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..

Grey

And barring my inception,

I have been in this funny shade of grey all my life,

And it was here that I (however vaguely) defined myself.

It was here that my world assumed its color,

My thoughts assumed their precision,

And I let go of my cherished assumptions

It was here that the world overwhelmed me

My conscience got foggy for the better,

And uncertainties flooded me.

It was here that I learnt how to love,

My gods became redundant,

And I threw away my crutches.

And it was here that I learnt how to live,

How to flow despite the flow of life,

And how to feel when the world seemed numb.

Can I be moved?..

And under the lights of the heavens above,

on the top of his mountain,

facing all that was considered humanly grand,

there stood a man,

and overwhelmed-not by wonder, but (strangely) by despair,

he wondered..

"Can I be moved?"

He had dismissed his feelings far too easily,

Now he could not feel.

He had questioned his urges far too quickly,

Now he could not move.

He had reasoned far too much,

Now he would not think.

And so, pale in the face of beauty, he wondered,

"Can I be moved?"..

And there he stood-a dead man,unmoved,

searching for his humanness after denying everything that made him human..

Creation

I see a child, young and free,
and he's questioning existence as he questions me.
With his faculties exhausted with sights and sounds and smells,
ranging from steel structures to butterflies and fairy-tales,
he has exhausted himself to freedom.
He has captured awe as I had captured it once..

I smile and i walk with him
and i let the world overwhelm me for once..
I am less able than him, but able nonetheless.

I answer some straightaway,
dodge the technical, weird ones..and am stunned by the others.
I cannot answer them, I have not answered them.
They have eluded me as they have eluded mankind,
as they would elude him and his sons and daughters.

And such was the creator's intent,
to rest in awe and humility,
to seek happiness-not in the answer,
but in the incessant pursuit.

I turn to him
I shrug and I smile and I babble.