Immortality

Does it bother you, 
what will you be left with,
when you die?

Do you want something to leave here,
or to take away to heavens with you,
or you simply don't care?

Some of us want something to leave
as evolution designed us to do so.
Some leave babies, some leave ideas,
some leave assets, some leave books.
Many of us want to give something to this world,
in generous and kind way -
for life was an unexpected gift to us,
so why not return the favour to nature,
why not remain alive in the hearts of others?

Some of us want to take things to heavens,
those who believe in heavens,
in good deeds and bad deeds,
in a world before and after life,
in a single cosmos of souls -
they want to take good vibes to heavens
and be born again with a better life.

There are, but, a few people
who don't care about their mortal nature,
in that they are detached from pleasures and pains,
from material and immaterial,
from emotions and objects.
A mind that's detached yet penetrating
the fabric of reality as is,
asking about its whereabouts and
still knowing that there is no answer,
yet asking this question repeatedly, throughout life,
feeding itself through simple pleasures -
pleasures of science, pleasures of poetry,
pleasures of arts, pleasures of philosophy,
that mind is liable to explode when exhausted,
just stop functioning or get damaged at one stage,
that mind will probably be 
the most closest mirror
to the fabric of reality -
this is what I'd call immortality.

Scientific mind

 A mind so sharp like an edge of a sword,
it pierces the fabric of reality 
and opens it, like a door to heaven.

What's heaven or what's hell?
Nothing matters to it, 
for it has nowhere to go
and nowhere it belongs.

It belongs to the place
where it breathes now,
where it senses now
and where it meditates now.

It finds mathematical underpinnings
and simple postulates 
that defies all criticisms.
Any experiments which disproves it,
just disembellishes the whole theory.

There is no fundamental truth that mind knows,
theories do work, but work under restraints.
You relax restraints, the theory falls apart
like a machine collapses when its bolts loosen,
or a body falls down when its joints lose their grip.

Hence, what's more mighty is the reality, not the mind.
Impossible is the mind which conquers or mimics reality.
A mind is bound to provide abstractions,
imaginations that feel close to reality.
It might work really well or not at all -
it doesn't matter. 
What matters the most
is a never-ending quest
of a limited mind
to appreciated the reality as is.
To stay open and get surprised
every second
of this only life that you've got.

Privileges

Being born was never a choice,
so we lament over it,
we curse over it:
wish my parents were more rich,
my parents were more educated,
and what not!

Indeed, our actions are constrained
by the things we experience 
and the things we can imagine.

But whatever you have 
is a privilege to someone else.
So one can assume that everyone of us,
I repeat, all of us, are privileged in some sense.
Some have got cars, which many can't afford.
Some can buy books, which many can't afford.
Not only individuals, but organisations as well..
Some exploit daily workers by paying less,
ads make money by hackings our brains,
cigarettes kill people, but are everywhere,
newly 18 turned enter sex industry out of despair,
yet we hide behind our curtains and watch them.
Countries looted centuries ago, now are looked down upon-
their poverty is a classroom problem to someone else.

Shutting eyes is easy, as even privileged ones suffer.
Someone is more privileged than us, so we all suffer.
What's important is to act and not just lament,
do something instead of writing a poem (like me) -
small acts that remind you of how privileged are you,
to not support companies which exploit their workers,
to not buy products whose sources are morally corrupt,
to donate more than you save; if you're financially secure,
to act rather than sit; if you're free enough.

An emotion is something, that can make you socially conscious.
An emotion of forgetting your suffering for once,
and hate your privilege can do much good for humanity.
Don't feel coward to be emotional about such things.

It still is a privilege to be emotional about your romantic feelings,
and feel rock solid, stolid, for other things.
To afford a partner sticking around you is a privilege.
To be emotionless, as you walk by and see someone shivering in cold,
is a privilege!

Origami

Are we two sides of the same page

folding into one another?

No tapes, no glues.

Filling the voids along the creases,

effortlessly; 

drawing one another,

closer and closer...

Until we broke each other apart,

by tearing the page into pieces

just like ending our bodies.

With a tactful strategy,

we join the ends of pieces

to form the Möbius strip

which brings us on the same page -

though after death,

when we no longer have breath

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.