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.

The Art of Safe Landing

Isn’t it contradictory that depressive music at depressing moments switch away our moods? Or does the law of similarities repelling away from each other participate again? If so, love songs aren’t real and patriotism doesn’t exist.

Anyway, lets listen to a depressive song together and swap our mournful dissatisfactions tonight, you dare?

Mattias A

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.

The Wilderness Journal

It wasn’t until we realised they were the people of the land, we began trembling on our unsmooth footsteps up the hills and down the barren pastures. Their one hour was our three, more or less due to our inexperience in walking on slopes, and the time was insufficient to be pondering at the hours left in the day. The sun had already swayed away vastly from the sky’s median and was approaching closer and closer to the horizon in every minute, that the fear we had of, but that we could not let to disarm our liveliness and proliferate our disenchanting fear. The afternoon breeze was blowing upon our face forcefully, and although after ten hours of incessant walk, there was no option to pause for a while, but to make quicker movements and wider foot-lengths in every step. The view that grasped the valley below was impeccable, in its serene gesture, and we thought our labour was truly worth it. The virgin forests adorned with rhododendrons, which sheltered thousands of living creatures we thought – it seemed limitless from what we perceived, while we were gradually moving away from human trace and stepping to the realms of the unexplored dimension. They had called it Shangri-La, and we had also read it somewhere as one of the seven places of earth, where life shall remain after the great cataclysm. The visions were enthralling, the myths not so much.

But along what the chilliness of the panorama inferred, the changing colours of the sky was making us equally alarmed with our hearts accelerating. Within minutes, the sun would get spattered against the skyline and the void of darkness would relinquish the light, when the creatures of the night would kill their slumber and set forth to achieve their requisites.

The human settlement, they had said, would be in few hours distance, but no signs of which we could yet generate. We even checked the correctness of the path we had taken. To doubt was pointless now, but the map assured the trails were precise. We again acknowledged ourselves they were the people of the land, the walkers of the uneven angles, and the magnitudes of time and distance were subjective values. Even the urge of stopping by was now a wrong thought. To come across a shelter now was mandatory, that would bid us with refuge from the wilder-beasts and the day-end starvation, as we marched forward to the unknown, to what it seemed like immeasurable absence of humankind.

Iron & Wine: An Oasis amid the Desert

There comes a time when things around you gradually begin to lose weight and fade their impression. The time you feel everything has been overdone, been unoriginal and have embarked cliche, you just need one resourceful inspiration to erase these tedious sighs and ‘blow’ you up.

After being introduced to indie-pop (after an exhausting adolescence with heavy metal and hardcore subgenres), I swiftly got drowned in what the artists in this easy-listening genre had to offer. Since I’ve been ‘boringly straight’ lately, female artists as Katie Melua, Laura Marling, Mazzy Star, Joanna Newsom, Azure Ray, etc. had caught me the biggest. And after exploring the related artists sections in last.fm, I came across one good musician after the other, most of which didn’t seem to completely be related to the musical style I had wished for, but again they pretty much worked out. But in no time, I realised the good fishes in the pond were nearly going to finish, leaving only some wanky, eerie crabs. Most of the artists started to sound the same, at least musically, and the horizons didn’t seem too far stretched.

I then came across Iron & Wine and then stopped for a while, mused, and smile.

Samuel Beam (popularly known as Iron & Wine) is superb in what he does and how he manages to bend his sound away from the otherwise insignificant pop standards. This is not indie-pop totally, but an amalgamation with folk, blues and rock, and his creations are remote from other similar musicians as he always engages an add-on or other to avoid the void of repetition. Also, another differentiating element is the lyric – very abstract, relatively darker/gloomier and atypical to the musical style it’s exhibited. Samuel is an agnostic by religious beliefs, but he numerously puts in the Christian terminologies in his words, also often to define his agnosticism (mostly seen in the album “The Shepherd’s Dog”). If you’ve heard him, you know better. If not, have some listen;

This

And this.

This is utterly a very good find for me, and I can’t believe I’d been neglecting I&W all this time, although I had a copy of “The Shepherd’s Dog” full-length. This, for me, is an oasis amid the desert!

Thoughts of a Dying Atheist

A point of time that bridges life and death – illusion versus infinity for some, while existence versus nothingness to others. It’s that point when one is neither alive nor dead – neither willing to submit nor to hold on; when the heights of the colossus called hope has been shattered, the breadths of existence has been condemned, and the widths of eternity has been compressed. It’s that point which lasts for a fragment of a second, when the grandeur of mortality has defied the limits of a creature and redefined its strength, when one knowing that he’s leaving then takes one last glimpse at the living.

For a man is created of soil, he must dissolve into soil. A humid layer of skin will eventually turn into dust, that blows along the winds, flowing onto the face of the pregnant lady in rural Karnali, who due to the social customs has been abandoned to a cow-shed. She is just enthralled of the forthcoming boon God has gifted in her husband’s family; a cycle of existence and disappearance. The dust flies on, irrespective of the soul’s position that has caressed the beyond, void to the earthly conscience.

The death would be too glorious to conquer. The angel of death, grim reaper or ‘yama duta’, then triumphing the conquest. Karma would be a bitter tale. The afflicting fascination then ventures into the imminent predictions. Infinity or nothingness? Persistence or inexistence? Heaven or Hell? For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those who can’t readily accept the God formula, the big answers don’t remain stone-written.