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?
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.
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.
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.
