Things found in life's corners...

Hurt.

a knife twisting in your solar plexus
churning your insides with all its

sharpness.

of reality and its acrid sting. But, left there too long, it becomes all too familiar, a part of the being

now, so integral, that it gets increasingly difficult to recognise it, to perceive it.

what remains is a dull ghost of that which swept your consciousness for the first time.
the blinding pain

the fiendish rage

the life changing quality...
turn a paler hue by the turn.

and the knife-edge, progressively dulled; almost sickeningly comfortable

hurt.

nirukti

I am 
nobody's daughter, nobody's 
sister and nobody's mother. 

In 
the flood of all destruction,  
I am 
the one thing that 
survives; while man's ego 
suckles its own thumb. 

I am 
without beginning 
or end, I am 
without body 
or form, I am 

the ultimate truth.

Thank you, old friend

I've begun to miss my blog with a vengeance, 
as if it were a being in its own right;
and not something i created.

a hundred, a thousand, painstaking hours 
of pouring out words and poring over syntax,

as if it were something under a sheet of bullet proof glass;
meant to be stared at from a distance
and coveted. 

Truth

Closed my eyes

and i could see

what i wanted it to be.

It knows no origin;

It just is.

a beginning

unto itself; and an end 

to no end.

Neurotic love

Those who know me know that i thrive on the written word. Brilliant writing fills me with an ecstasy, which i am yet to discover in any smoked/drunk/imbibed substance.
When i read something that has definitely changed my life monumentally, there is a curiosity to delve deeper into the writer's pschye, to know where it all started, how it came to be,
an arcane urge to know how they loved and lived.
and it is what i do when i finish a book and have decided that the writer belongs to my list of illustrious individuals, only to discover that they are dead
and that they did not live a happy life or die a peaceful death.
It is not a privilege or a special trait or anything 'real cool' at all. It is the greatest tragedy, a loss of the highest order.
There is a large research pool dedicated to the link between key depressive disorders and creativity. It sickens me to realise that they were ailing to cope with the idiosyncrasies of the world they live in, struggling to come to terms with reality, in the most literal of meanings.
And i think, How could they,cope, when that what they forged in their minds was superlative compared to what the collective mind of the 'real world' had to offer.
How could they cope,
especially when they knew what it can be.
when they've glimpsed the world beyond
Its like moving the translucent curtain covering a painting. What you see, the colours richer, the expressions so much more vivid; what you see, without the dull grey film, is such explicit vibrancy.
And then, how do you return, to mediocrity;
and survive it.

reading material for the interested: 
creativity and mood disorders
artistic creativity and bipolar mood disorders

filter pages of pain through my limpid fingers,
lilting tunes toss them far away,
words of hurt used shimmer on memory banks,
but now, like the receding tide
worlds merged and colours
pores of want and longing
You don’t exist in my dreams anymore;
You are here, as true as the thoughts in my head
are my own.

interlude

my patience with words so
feeble, so little while my fingers long;
to tap those elusive strings of your.
furtive stirrings of my.
heart
feet; your
fingers
tracing permanent memories on my.
skin so perfect under the
caress of your.
thought.

Voices and slingshots

sheets of gold
drape fleeting time into their fold; eternity
teases urgent scurrying life.
its fleeting flight
forever one glance ahead; forever
one step elusive


dipping amber casts crimson over green; lending
ephemeral shine; leaveing murky brown
in place of, vivid erstwhile-chartreuse.

river swells

fingers entwine
pressed skin pressed against lips, eyes
show a tint of fear, and concern
the thrill and the encouragement

secret hell.

To dissolve into unyielding nothingness
is not difficult.
all you need,
is a heart that doesn't feel,
senses that do not perceive;
a being that negates its own existence,
by the virtue of not wanting to exist.
a soul that is faithless,
faith that is baseless;

spirit smothered in the mundane duet of time and survival.

my paience with words so feeble so little while my fingers long to tap those elusive stirings of your heart fingers feet

with every