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..

The absurd..

The man asked me indeed, if I had ever loved, lived, felt, hated or tasted the various forms of passion which thus (supposedly) made us human.

And I was frank-I said I didn’t know, for I had no measure. I would never know what it was to be human for I had no measure but myself…and I had stopped trusting myself a long time ago. I could not be, and therefore could not taste another’s being-their passion, their hopes, their highs, their lows and their gods. Where was the measure?

The man gave it a thought and reasoned (and reasoned well) that so it was for us all. None could taste another’s being and therefore taste another’s ‘humanness’- but that did not stop one from asserting (and did not cause one to question) oneself. Where did such absurd doubts take root?

I pondered…and I said again that I did not know, that sadly I knew nothing and could affirm nothing. It seemed to me that I was thrown in the world half-baked-without a spine and without a soul; with nothing concrete but these doubts and this strange numbness which remained of me..

The man was silent for a while. I too, was silent and stared at him with the same numbness with which I saw the world.

Then he slapped me - “Did that hurt?”

I screamed- “Of course it hurt!”

“Well that’s a start.”

In a dance.

We'd be in a dance I do not understand

and I'd be as human as inhumanly possible.

My back upright, my hair well done

and I'd smile at the right places, might just be witty.

And you'd laugh-reaffirming my wit and humanness..

And we'd talk-for silence stuns us both.

It makes you awkward and it makes me numb.

And as you'd flow, I'd stutter-

A piece of me with you.

Another censuring what i say.

Another marvelling at the dynamics and the apparent spontaneity of it all.

Yet another concious of this fragmentation, of the hollowness from which I stem..

And if we're lucky-we might just end up revealing ourselves.

And though god wills this rarely-

but I might just lose myself in the dance..

The Free will paradox.

So I figure that I function with a free will i never knew existed,

and in this funny explosion of free will,

I figure that I am free.

Now, I would not attempt to explain these funny circumstances,

but I would attempt to assume a free will.

For as I see it,

I can either assume and create

Or i can conclude and resign to what is.

For if I were to conclude (and conclude ruthlessly at that),

I would conclude that I am a puppet and I know not of my master,

I know not of his strings, his will or his ways,

or his supposed 'elaborate divine plan.'

But I might just assume a free will and break free from such a construct anyway..

I, sirs,

may not possess a free will,

but I function with it.

And for all I care (and despite how it all appears)

I am free..