Pockets of playgrounds

Glow in the eyes,
fire in the brain,
what have you got,
what have I got -
it all doesn't matter to me.

I play in my place
where I envision a world
where social justice, 
bureaucracy, meetings 
don't bother me. 

My ideas are not selfish,
names, labels, take them all away,
give me just a corner where I can sit,
delve into deepest pleasures,
dig small pockets and dive into it,
away from noise, away from fears,
from prison of money, 
from heresy, from jealousy - 
just a small pocket to live and play.

I want to play with ideas from physics,
glue them with fancy mathematics 
and sometimes logic and computations.

If you like this pocket, you're invited,
free to enter or leave anytime -
it's neither about me or you,
nor about the world we've created,
I live in my mind, you live in your mind,
can't we just take a small pause
and live in it forever?

Agony of a cyborg

Hours and days spent,
countlessly on Netflix,
rain, moon, stars all left behind,
this world heading to behind the screens.

Food at doorstep, lust at one swipe,
all things getting sorted, except the one -
the emotion that you, a robot, is lacking now.

Without heart, with money,
you can buy what you want
on expense of poor, sufferers,
you can be racist and curse
when you want,
kick anyone out,
cancel anything one says.

Even if you understand all this,
you have no heart now,
as you live on facts and truths,
where and how matters to you the most.
Emotion that you have
is all for 20 folks you love the most
and for the one that keeps changing a lot.
This heart is a plastic, never gets broken,
it breaks, molds, reforms and loves the one,
afraid of actually feeling everything,
this heart can't read emotions of a cry,
it's all caught in that fake virtual world,
where concepts lie and not the actuality.

What's outside is gone now, we're all inside,
sitting, lamenting, trying to cry, but we can't.
Life doesn't excite you, love doesn't move you.
You are still, angry at yourself - the creator,
waiting for it to kill you and your dead heart. 

 

To create

A vast arid land of no space,
no time and no sense of self,
all black holes burnt out
and no light exists -
is where it all began.

A man in love with her
doesn't care about all this,
the cycle that he loops in -
sex, money, and agony,
is everything that he seeks.

A man do sometimes seek,
more than love or gain,
a place from where to start with,
and to create something
that makes him feel alive.

Why does he want to create at first place?

Things could have gone other way round,
and he could never have been born.
It just happened and so here he is,
a passenger of life in the road to reality.

Not sure where the road started,
he got conscious in the midde of it.
This road now tarnished,
repaired by millions now:
what is his role to play here?
Dance, sing, walk, run,
love, hate, envy, distress,
or to sit, sense and see it all.

He sees the road not from exterior
but with a cultural context around.
Billion years into formation,
million years of life,
thousand years of civilisations,
hundreds years of science,
and few years of machines.
It's all in that road, 
delved and merged deeply into it,
it's all in there.

A man with nothing to take away,
or nothing to imprint on the road,
realises how useless it is,
to fight, snatch, boast or impose.

But how does he live, if not do these all?

A man still knows the history of reality,
illusion of self and illusion of truth,
burdens from past and hopes of future,
architecting problems and finding solutions.

What he doesn't know is where he is going?

He knows that every answer has a reason.
for every flame of desire has a fuel.
Since this fuel is all in his brain,
still standing on this road 
and watching the spectral space
has something special to it.

This space is the canvas where you can paint
or scrutinise the things you love in this world,
or develop string theory for the higher dimensions
you're sure you can never observe in this world,
or to keep asking such questions 
and finding different answers everytime.

A man with all such pursuits,
of having and still craving,
of knowing and still asking,
of finally knowing and forgetting,
is the man we all can be.

She rises above horizon

As she rises above the horizon -

cigarette smoke, scorching sun,

burning leaves, flaming wind,

nothing heals her more than

the lightness of her hairs.

Graffittis, murals, paintings, sculptures,

hunderds of clouds telling stories,

of pain, love, loss, and death,

this all world fades away when 

she faces the camera.

Each puff, each song, is a train,
that goes to streets of senselessness,

but she rejects seriousness of this situation ,
as if she had a choice - but she hasn't,

she lives in the scarf 

which flew through the wind 

to grace her existence.

To paint her

 A never-ending urge to submerge my body -
my hands, my feet, my head and my breast,
into the colossal can of coiling colors,
to paint reality into the canvas of her body.

But why do I wish to paint reality?

Reality is what you sense or feel,
but it fades away with time
as my gaze changes with time -
what seduces me now is
gone when the moment is gone.
So I want to freeze it, seduce it,
paint it and then frame it.

But how should I start?

To freeze reality is
to bake its soft nature - 
the water flowing,
the wind blowing,
on the infinite canvas
of her glorious body -
by dipping in the pool of colors,
and to paint myself.

But what's the nature of her canvas?

This canvas, though colossal,
is the beginning and end of my pursuits.
It's all I have, it's all I crave.
Though a part of this expanding universe,
it is infinite in some sort.
It's bounded but detailed like her body -
her fringes, wrinkles, bends, and moles,
each gaze at the abyss of these details,
gazes me back and asks - 
if I have really finished gazing her all.

As I make love with her,
I paint flowers, feathers,
stars, comets, constellations,
galaxies and all things gigantic,
on around her curves,
her folds and her bends,
her back, on her neck.
It all imprints, whatever I have got,
colors on my body on her body.
I paint all over her canvas -
the reality which all I know,
is now engraved on her.   

 

Feel the other question

Centuries of asking questions

and pursuit of finding answers, 

brought bafflement in every quest

of finding answers around a pocket nest.

The nest with safety and less entropy -
a Mom kiss-feeding food to her baby,
is where it knows answers to some questions.
But does it really care, where the nest stands?

It stands on a tree with:
sharp branches, 
like a knife brain that tears you apart;
or the roots ingrained deep inside,
like the sap of bias which binds us all.

But

Can we sit safely on those branches 
and build pockets of less-entropy love? 
Can we ever replace sap of biases
with the sap of universal love?

Firstly, Branches

Branches are self-similar like fractals, where:

every small scale is a new moment;

every answer is another question - 
like the way "I love you" in the first moment, 
but not really sure about that, 
but in the next moment I'm pretty sure "I (used to) love you",
but not really sure in this very moment, and so on..

That is to say that,

I can build a pocket on this sharp branch
and still love you,
just don't ask me if I really do,
because then I will move to the next moment -

build a pocket and then answer you back,
hoping that you won't ask me again.

Secondly, Roots

Roots feed sap to the whole tree,
yet some nests stock more sap than others

and thus, the bias varies a lot 

across the whole tree.

The idea is to not stay in a pocket nest

and build a sap different from others.
Rather to sit on those sharp branches,
and just sense the sap,
which binds all those moments together.

That is to say that, 
"I love you" can be a nested proposal 

with several moments of surity and perplexity.

Yet, the sap of "love" binds those moments together.
(The bias of emotion binds your time together).

What you need to do is to:

look beyond your forms of life,
and find those sharp branches, 

which looks like can tear you apart,
yet, you attempt

to feel some moments,
of universal love in them,
till infinity and beyond.

%ideas
sharp branches == fractals == self-similar == Kripke's truth == "statement 1" in set 1 and "statement 1 is true" in set 2 and ""statement 1 is true" is true" in set 3 and so on..

tear == getting caught in statement true/false contradictions

infinite scale in fractals == infinite moments

feel the question == prevents you from getting caught in truth loop.

The next step

On this sunken soul
I stand firm, with feet of brain -
each moment sinks me down,
as I palpitate like my heartbeat.

To the land of logic, I stand, 
deciding each event of the future.
What's next: drives me, haunts me,
she pulls me or she pushes me - I'm torn.
With no flesh and no blood, still I stand,
brain engulfs me, yet I am sinking down.

Submerging into the abyss of my soul,
my brain diminishes and droops down.

But what's soul all about?

Soul is a vast grave of logico-emotions -
silence, gaze, eyes, tears, and poems.

But the question still remains,
What's the next step?
Where are you heading?
Is this a place where
a brain is no more, before it sinks down the soul,
or a brain still working but in this grave new world.

Metapoetry

 A thunderbolt of thought,
so striking yet years apart
gave me a piece to write - 
something that you might call "poetry".

A poem is what your brain is,
you can't predict, you can't describe.
The moment you describe, it slips away from you -
like the slippery something you want to say, but it slips,
or the rational thought you want to stick on, but it slips.

Each thunderbolt comes in and goes away,
you've but few seconds to see it, say it.
Why is the first fiery thought the special one?
If you really forget it, is it really the special one?

It seems like special as it excites you at glance -
the way, I met her, dated her, and got excited at glance.
After a while, as that thought get stagnant and stale,
the love gets boring and the relationships start to fail.
Is there something which is special and keeps you ON,
or the notion that to be on is to be afraid of loving all.

Loving all is to not restrict yourself to rationality,
to not be with ONE and but to be ONE with everything.
That is to be open for everything alive and around,
waiting for it to strike you and poetise you down.

Utopia

That moon or that equation,
submerged me into it,
like a a dead body sinking down -
bones, earth, bacteria, and consonance.

A consonance with the universe -
stars, galaxies, or the stardust infinite.
Are you really conscious?
Or your thought is the thought of stars.

The stars might not think but still,
they are close to other stars so they don't care - 
they act the way you can't describe,
the way you can't describe how she loves me?

She loves me the way I don't know-
her smile, her gesture is so spiral and secret.
Secret are those movements of stars,
they yearn to submerge deep into those stars.

Sumerge as in they kiss her -
make love and destroy what they truly are.
To destroy what you really are
is to love someone and to not be who you are.

Are we really someone or are we "love"?
Do we really exist outside your heart?
Imagine walking around with no heart.
Feeling nothing but knowing all,
and still knowing nothing what you feeling are.

Logico-emotional art: 1

 

Alien intelligence and human minds

A question keeps recurring again and again,
across all cultures and systems of thought:
where’s the core of consciousness in brain -
within the universe or in hands of God? 

They told me that God is the answer.
I said, no, you created it.
Okay, then science is the answer.
No, you created it.
Ah, then maths is surely the answer.
No, you created it.
“Uff, seems like I’m caught in myself -
what’s the way out of it? ”. 

Centuries of debates happened
over mind and matter,
philosophers were in trouble
when their ideas were shattered.
Until the night Turing arrived
and imagined a new dawn
of creating computations -
alien intelligence artificially spawn.

Smart move that was, now I am more keen -
How's our brain different from a machine?
What's this secret behind the scene? 

Machines are designed with rules to follow.
Humans make rules which they hardly follow.
‘Human with a machine brain’ seems like the new theorem -
where a cyborg vacillates between freedom and decorum.
Humans and machines seem like striking their chords,
transmuting into an army of cyborgs:
chips in brains, sensors in eyes,
to keep track of calories and time.

Wow! A cyborg standing on this slippery interface -
what will be more worthy for his solace -
some objective rules or his subjective space?

Looking at history of humanity it seems,
we attach value to our dreams -
Not the parcel delivered to your doorstep
but that soul-searching you begin after.
Not the person you meet on web,
but that magical real encounter. 

The world in future will have a society -
not built on our rules, but on our autonomy.
The song that you create, the painting that you make.
The pun that you quip and the laugh that we all share.
A social structure built on pillars of arts -
will set everyone equal on charts.
No new rules to make,
no old rules to break.

Though as we become more algorithmic,
your heart will strive to stay rhythmic.
Rules will feed a dead life in you,
so you'll yearn for a life in you.
There might be times of depression -
of less free will and maybe oppression.
The mantra is: to breathe and meditate,
to be able to love and to create. 

Wow! This world is so full of excitement and tension.
I guess I have found hints to my old question -
that part of my consciousness is in the machine,
and the valuable part is working behind the scene.

----

% haven't checked rhyming and poetic elements yet

% just jotted down ideas and skeleton

% yet to beautify. <3 

%strands of thoughts

AI as alien intelligence

controlling our brain

making rules for us to follow

control on ourselves is reducing

algorithmic and non-algorithmic part of brain

non-algorithmic part reducing 

value of money here

to meditate, arts etc..is what is the future economy.

To make "film" philosophically self-consistent

Medium of "film" is debated - if it qualifies as an art form or not. Those who believe it's an art, find certain conditions to be able to do so. A primary condition is to enable film as a mediative source of invoking consciousness. The visual/verbal stimuli it delivers should make the audience understand/reflect on the form it delivers and become a participant in the form which the creator of film was already a part of. There are certain easy techniques to do that, which shouldn't become the sole method of making film an art. For example, to make characters recite a poem on screen makes film a medium to access another form. To make film an art, it has to crudely invoke consciousness in your mind by finding and establishing certain putative features of itself and using them. 

Having done that, let say, now my aim is to make a film as an art form do philosophy. If I am able to achieve that in a perfect wotld, it means that philosophy and art are abridged through the medium of film. In other words, a film has its crude elements which are philosophically rich (be it the mathematical sequences of images - logical positivism etc.) and act as a guiding medium of consciousness for the viewer. In effect, film resources do all the "hard" task of philosophy and what an audience gets is the "soft" part of arts portrayed thereby. Depending on the type of philosophy, the "hard" task can be undertaken by the creator (rational) or left for viewer to interpret (open ended). For the former, there is a clear distinction between arts and philosophy, while for the latter, both things are merged together seemlessly and the question of arts and philosophy is in the minds of viewer (creator can only attempt different techniques). 

It is quite interesting to think of ways to do that. In rational sense, the best approach is to try different philosophical systems and find technical means of putting them in film. It can be done using the seqeunce of images shown in film or some other visual means which are artistic in nature.

Key ideas - Structural (minimalist) films like Serene velocity 1970. 

Citation - Plato Stanford, philosophy of film.

Solution:

1. Web cam technique is a nice methodogical-practical technique to create infinite frames sequentially. 
2. Let's shoot near the grantchester river, to aim for a infinite long distance location - keeping the stand static. 
3.  Time lapse of the whole video would be best. 5 mins step. 

Thought, grave, and entropy.

A grave once said to a thought,

 "why do you look so engrossed:

 a heart troubles a head when in misery, 

are you trying to solve some mystery?"

 The thought said in a grim tone, 

"I've power, money but I feel alone. 

My pillars of thoughts attract flocks,

 who admire it, climb it, to get flopped. 

Some still manage to reach the top,

 and they end up voracious or in doubt." 

The grave quipped with a fossil tone,

 "You were the one to call stone a throne. 

Then, everyone started running after it.

 Those who got it, they got contented. 

Others polished it hard, to glow it more.

 But very few asked the episteme of throne. 

Those who asked it, got depressed, 

and stopped this quest and fell dead." 

The thought froze on hearing this,

 awaiting to fall into this vast abyss - 

of galaxies, stars, stellar gas and clouds, 

with sign of nothing but his own thoughts. 

As grave opened its arms to embrace him, 

a sudden idea like a thunderbolt struck him, 

"What if there's something beyond you and me?" 

Grave replied as if he saw this coming, 

"To not exist is beyond all. To be nothing".

 Building up his epiphany, the thought explained, 

"A man dismantles into atoms when dead. 

These atoms exist beyond all our senses, 

this simple fact can have lots of inferences.

I'm life because I'm thought,

 but it doesn't mean life is all thought. 

A bunch of packed atoms is what is life, 

just see that mold on you, living with strife.

 For me, life is a restriction with less entropy 

than death which is a state of maximum entropy. 

Entropy is an uncertainty in our lives, 

a cycle of love and quarrel with our wives. 

More than that, a life strives to interact with a life,

 imagine a specie living light years away in disguise.

 It's not a story to sell or a publicity stunt, 

a thought chasing that signal is mankind's hunt. 

A hunt to increase entropy without going to grave, 

for the joy of elevating entropy, while alive, is all I crave."

Rough -

The thought replied with grim face," I feel like dissolving into the space.Being tired of sitting on my own tower,I want to cede all my assets and power. "The grave remarked abruptly with a mirth,"Being human, you will dissolve in this Earth.One thought created another,each thought debated another,one thought conquered another,each thought killed its mother.Cyclones made of thoughts  lionise you and blind you,yet drift you to the top of mound, **cyclones - thoughts - drift - top - mound - Sitting there aloneDark clouds of thoughtsbefool, engross, and haunt. Every thought is in illusion,every system, thus, is delusion,every word is an aversionto the mind-matter unison.Every debate dies in confusion,every mind lies in Perching on top, you adore sky,obscured from beings that fly-geese, vultures, stars, comets,who are they, what do they feel?Heavy heads bogging down the bodiesand forging a convolute reality.Minds - sick, alone, gore, and torn,  lingering to transcend into oblivion. Before the impending escape,a signal struck the landscape shouting trillion miles away"You were never alone, so were we,You are not the app ******** everyone knows stuff till this part, everything after this is going to be the future. 

I love you, Wittgenstein

As I say a word,
it reminds me of you -
my world is not yours
and yours can't be mine.

As I surmount this ladder
of trying to say things -
you threw it away as if
you want to see me falling.

As I fall, I start whistling
the things I can't say -
like this crazy you who
said things he can't say.

As I start seeing semblances
a likely bias stops me -
for my intuition and illogic,
but you seem to hold me.

As I am about to touch down
you connect me to forms of life -
of thoughts, habits, and cultures,
of being able to love and loved by.

As I think of love, I think of you
and the moment expands to eternity -
my heart glazes intensely on imagining
your passion, profundity, and intensity.

Hill of wisdom

He got born in this world,

started gazing and listening,

yet not speaking a word.

He learnt from his architect,

speech, style, and sermon,

to utter ideas and then reflect.

He started climbing a hill,

made by sages of the past,

to view the world at his will.

He learnt mounting from masters -

learning, failing, trying, repeating,

and building the path as he wanders.

He matured as he moved places -

new milieu, masters, and mantras,

his thoughts felt like zillion spaces.

He chose to do an abstract hiking -

of logic, philosophy, and poetry,

he didn't feel climbing but flying.

He spirited high to find hilltop 

to sit, sense, and solve the world,

but failed to find any such top.

He grew old and forgot his goal,

still soaring in his spectral space,

now, he adores his untold hope.

A love story of two stars

Two stars,

light-years apart,

glimmer and glance

at each other to ask

some eternal questions:

why they exist ,

why they met,

and why they are apart.

Humans, the God of logic,

told them the story of accumulation

of gas clouds of dense concentration

ultimately creating and rearing them.

Happy to know this,

now they ask

why they are close

yet miles apart.

Humans, the God of rationality,

bashed them at their stupid question:

in an ocean of billion stars, 

lots of stars are near or far. 

Sad to know this,

now they ask

when will they meet

as they seem

to like each other.

Humans, the God of predictability,

told them that after millions of years,

gravity will bring them closer and closer

until they clash, mash, and perish together.

Dancing in this hope,

they relish this moment

of glancing at each other

knowing their destiny.

On the nature of sex

On the nature of sex

Sex is undeniably the most talked about and fundamental aspect of a human psyche. Skipping its historical perspectives, I am interested in this blogpost to talk directly about what place sex has in our lives today. In this post-modern world, the old beliefs on sex are being continously and progressively shunned by most classes (economic or intellectual). Most of the banal conversations between well-to-do humans is on the topics like, polyamory, casual sex, threesome, gender sexual identity, choosing partners, extra-marital sex, open relationships etc. I am interested to find what's the most fundamental consideration to hold while deciding on your decision or belief system, when your future actions are falling into this domain of life.

Unarguably, the human body (including mind) is a complex unit of intermingled biological, emotional, rational, irrational, evolutionary and lot other facets. These are so jumbled up that there is no point of even delineating them and explaining them - but everyone is so keen to play with these divisions while deciding their actions. For example, while choosing a partner for marriage a rational reason invokes to find yourself a stable partner in financial, social aspect but while choosing a partner for sex a psychological reason invokes to find yourself a sexually compatible partner. Given the fact that human changes variably with time and so do their goals and baseline facets for making decisions, it is safe to say that human can never have a control over him/her-self. When I say control, I mean self-awareness. The least I am sure about human pscyhe is its own self-awareness to why it is making a certain decision. It just happens to be. For this reason, drawing a reason from baseline facet to explain your decision is a task susceptible to self-bias, making-it-up, and such psychological issues. Mapping these inferences to another person, it is even more safe to say that a human can never understand even to a fair agree the intermingled facets of another person (a potential partner in our case). Hence, the idea of loving the soul (metaphor for intermingled facets) of the person is purely metaphorical and you can never explain or word it down. But experimentally, love happens as evident from billions of people throughout the course of human history who have again and again re-iterated this proposition. So, I can not write anything about love here. But what about sex? Sex is another talked about topic just like love and they both have some psycholoical correlations. However, sex is an action stemming from the intermingled facets I mentioned above. To decide to do sex is to understand these facets. If you choose not to understand these facets, you are not a human as you should be. But humans can not understand these facets because of limits in our cognition. Hence, it might be safe say that one shouldn't do sex. One might argue that just like love, the act of sex just happens to be. If it is the case, then sex should be as abstract as the love is - for love just happens in your mind, so the sex should be. But what's the origin of love? Is it the phsyical proximity with that person or an idea of that person. My contention is that love is with the idea of that person, existing in your person. So even though, love can have causal factors like physical proximity, finance, social factor, genetic factor, psychological factor, the most fundamental and common trademark of love is the idea of person existing in your mind. That's how love becomes abstract for it exists only in your mind. If you decide to do sex by not finding a fundamental trademark of sex, then it is a fairly common act and you can always find arguments to choose any side on the topics related to sex like casual sex, threesome etc. For example, homosexual incest is a perfectly normal act because there is no chance of pregnancy and from biological perspective, it should be legal/normal/open. "But is such an act fundamentally understood or felt before executed?" -- You can say it is felt like it should be done it is done. "But when you felt it, what should you do about what you felt"? -- I will just do it when I felt like doing it. "So the act happened physically and altered something in brain, but you ignored the brain part and focused on the physical part and that's it" -- But you said that there are some intermingled aspects as causal factors of sex which you can't delineate properly and there is nothing other than doing sex which you can do." -- Yes, so I just need to do it and not think at all. But there's something missing in your argument of "just doing it". "It was an experience in your brain which was so abstract and fundamental and omniscient that you forgot to notice. This experience is that of re-creating sex in your brain. Just like love, sex is all in your brain and you can imagine sex with any person/animal/object possible in the known universe and it is legally/socially/morally acceptable. What I mean to say is that though you can do sex without thinking, but just thinking about sex is a better action that actually doing it. When I say thinking about sex, it means writing, drawing, talking, any everything imaginary about sex than the actual physical sex. The game of imagination has much higher payoffs than an actual game. The possibilities of abstract sex is immensely larger even to write than few possibilities of phsyical sex (and its evolution) which always bring moral/legal/social issues in societies. Sex is important for humanity but not doing and just imagining sex is a well-thought, constructed, pleasurable, diverse act with immense benefits. Choice is yours.

Love is an art

The ring she wears to be on cloud nine

is an art - baffling, pleasing, and divine.

Flying high on red hills of sloppy snow

 she's an art - wilful, blushing, and zero.

 

Untitled

On this sailing smooth river
the sailing wind makes me shiver.
The shiver is not that of cold
but because I am growing old.
Old and few hours to die
still sailing on this life's high.
These highs push me for another high
and some downs at times, make me cry.
Cries remind me of your face
which is still so full of grace.
A grace I can't see now with poor eyes,
and you're hidden somewhere in disguise.
Disguised is still not my pounding hearbeat
which I hear, and now I fasten my fleet.
This fleet flows faster and faster
as our lives become fainter and fainter.
Faintly, I can see you writing something
as I reach by your spot, fainting.
Fainting, I try to say but I couldn't say
I stand up, fall on water, drowning away.
Away at  a distance, you see me and jump by
We both meet and drown in river; now our souls fly.

Death

Death

My chilly plant withers away.

In this cold, she shivers away -

with disdain look at her father,

for I forgot to sprinkle some water.

She used to love me a lot -

a gift I never shove a thought.

And now it's too late to repent,

for she is falling down a descent.

She's gone.

Alone in this dark night,

I miss her stark sight.

Now, I feel dis-enchanted

never take a gift for granted.

Identity

The soul of George Floyd

is not at a peace yet.

Like a tornado, it's a void:
it's not just a protest.

This void viralling the world,
swaying all of us mentally,
leaves a question yet unfurled -

what exactly is an identity ? 

To use this viral void,
to distill nature of identity,

we fill it with three traits:
an eye, a brain, and a heart.

An eye of child with wonder:
looking at dog and humans alike.

A brain with sheer scientific saber:

grappling with facts, trials, and testing.

A heart of a profound philosopher:

feeling deep expanse of epistemology.

This void, first, goes to ants
to gape at a distance

and finds a smooth trail -
identity looks fuzzy.
As it peeks closer,
each ant is palpable 

an ant is the ant -

identity is distinctive.

Over a scale of years,
worker ants die within one to three
and queen ant lives upto thirty -
identity could be short or long lived.
Queen ants outlive workers,
thanks to their gene expression
which repairs DNA damage -
identity stays with (genetic) power.

Then the void goes to grass to find

few communal or solitary bunches,
flourishing in Sun or hidden in soil  -

identity stays with those who are exposed.

Then the void goes to air to find
air molecules shaking the bridges away,
or spreading the scent of your beloved -

identity is mapping of an entity to another.

Aliens don't exist unless they map on us.

When something maps on us, it has identity.

If something has identity, it is an identity.
This identity is singular, special, venerable.

Identities of entities are same, when entities are same.

Ascribing one's identity to another is as illogical as
ascribing shape of clouds to horses and humans.
Mistaking one with another is as stupid as
mistaking a fire in burner with nulcear explosion.

May Floyd's soul rest in peace,
and this void teaches a lesson
to identify everyone uniquely,
to believe that humanity is
a necklace of billion pearls
all threaded through this void:
unique yet sharing a common soul,
to retrieve emotions without words,
and share this message for entirety!

% The void is going to be my marker (of heart-brain-eyes) to philosophically-scientifically-emotionally answer the question of identity. Not using any nice poetic element in this poem is signifying how less passionate and inhuman I was while writing this poem. Poetry is stupid act to me unless my heart ache and beat when I write. It didn't here. Originally, I had thought of writing the poem on Identity but after the incident I thought that I can merge it with a topical issue. It turns out that NO - I can't do that and sensationalise a truthful act such a poetry with social topics I'm not deeply (to the extent that nothing means more to me at the time of writing than what I am writing) passionate about. 

When I was writing this poem, my plan was to finish it by 5 PM to get back to my research. If you start thinking about time when doing something supposedly truthful, then it is as false as 1=2. 

The other side of window

Gleaming star

through the window, 

there comes a

reminder of past -

a past we never witnessed

and the past we all caress.  

The one we never witnessed

is ablaze and morbid.

Burning gases, explosions,

galactic events, black holes,

and things swirling around.

Galaxies forming, ageing,
traveling, merging, and dying. 

Life and death were in unity.

After million years, we evolved -

moved, conquered, and thought.

We thought, spoke, and debated -

ideas of life and death were created.

We shaped meanings for life -

study well, get job, and find a wife.

A universe was bred to give life a worth -

we embraced and abused our mother Earth.

We even made-up cycles of life and death-

soul, God, to not be afraid of holding our breath.

That star teases you

and tells you all this.

It says to you to accept

unity of life and death.

You reject it outright.

But you won't stop

glancing fondly over it.

You look at it

to see another past-

a past that's true

within realms of life

yet parochial since 

all it has is life.

This past, we all caress,

is wistful and recurring.

Big dreams, hard efforts,

buses, taxis, trains, flights 

to go somewhere you belong.

These journeys set you fleeting,

maturing, finishing, and repeating.

All journeys share a common thing: a window.

A window, beside you, made of glass

which you didn't open to listen to star.

You saw something else in that star -

your dreams, greed, and your scar.

You fancied success while touring in cars-

you abused trees, animals, and flowers.

O Lord! Now you want to travel galaxies-

find and start living with alien species.

Some of you might travel across space-

age slower, become star, and an advanced race.

Now you as a star

tease us.

You ask us 

to sit beside window.

We reject it ouright.

But we won't stop

glancing fondly over you.

We look at you,

to see a past-

a past that's true

in realms of spacetime

not parochial since

it's beyond life.

We were all stars,

morbid and ablaze.

We got life

and we traveled space.

We became stars

and we shall always remain.

Tangled

Aimlessly walking, treading pointlessly.

Randomised turns, roads returned.

Loops formed, garbled loops.

I know the junctions I met you.

We explored, walked Paris.

You laughed, jested along.

I agreed, disagreed along.

I know the junctions I kissed you.

What's special in those junctions?

Is life a story of junctions?

Do junctions tell you something?

(Junctions put label on relationships:

every anniversary is a milestone,

not every moment is a milestone).

Some moments die after taking birth,

some places are empty for you,

each memory is a star in stardust,

each junction is a point in space.

Can you create stardust from stars?

Can you create space from points?

You can't and you don't bother.

Roads were tangled and will remain.

We were tangled and will remain.

We created junctions when we met.

We cherish junctions till our death.


---
The view I have is that of strong memories which keep coming back to our mind and how our infinite sea of subjective experiences is nothing but a set of few junction points that we cherish again and again. Roads and lives are tangled but only junctions give them some meaning and direction. Junction sort of simplify the tangledness. 

Words and puzzles

Moon is the rock
in which I find her
talking to me
through an echo.

Clouds of oblivion,
come, stay, and go.

Dog barks at me
as if I am a ghost.

Driver honks at me
when I walk in middle
of this road.

A force is pulling me,
too mild, but I feel
that it can lift me off.

Moon, clouds, dog, driver, force
is a short story like those
pieces of puzzles.
They can never connect
unless you know their contexts.

Even if you know contexts,
they are mine not yours.

They can be yours if you trust me.
Find me, talk to me,
ignore dogs, ignore drivers.
Lift up, sail through clouds,
come to me, come to me.

--
A very linear way of explaining what I mean by each logo-centric word in a disjointed subjective context. Then, one can connect those subjective pieces to form a meaning. But even then, those meanings might not be understood completely due to subjective differences between reader and writer. The last attempt of writer is to summarise the story by making the reader as writer and writer as the beloved in his story. 

Meditation and Spring

Each and every attempt
to pedal this tinted bike
feels like an attempt
to drive through florid airstrike.

Each airstrike has an old thought,
buried deep down inside brain,
and it randomly emerges out
while cycling in this springy rain.

Each rain blooms these flowers
of neurons falling down on tree.
The wind spreads hues from flowers
and brain toils for another spree.

Each spree focuses on fresh breath
going in and out of the nose.
The goal is to paint brief death
to flowers, when the air flows.

Each flow repeats the cycle
of cycling, wind, and breath.
The whole idea is to be idle,
to not fail is to grant death.

Each death is an entry to a world:
where hues and tints fills the space,
they are present but not unfurled,
each sec is an idle spring of solace.

Sans ideas, Sans emotions, Sans desires

Sans ideas, Sans emotions, Sans desires 

Ideas thrive us, 

Emotions drive us, 

Desires connive us.

Can you imagine a world 

without them? 

Ideas fix our hearts, 

Emotions fuel our hearts, 

Desires fool our hearts. 

Imagine a world  

without them. 

A world where:  

you don’t let other ideas 

sway your creativity; 

you don’t let your emotions 

set your destiny; 

you don’t let your desires 

steer your psyche. 

To create a world 

without them, 

you should: 

Forgo your memory, 

to shun other ideas; 

Evade the transiency, 

to shun your emotions; 

Know your biology 

to shun your desires.

A world without them 

is a world of: 

an erased history   

and memory of its specie,  

an everlasting permanency 

of state which certainly  

puts uncertainty on duality 

of your mind and body. 

If you accept duality, 

you should use mind  

to control your body. 

If you reject duality, 

then you should bind 

this unity with everybody  

around you. 

The first proposition,  

of controlling your body  

has to do with externality, 

i.e. desires imprinted by  

things around you 

which is logically  

equal to  

the second proposition. 

This whole quest for 

everlasting permanency  

finally boils down to  

bringing a unity. 

A unity between your  

mind-body unity 

and the externality. 

It seems there is only 

one way to bring this unity 

which is to: 

forgo the literal sense of “I”, 

sky is you, you are sky, 

fly is you, you are fly, 

There is no you, 

There is no “I” 

There is no fly 

There is no sky 

Everything is,  

simply, 

a unity.