The Third World

I'm just the perfect example of an externally controlled society, degrading from inside. What I have is a dream, surreal, melancholic, hallucinogenic, undisputed, limerance, or whatever it is. Hence we have created a world of our own, where the destroyed houses give us hope to build new ones, violated laws give us courage to reach infinite pleasure, uncontrolled stride pleases us to embark on a voyage. Life is a pleasure, and that is why we want to live, we will find some way to please ourselves however hard it may seem. Progressive culture has taken my mind into brightness, and I am conditioned to think bright, look bright, sense brightness, however utopic may it seem to dream that. I have created the third alternative, after grazing through the world of dominance and through the other world of vengeance, the third world, the world of peace.

Just now

The blissful son has turned stoic.

The eyes again

I was spending my time in some little things
I threw them to the sea
In a hidden desire to have them back
I turned around to see
Those eyes again, gleaming with agony
And passive to the inherent spree.

I didn't fall back and caressed those gaze
I stared at the dilated pupil
Manipulated the vengeance and love in them
And returned my gaze at an irresistible will.

See I've turned logical now,
So I am what I should have been
What can be the de facto rockstar?
Aren't you supposed to be keen??

Perceptions[2]

What you do you are to do it intently, the everlasting attachment with the subject makes your identity,of what you are and what you want to become. Temper and temptations always stays at hand to be flushed out, still the psychic pleasure binds you and your mortal self, gleaming with peace. Time changes and we are bound to change ourselves with that, but the vision always remains intact, unscathed. If I call myself lonely then I have to find a subject to justify the feeling, so as to prove this is that and that is this. The vision, after four years of experimentation still is the same,I want to live. People say how life changes with time,me too seem to copy them. What else to do,to follow the reality principle,living a life of a professional.
Coincidentally I came across the word stoicism, it says ability to endure pain and hardships without any complain. One of my friend arka has succeeded in being such, I wish to be the same. That's what the creative people should be. Pain is just the experience in assimilating the mortal self with the unconscious and in doing so, we are going against Newtonian Forces. So running one mile a day causes pain in the thigh, but enduring it leaves us with a fruitful day.
Daydreaming is bad as I've been told, so I call off Aristotle and Socrates and Plato and Copernicus and Hippocrates in me.Their job is over.I call my mortal self again, back in me.

Perceptions [1]

The wrath creates a burden
Leaving a sullen face of vengeance
Despite the willingness to unite
The hand grenade gets its freelance.

The heart still beats
With a fear of being stabbed
And people still exist
Paying tax to the vindictive lord.

Faith still crave
For the dream like state
But what we get
Is just a moral obstinate.

The decisions are made
You are to die
But how you live defines
What you leave for others to ply.

How the mortal existence
Gets a little high
Maybe with or without
The bulge of the blue sky.

The cold chuckle

There lies the dreadful misery of the poor Jew in front of the vicious racist. The smile turned into the coldness of tyranny and numbness of death. They want him to die for them. His life has no value as such, he can not be a part of the Reich,he has to give his blood to account for his sin,sin to be born as a Jew. Thereafter he is put into the forced labor camp,to build tanks and guns for the army. This is how a civilization is grown, at the expense of lives. The thriving soldiers of the poor country often despise their onetime masters, complaining about their lives,about how they have been forgotten,how they fought bravely for the queen. They are the birds of the same feather. They are like chewing gum that are to be thrown after their use is over. How can they be remembered? They were supposed to be dead by now,but they are still living,is that a reason for their complain? These people don't understand the fact that they are slaves, they cannot be respected. They cannot be given privileges that they are craving for, they deserve a life meant to perish sooner or later in the service of the victorious (read vicious) racists. Disobeying them will be another call for a lash. The wild beast of racism lies hidden inside the cold chuckle of fraternity. This is how we define humanity.

The common man

You are a no one, you are coming from nowhere and you have nowhere to go, you are another perfect imperfection in this world- these were the words he used to say to him every single day of his failure. Now it has become a habit to talk anonymously. Failure isn't an option for Mr.sceptical however maimed might be the resources, however crippled might be hearts of the competitors 'one has to win'. And there the virtually sterilized human being raised upto the level of the 13 storey roof manipulates the keyboard to prepare the draft of his resignation. After a few hours he will be free, free like a bird. A doubt still fills up the belly and stresses the pectoral muscles, he will be a common man from today. He won't be praised for being the great son of some humble father, he won't be given a least bit of attention without the company tag. The romantic eyes of some blue moon night will seem drenched in the coldness of refusal, this is life, things turn over so quickly and suddenly in the blink of an eye. Mr.sceptical is again ruminating his past life, he is a software professional now,he can't let the soft emotional bluffs regulate his hard earned job. The draft is still not saved, the cross on the right top can bring an end to it. Proposal of freedom then will be the same melancholia of happiness, life will be the same monotonous mist of pleasure. He keeps wandering and limerating of the achieved and not achieved, the boeing flight wandering through the skies of salt lake waiting for the runway to clear up.