the ray of hope.
olorful feathers wrapped around your wrinkled skin may be a rainbow in the eyes of others, but even light feathers can be a burden to you when you begin to hate the process of living without freedom. If the blue clouds had fallen to the ground, I could have drawn a million pictures of the tears in my eloquent eyes apologizing so many times to that four-legged animal that was forced to drink ujaala water to quench its thirst from the open bucket. If some windows are not closed they will become an empire of wounds inflicted on the mind where the king and queen are proclaimed as pain for centuries.
e have a lot to learn from even the miniscule ants which live in harmony and balance when we build walls infront of each other and deny the help. Some pray for miracles, like butterflies caught in a snare, while others come out as lizards that cut off their tails and deceive their prey in self-defense. The ladybirds that often visit to suck on the cashew apples hidden in the lawn often cry and fade away in the evenings while seeing the unborn fetus suffer in the after effects of raining endosulfan.
handful of skeleton neckalces hanging from the thorns of cacti selling water on the sidewalks to half fill the stomach while homosapiens kill one another by serving poisoned dishes on the dining tables. The winter still haunts the skin incessantly in the sun-drenched lands from the hills that have been razed to the ground for gold. The changing seasons become a curse when the red crabs and brown squirrels that are a constant sight in the paddy fields and my ancestral home disappear like the moon on the waning shoulders of flaming candles.
he bodies of the silkworms may still be floating in the boiling sea as unfulfilled dreams of weavers sublimate when the artistry skies sell plastic bottles in interstellar argosy. The serpents that once guarded the sacred groves have become broken moribund bridges that peel off the epidermis of development while greeting the dead rivers. We are living in a brutal system which forcefully steal the sacrosanctity in the heart of a child. Everytime thoughts plummet towards gravity our breaths can no longer withstand the weight of countless other lives which are going to suffer after us.
ivilization is hollowing out romanticizing the chaos in countless journeys where only the polished face are adored or adorned without realizing the stains of the mud on the bare feet. There are a lot of people who repudiate the seriousness with much audacity however for those who live with an eco-green heart, connecting oneself deep within the roots is a gift in their soul. We are bamboo bushes roaming in the aching transverse waves. When the innocuous trees joins us together, there creates a magical melody of the flute, but when the sun joins hands together wildfire swallows our every lines. --
P. S- Too late to bring me flowers, I'm gone with the wind.
ഹൃദയ ഘട്ടികാരങ്ങളിലെ സൂചികൾ നിലച്ചു, വെഞ്ചാമരങ്ങൾ വീശാൻ തുരുമ്പിന്റെ ഗന്ധം പേറുന്ന കാറ്റിന്റെ അസുര ജന്മങ്ങൾ മാത്രം. വിശുദ്ധമായ ആകാശത്തിനെ ബലി കൊടുക്കുമ്പോൾ വാക്കുകളാൽ വാർത്തെടുത്ത വാളുകളിൽ രക്തത്തിൽ കുതിർന്ന ഒരു പര്യവസാനം. നന്ദി.
he clogged nostrils were covered with N95 mask again so that the living cries of the cells could be heard from inside along with the sighs of the breathing particles immersed in prosaic afternoons. As I walk through the concrete skyscraper jungle alleys near the Thavakkara bus stand, the gleam of fleeting sunlight occasionally tickled my quivering eyes and rested under the ochre beaks of mynahs nestled in the poverty-stricken streetlights.
ut when I looked around, I saw the noisome compressors hanging in the backbones of elegant rooms vomiting carbon dioxide while december regain strength from sedative moon pills like a cancer patient after multiple chemos, Also, I knew some insinuated chapters were burning from the casualty of a cigar light from above, and l felt like my lungs were exploding and blood dripping down my chest soaking my pale blue cotton shirt into a lycopene massacre.
fter an intense effort to put out the fire It was summer born of wispy silence that came to rob me away from the freedom of my glazed breath. I want to inhale lying on the platoon arms of prunes and primes of time reviving the blonde asphalt of vintage streets which was once called as pious hamlets. The rows of green carpeted paddy fields and the shrine of chandeliers in the village of Kadakkara passed me by, relieving my looped blistering thoughts from the simmering heat of the hell.
ut as the mind gyrate from the countryside to the oblivion of the cities, the speckled manjaadi seeds falling from the weightless sky crawls back and forth to my embroidered handcurchief. Thunder coughed and I bleed monsoon poetry draped in a bouquet of daisies from A to Z clouds as if a stranger repainting the vinyl courtyards of the ceramic skies. These wandering people will eventually die as paper planes and boats without knowing the exact direction to hide from the raging storms of life.
he rest of them will transform into an instrument of pain indicator suffocating through the sirens of medieval winter. I watched the saintly sun slowly recede while writing down the time in the pages of his evening death note for yet another sunrise. The clouds began to weep when the suffering letters doused in the sky cannot bear the weight of another cadaver night. Or isn't night a morgue where the corpse of the day waiting for the fire to wash away the sins?
oisonous clouds gave birth to a baby girl named rain who does not come out of the abyss of drought when the golden egg-laying duck was mutated into a begging city. May be the firmament was grieving on the penniless rooftops of sunset with some misspelled words because the aching sea breeze can only heal the chained wounds of omniscient mountain gods.
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f the name of the paradox that bloom only to know the body is love then why do the petals of flowers fall off and spring die so quickly? What is the probability of falling in love at first sight? It has no valid answer because it is a part of a person's inner feeling. Isn't it? Today i saw your face in the flashing lights six feet away from the bench where I was sitting. How do the sun rays that filter through the gaps in the imagery twigs make the butterflies to bloom like violet hyacinth from your soft skin?
he two of us had never acquainted, but when my eyes met yours I was like twice shy and had a strange feeling in my heart that our names were written with the same quill on the Milky Way. The heart i carry has no other color but blood to paint our love. I think you too felt the same way as I do. Is rain really a curse for love if there are some relationships that fall apart when they come together like raindrops on the transparent window panes?
have very few friends in my social circle because I know I'll have to leave them someday. It's sad though that many places where gulmohar have fallen are now a seasonal wound to the soil, aren't they? One of the advantages of having a mask is that the eyes may have already talked to each other before we start to converse to the opposite person. But the fact that masks rob people of their smiles is another aspect of it.
t is rare in this world to find a person who shares the pain of others. My mother used to say that god always dwells in a compassionate heart. I like your way of talking a lot especially the dialect tone of your voice. Maybe we both are in the same page destined to meet at the right time. Who knows? I could read the sadness in your eyes, quadruple times more sadness melts inside me than you, and I still laugh out loud infront of others. Light can only obscure the shadows but not erase them while preparing to settle the pain.
have a lot of people to protect before my paralyzed heart seek the viridescent kelp forest under the muffled currents of balmy mississippi. The salty taste from the tears of pain is sweetened whenever others like us see us laughing and rejoice atleast for a moment. Isn't that true? I have repeatedly witnessed the quarrelling of wrinkled leaves with that invisible power of the wind when god suddenly opens the windows of heaven to those who have no blemishes in their hearts.
oney and fame aside, human beings are just bones and skin smeared with the instinct to survive every single day. I'll pray to the almighty that your mother's lump in the uterus may heal as soon as possible.The doctor said that my mother had a minor hernia and may need a surgery. Perhaps life is a thread that supports both ends of entity with a balanced force. The lost answer to the question of whether there will be a tomorrow may be also an enduring question mark.
he stars may fall in love with the moon's nightingales lurking in the branches as the unfamiliar faces disappear in two separate ways during this maundy thursday. When you spoke to my mother you could at least say your name or place. Time will decide if we will ever meet again, the probability of not seeing you is 99.999%, but I would like to believe in the rest 0.001%. Let the rafts of art take us to the other side of love, beyond the depths of writing, before the world that lives in wounded hopes are lost in memories. And I love you from the very bottom of my heart..
. But it didn’t took long for the two of us to turn into two entirely different paintings by Van Gogh and Monet on the same canvas of love. The authentic feelings interfere with the silence when the light emanating from the colors cannot coexist forever with the shadows. Whilst a lot of unrelenting images creeps towards mind through the disorted colour palettes as the blurred paint brushes baptize in besieged memoirs.
. A spinal reflex, and you sneeze out pollen poetries when nectar dripping pages was caressed by the dusty butterflies of the book flowers. The heart paused for milliseconds while the letters wide opened like ubiquitous feathers in the hypnotic cwtch of an unremitting snowfall. Was it just a dream?
he quicksilver sweat beads collided with the offering of tears in the throbbing nosepins of exuberant breeze. The late artefact of spring sprouting from the garish moonlight penetrates the branches of loneliness while the setting sun said sayanora on the boulevards of autumn. ?
ome transform into sigmoid tides that reckon the shore like vagrant folk tales as a reminder that eloquent silence can never come back when sacred promises are lost. Your painted face still flows like a perpetual fountain in the murals of the moon, but the color of love rippling on the edges of the waves has stolen the inherent blackness of this night. The barren and pale clouds of the sky linger in endless oblivion at the end of a desperate wait from the secret chambers of the broken heart.
, . Let me know when you meet someone who spreads the scent of fresh soil. There are no more mirrors of the past woven in the rain threads to connect the memories and go back to the time we met. We must be reborn as love, at least in the magical foams of this scattering waterfalls bestowed by the moon.
~~~~~~~~ , . An embodiment of pain with a wistful reminder cling on to the surface of unhurried waters to navigate through the memory guise of thalassery. Twilight is a jewish child born in the nazi night sky. The albino moon stand past the evanescent wind learning how not to get killed. A growl from the extermination camp, the grudge of the clouds with a ghost mane wore inky nights by tattooing graves on its calorescence skin.
he lurking shadows from the busiest streets spills death blows and nylon miseries out of lukewarm light to feed the restless ocean. The plastic dressed wild flower bottles are con artists trading their illusionary beauty for the stranger butterflies under the gossamer sun-day. After use, the polymers are the property of the rocks. . The stars stopped for a moment, renting a heartbeat to forgive when the coated aluminum foils failed to clean up the abnormalities of the satin sunset.
n old melody whir from a slow moving tide clutching through the thinnest air as if a bleeding raindrop and a rusting gramophone meet the funeral of tragic grief from withering poetries. The wrecking ball made of fire sink to the bottom adopting the insignia of despair from the chime of midnight. The snuffed candles and lighthouse forgot the birthday of the sea. . The sky delve further tuning the aging gold which decided to burn away like a bonfire to warm up the december promise and to stay once more keeping the shadows at bay.
ime is running out like the wild horses receding the hope and accepting the flaws of mourning november dew. The caryatid of gods hewn out by the waves is weeping when sadness lurch through the sharpening blades of coral reefs. I tasted the hymn that froze momentarily on my lips. , . It's only a matter of seconds before you and me to vanish like thin sand laments, we forgot. Elegeies were sung by the decorated heterochromatic skies with a broken bansuri.
he sun in my lines will soon die. A handful of salt-soaked bridal waves tracing the dreams of moon, whose head held down from the altar. We can hide like wolves in a fur coat, but our poems will never survive in the avalanching snow. Blood will seek refuge in our bones, but minus degrees celsius can mislead our beating heart. . May we all experience the same pain as the ruins of light hang our splashing colors of life with these loosest threads of unwritten endings. Where have we lost our immortal soul? There are neither poetries to promise and nor words to surrender. , ' . // : (2010) : 7.5
, . When the sacrifice of an untouched night was refused to weave the handloom of the day bright, a lonely sunflower lady in her monthly pain sold two drops of teary petals to a blue moon who always had to taste the residue of suffocating morning light.
miling skies can turn into an unexpected sculptural monument of numbness. The black clouds gathered around the Van Gogh sky to gently taste the rubicund kiss on the bruised forehead of edavapathi. Why the polythene stars fake a pinky promise to her twinkle freedom? Tonight the ornamental trees will shed lies from the opaque tongue of acacia leaves for the storms to lie on the laps of fenced graveyards.
he light dries up in the melting chandeliers when a thousand human candles cry, sigh and die in the screaming audition of thunder podium. Welcome to the voyage of crescent night, one of the poems buried in the shackles of blindness shook its fingers like zombies. The roots of thoughts with wings wrapped in ashes to tighten the silence of airway as the branches spread shades as a deciduous tree. once again the stories behind the faded lipstick on betel stained dead lips are reborn in sacrificial ocean of poetry.
t's diwali again with the poetic display of illuminating letters. Nothing anew, counting the flashback of old neon lights which have completed the death anniversary 52 weeks ago. Lightning printed spring on their coffins with heartbreaking lillies. As the memories of light shine through the darkened paths, the immaculate letters of the sun that keep life alive in the nearby lanterns and diyas are drenched in flames.
edemption want to finally feel a human touch, the incitement of a beautiful soul who let her light to get in, no matter how much ransom is given in exchange for love. . A beast can love, a lost heart can hug through solitude.
"ജീവിതത്തിന്റെ അർഥപൂർണമായ തലങ്ങൾ തേടിയുള്ള ഈ യാത്രയിൽ മഞ്ഞു മരണങ്ങളെ കണ്ടുമുട്ടുന്ന മേഘങ്ങളെ ഓർത്ത് കരയാൻ മറ്റൊരു വസന്തകാലം. നന്മമരങ്ങൾ വീശിയടിക്കുന്ന കാറ്റിന്റെ വിയർപ്പ് പൂക്കൾക്ക് വിട. ജീവിതമേ, ആത്മാവിന്റെ ഉരുകിയ ഈണങ്ങൾ ഇനിയുമേറെ നാളുകളുടെ ശവസംസ്കാരത്തെ പരിമളമാക്കുമ്പോൾ ദുഃഖം നിറഞ്ഞ മണ്ണിന് സാക്ഷ്യം വഹിച്ച സിന്ദൂരത്തിന്റെ പാടും പൂമാലയും കുഴിച്ചിടാൻ കാലത്തിന്റെ ഡയറിക്കുറിപ്പുകളിൽ ഒരദ്ധ്യായമെങ്കിലും അവശേഷിപ്പിക്കുക. നിറമില്ലാത്ത ക്രയോണുകളാൽ വരച്ച പാപങ്ങൾ ചുമക്കുന്ന സൂര്യാസ്തമയത്തിന്റെ തിരശ്ശീലകൾ ഞാൻ ഇവിടെ വലിച്ചെറിഞ്ഞോട്ടെ..." --
, - . Bereavement surge like sentinels overcoming brutal human walls in the ruined hands when the umbilical cord is torn off from the womb like fibrous roots by a demonic typhoon. Flood usher with the ear-splitting screams of the rocks in the eleventh hour carrying the allegory of the evanescent aeon is a quietus of a precarious arcane.
he sweat of african rain dripping from the masked small famine cities of the bismuth sky touching the summer human bodies that curled up like millipedes in the corners of the knotted mats of wild serengeti. A petrichor of relief emerges from the cracks in the roof tile that stretches over their head but they are busy folding the x-ray films in half on its proper position to escape the leaking room.
lthough the scars of human-animal conflict are evident on the deforested man-made frontiers however vultures circling over the worm-infested carcasses of tuskers that have lost their lives due to animal poaching are a constant sight. Insects and human beings are equal here, burning in the heaps to death in the huts without electricity, meanwhile, the youth of the forest betray the emerald lungs for thirty cents of silver to escape from starvation.
erhaps it was when they betrayed the okavango river of love that it began to divert and block the arteries of their heart. The black color left in the aisle is the ash of a handful of separations, but when they look in the mirror, they can see the burning feathers spreading and melting into the darkness of the day submerging the mournful twilight in the depths. And again they fail in their attempt to find shadows under the umbrella of the pious sun, the greedy approach force them to show the maps of the virgin forest on their wrinkled skin to the outsiders.
hus, when a man who has become a mere scapegoat with only his clothes on is deceived by the gambles of deceit, while rich thoughts pierce the heart of the forest and sell it on the black market. The number of ribs per day is measured by mixing tobacco smoke with the blood that flows through the veins, whilst soaking the eyelids in the throes of loss while living on the bitter memories.
unger on an endless journey is an internal battlefield where if you and I were the only two trapped in a mysterious island and need to survive, one among us, called as a lively carnivore, will one day have to kill and eat another. The leaves of hope embrace the wind that blows in the dense trees but when the flammable fingers of fire touch those having a jigsaw backbone and chiseled eyes full of terrors in the jungle, the seeds that germinate around them from the ashes of their cruelty after the occasional rain grant the chlorophyll the life they need.
s the bloodthirsty leeches crawl on the naked bodies in search of the rusted smell of hot blood, the crushed childhood in the dry bones clasp their hands for food. There is still a small continent left to flow into the tears of joy of a group of people breathing in the sound of the wings of huge man-made dragonflies from the sky. When they taste the food of survival in the food parcels, they forget their sorrows for a moment with a smile on their cheeks. ?
Religion has never offered me peace. Except maybe the Buddhist philosophy in the early twenties and meditations my friend tricked me into doing, I'll always be grateful to him for that. And the peaceful temple visits my mom forced me to make during childhood. The only reason you go for crowded temples is the cute girls you get to meet (it was not as creepy as it sounds when you're just a little kid before the smartphone era who doesn't even know what love means). There was something about them that always stole all the boys' hearts. A sense of innocence when you could enjoy the butterflies in your stomach when she smiles at you. You don't have to worry about her political ideologies or traumas or covid vaccination status, you could simply just fall in love with her smile, and that's it. Oh, how we miss those days of nostalgia.
But, to me, there was a sense of tranquility about empty temples. The smell of sandalwood, the cold stone pathways, the gentle winds that caress the light flames, and the sound of bells. And, of course, the random cute girl that shows up as the sun falls into the night. Whether you believe in god or not becomes irrelevant at that moment, the moment when you close your eyes and find that sense of peace for a few moments. It is quite ambiguous why we feel that sense of calm at that moment. So in a way, it is not really the religion that gave peace. It was just the cute girls and the silence that fell upon a fine evening.
The idea that life inherently comes with a meaning is often sounded so bleak ; the idea that life comes with a divine purpose forced upon us by the great creator in the sky and the messengers of the creator that followed with an instruction manual. The constant battle of good and evil, a sense of moral superiority enforced by the holy books and their followers, often seems like a brain trying not to fall into the existential dread- and eventually falling into mere old tribalism. People fight and die for what they believe in. That beliefs and stories are the only truth about the world they know of. At the end of the day, it is what life becomes, a series of simple storylines that keeps us away from the inevitable death as long as we can. Life hangs in threads that slowly break.
A while back, I told someone that I'm a nihilist, and they said I'm not. If I were a nihilist, I would've killed myself already. That's how you become an existentialist- when you are a nihilist, and you're not really sad about the meaningless of existing. Neitzche will make you fall in love with moments that time gift us along the way. Then Camus makes you fall in love with the absurdity of it all. But it still does not sound so cool as a nihilist. And when you are not as sad as Bukowski and never loved anyone like Neruda did, you never become a writer. Merely throwing words in a canvas to see what sticks.
What is the point of existing if there is no deeper meaning to all of it? Evolution has no direction; it simply changes things as time goes. Things that survive the test of time get to tell their stories. Morality, ethics, love, kindness, good, evil, everything becomes features a physical system learns to survive the world. Life becomes an information processing system on flesh.
In the context of cosmic evolution, life on earth is nothing but a speck of dust that floats with the wind. It is so fragile that a wrong move can take it away. That does not make life so precious. Because when you really think about it, a black hole is way more interesting than your mundane life and its problems. Seriously, black holes can slow down time. You can do that only when you have a gender studies degree and explain your PC culture at a party. But to think that someone out there looking at you, judging all your moves to figure out whether to push you into heaven or hell, is so damn funny to me. What a waste of the thermodynamic system would it be if that's true. The only one looking at all your moves is your government. So you use a VPN to see what you really want to see and escape the hell.
Who knows all the answers? What gives meaning to this moral movement of bones and flesh on a dying planet? Science doesn't have all the answers either. It's merely a tool that gets updated as we find new truths about the world. Whether it gives you comfort or not depends on one's own perception of the world. Sometimes you find warmth in a stranger at 3 am, sometimes in the one that stayed for a couple of months, sometimes in your own desolated room as the night devours the sleep. And life moves on whether we find meaning or comfort, and eventually, everything decays to the darkness. At the end of the day, morality and ethics are not divine universal truths given by the creator or the woke lords on social media. They are merely the evolutionary traits that we've found useful for survival as a whole. And love is that girl you've lost in an empty temple.
The skies have mastered, The palmistry To read through the storm lines This is what the fishermen told me When their net caught a poem A discarded one, That had my name All over it. The skies are an atheist's temple, Where I go to pray Spreading my arms At the sun's interlude And ask, "What do you see, Is it a catastrophe? Is it me? Or is it him, All over, again?" A lady from the woods, Stops by the sand :It's always the waves That drowns the ship You're a poem, That made it out, Of the shipwrecks, And storms, And someone out there, Is dowsing the sea For the muse, Behind the lost poem"
My father's household, Speaks a different vocabulary To mother's Who crossed a sea And a storm, For the sake of her vermilion So when the world tries to drown me, I warn them a poem This is the daughter of the same, You tried to tame, Years back.