Blurred

Love is Intoxication.

:)

''The function of art work is the stimulation of sensibilities, the renewal of memories, of moments of perfection".

The Making of You

Penetrating it is,
the fake preacher's voice
Sober,
Condescending.

Vibrate, they do,
your pillars,
They break, or fall.

And then you doze
Time wakes you up
and again the sun rises,
Stretches itself,
clearing away the clouds,
memories, instances
you are yourself
but there's this weight,
confusion-that's the heaviest.
Like the weight of guilt.

Feathers stuck,
bees sting
You yearn, yet learn,
You see,
stars mock,
the fake innocence of the moon,
You search,
the invisible wind
desperately
pick up random butterflies

And then nature,
Smirks,
Finally
Shows it mirror to you
Broken pieces though
one by one
So you start seeing,
feeling
and filling
The pieces start completing
You;
Filling you
Peace, stillness
drag themselves
and make you complete
and then your tense bosom
finally breathes
full and easy.

Stream

There was never a start
and there will never be an end.

Let us walk,
let us walk.

=)

A happy sunday it was,
a fulfilling sunday it was,
yesterday.
at least after noon.

It rained, it did.
and on a sunday !
not too much though,
the air didn't cool enough.
And the shutter was there,
i clicked, and i clicked,
flowers, hens, drops and drops.
should've gone to harbour,
but was too lazy and scared.

It ended with the night,
it ended with music,
with flute,
with a loud tabla,
with peace,
with calm,
as if it were perfect,
scarily perfect,
but no,
there was the humming of the fan,
and the separation of household,
but still,
it was secure, very secure,
and with belonging,
and then it ended,
finally,
with a stillness
and a smile.

Screw thyself

And yea man is the only species which has the ability to screw itself up.
No matter what you give him.

He'll keep on screwing up himself till he dies.


Wait. He might well screw up death as well.

Feel

There's a deeper truth to every truth.
The latter you hear,
The former you feel.