The scent of corruption..

The symbol shall move me more than what it symbolizes

Abstractions would move me more than the real..

The essence of things elude me for the expression excites me..

And I'd rather see my life as a grand design..

"..Maybe a divine plan!

A grand construct!

With the tiniest details building up to a grand crescendo-

And all of this chiseled, indeed, by God himself!.."

But I'll miss life as it occurs-

I'll miss the birds chirping and I'll miss the kids laughing..

I wouldn't be moved by the plight of the man dying on the street..

But a hero dying in an epic would move me-

"..For don't you see! It is beautifully expressed!

He breaks into a heart-rending monologue before he poisons himself!.."

I have thus reduced my world into symbols..

and have thus divorced myself from my world..

With nothing concrete but this vagueness and causeless unease.

And I wouldn't know where this corruption stems from..

When expressions became grand and empty.

When emotions ran dry with my heart thus numbed..

This corruption is tremendous..

It exhilarates me.

Weaving magic..

Weaving magic, my magician and I..

Unraveling our lives-our gods, our lies.

We travel light for we are to travel far..

Leaving no impression, no baggage, carrying no scar..

And I would ask my god-How did I chance upon?

A flower so simple, the freshness of dawn..

I would dance in joy, for how did I greet?

A being so complete, a song as sweet..

Weaving magic, and our tales unfold..

Of warmth, of happiness; of numbness, of cold..

And we greet them all, for there's nothing else to embrace..

but life as she is, with ease and with grace..

And I would bow down in reverence-How could life be?

As kind, as generous, as tremendous to me..

I would dance with my magician, for here we are..

Undistorted and brilliant-in love unscarred..

Sweet Indifference..

There's a glass wall separating me from my world and I've been banging my head against it.

But it would not break..

A strange reverence and I awaken with sweet indifference to my corruption..

When did my world disown me?

Were my senses too exhausted to function?

My head too cluttered to think?

My heart too dulled to feel?

My capacities too stuttered to flow?

My being too numb to probe?

And how does this rot blossom?

Where does it take root?

Who gives it its soil?

Who nurtures it, waters it, blesses it?

How would you measure the absurd?

How do you express the lack of expression?

When did colors lose their immensity?

When did living lose its essence?

What gods do you bow down to?

Which gods would you look up to?

What grand constructs do you take refuge in?

What pretty moulds do you harden yourself in?

What redemption do you find in this unweeded garden?

A strange reverence and I awaken to sweet indifference in my corruption..

I find myself blossoming in this rot..

The Socratic Method..

Who moves this all, if indeed there be a mover?

Sensitive-and i see,

Voids translating into space,

hollowness chiseled to form,

forms dissolve to be chiseled finer..

Precision stemming from randomness,

noise erupting in music,

order resting in chaos,

rigidity melting to flow.

Moulds harden and crack open..

The sacred fiddles with the absurd,

Life cuddled with death..

Movement rising in stillness.

A reverence for uncertainties,

assertions brimming with doubts.

Dirty slates so i wash them clean.

Bland plates so I taste them better..

Affinity in a dance with aloneness..

Suppression erupting in expression.

Creativity flowering in destruction..

A thing taking root in its opposite.

Who moves this all, if indeed there be a mover?

Krishnamurti

My teacher is simple,

Undistorted and brilliant

Stemming from freedom and blossoming in love..

Ever probing, ever silent.

Taking refuge in his doubts,

Seeing the sacred in the absurd..

And he sings his song..

His own song-indeed.

Unchained and tremendous..

A flower this gentle, and how it blossoms..

A being so complete, a song as sweet.

Unscarred and we question..

Together we probe-brothers in arms..

Strange blossomings..

So I've tasted colours noone else has ever tasted,

They've stunned my senses and numbed my tongue,

I was afraid I could taste no more.

But these flowers were plucked out for me,

These are strange blossomings-but blossomings indeed

They blossom with ease-probing, silent and receptive.

My plate may be bland but it is not empty,

My canvas may be blank but it is not dirty.

These are strange colours, but I'd paint regardless..