Of words… utterly beautiful words

Those words. Witty, clever, impeccable words. A sequel of these, one following the other like a child following her mother, like the black and white notes of a sonata, like a dancer doing her moves in a ballet, swings, mystifies, elates. Those words. They play with each other, dance with each other, swing one another, throw one another, eventually reverting back to the embrace from a free fall. They complement and they contradict. Like lovers. Those words, engulfing and entrenching their disparate meanings, making a novice author give an incredulous sigh at the beauty of their unison after reading them. A train made of different blocks. “How can they be so beautiful?”

And those words. That hurt. Because you cannot attain that impeccability yourself. The dearth of either thought, or eloquence, or words themselves. Like that novice author, who tries to pen down his version of his mind, slowly failing to achieve it, letting go of its fragments. One piece of paper after another, inks spilled and scribbled, all dumped. Mind failing to personify itself, incarnate itself. In words. Through words. That hurt. May be it is more than inscribing his mind. May be it is more than a form of art.

But words. Still you create. Out of either desire or disgust. The gap between the influence and the ability, between the pursuit and the product, becomes too trivial. Because you and your words, like the creator and the creation, God and the universe, man and matter, are bonded. As the craft and the craftsman are the same. And this epiphany of some sorts is when you triumph. Through words.

“To banish imperfection is to destroy expression, to check exertion, to paralyze vitality.” ― John Ruskin, The Stones of Venice



Love. Lust. Longing.
Let me linger in these lengthy limitless labyrinths
Until I limp away from what you call,


Revelation under the Grey Skies

The frail sun is intermittently showing its face on the rather melancholic skies today. On a swinging mattress in my roof-top, I rest my body and mind, and take a rigid look back on the days I have lost, the times and the people I have left behind, and most importantly, the vibes of passion and enthusiasm that are now dormant and which have gone hidden somewhere at the nadir of self-awareness and the process of revivalism.

As my days of exhaustion in the corporate castle have now gracefully ended, I now breathe the air of exasperation over my glorious indecision, and try to commemorate in which point in time I did make flawed choices. But the voice of wisdom calms my conundrum with its divine words;

“Fear not, you fool, for you yourself are the maker of your path and the sower of the seeds of destiny and fate. You shall not weaken amid the storms and lightnings. For the blizzard’s never seen the desert sands, and for you do not know the sun’s strength till the lights go out, you cannot judge the circumstances with the vision of the eyes, but the vision of the soul. Do not fear, and you shall conquer what you’re destined to conquer; you shall be bestowed upon with what you’re meant to take.”

With a sequel of cold moments and ignorant times, I now foresee the world with an armour of past flaws, for ninety-nine failures in ninety-nine attempts educates you with ninety-nine ways of escaping your mistakes, if you have the strength to get back on your feet and try it for the hundredth time.

I now plot and shape, I now rejuvenate the galactic structure of my destiny from the particles of my loss.

I now design the agenda of world invasion, as the melancholic sky is now gradually turning brighter and my belly is gradually making louder noises.

Dreary Eloquence


I reside in the monologues of desperation and non-perfection
The ghosts of the past are the phobias of the present
The vision of absence penetrating the existence like a needle onto an eye
And the faith keeps rejuvenating the hope, and the hope keeps getting rejuvenated by it
And we have no option but to believe one more day?


But still,
Hopes are beautiful and so are these suicidal fascinations
Forever doesn’t exist, we both know
But we stick attempting to scale its magnitude and therefore mock the possibilities
And still not learn from the flaws that we’re just humans?

Alexandre Gabriel Decamps, 1833

Alexandre Gabriel Decamps, 1833

Insomnia is not bad if I have you staring at me from the wall, coloured in a frame like a Mona Lisa with secrets of the days and spiders could crawl upon your rusty lips

Void in Making

Futile words collaborate to form verses that capture sentiments, as I trash yet another bunch of guitar notes that does not benefit my spring song I would be singing bidding farewell to the late-dying mornings and disenchantingly welcoming the days of my exhaustion. Those verses are to follow the matrimony of the notes in harmony – never pertaining to upset the ears that sense the play. But these today repel away from the distinction of my everyday deed and diverge from the sentiments I would want to carve through them.

Like structuring virtual objects on the otherwise amorphous clouds, I try translating the ambience through my oblivious mindset. But the possible perceptions answer emptiness for now. And these tunes aren’t lively anymore, the union of the head and the heart says – possibly because I reside at the edge of ambivalence of the altering ideologies, or perhaps because they aren’t divulging the secrets of the art and confiding the unobservant meanings within them.

Or just, may be the spring has vanished and the days of exhaustion have already commenced making everything shallow. Some thoughts are troublesome.

Jezebel, Grandmother’s Vessel and the Man at the Table

10th January, 2009
The room

The night was stone cold. The thermometer was pointing a negative value. The only things that were providing me warmth were the eleventh cup of coffee in the day, the festive feeling that it was finally Friday, and above all, Jezebel on Facebook in the other side of my computer screen. She’d been away for so long, and we had been like two departed leaves in an autumn wind; like the sun and the moon who attempted to catch each other but never succeeded, perhaps due to the frantic schedules, the labyrinths of professionalism and repelling lives. But we were talking the talk that day, we had love to share. And stories. And memories. The Black Keys song on stereo was adding much to the ambience.

To me, she was recognized in making me subconscious every time I converse with her, in making my heartthrobs accelerate, in making my brain lose the grasp of whatever is happening around, and that day would offer another testimony for that tendency of hers. She meant all things good for me.

While I was yet busy typing one phrase after another, candidly, impetuously, lovingly, I heard something. I didn’t bother looking at it, but I could well assume it was some flower vase falling. I could then quickly contemplate it was grandmother’s vessel, that was the only one in the room. May be the wind blowing fiercely outside had pushed the poor thing off the table, which was standing by the window.

I persisted talking. She persisted telling me about how much she loved me, and I laid enthralled. No disturbances allowed.

I do not know what exactly happened between the events, other than how she explained me with her magical words how much she missed me all these times, but I am sure I heard some clatters, some crackling noises and breaking of things in between. I do not know if it was inside the house or outside. But I persisted.

After about thirty minutes, we ended our talk, and I was totally shattered. Shattered not only due to the departure from the realms of the intimate attachment, but from what I then beheld.

The roof, the ceiling had fallen down, my grandmother’s antique World War vessel had been smashed, the house had been destroyed and everything had moved off their places. A devastating quake had hit the town with massive tremors, leaving only the man at the table standing as he was, who had been spellbound by his lover in the other side of his computer screen.

Love had kept me alive. I mused.

Ben Heine

Ben Heine