Swirl

I swirl

I flow among these bodies of the so-called truth.

I push some, I sink some and raise others.

And the people

Readjust

And the bodies, their bodies of truth

Turn paramount once again.

 

I hold

I hold up these people and their masses of reality

I warm them, assure them

To nestle deep in the hard fibre of the cocoon of their construct

Because I’ve let them have it for so long

While all the time in this lonely dark ether

Where no one comes asking

I am nought.

 

I engulf

I loosen my grip at the fall of time

And as they step into my ether,

Their bodies of truth fall hurtling through space

Through my lonely empty blackness,

And are lost in wisps and forgotten.

And I swirl.

Resurrected

It’s funny how, from time to time, you can snip off a huge chunk of your life that’s been trailing behind you towards the past end for some time, and let it drift away, so you can be a little more weightless while walking forward. Like an iceberg breaking off from time to time. You can watch the pieces that have floated away, but never actually get them back. Not funny. It’s not funny at all. It’s actually a little sad, I think.

I, for example, have packed my latest detached piece of life partly inside an orange and white packet in my cupboard and partly inside a folder in my computer. Something makes me open the cupboard and stare at the packet sometimes, switching momentarily to being a second person, looking at myself and wondering what I’m thinking about, whether I’m thinking the things that people in these situations are supposed to thing. What do they think? Are there socially approved lines along which such people are supposed to think?
Something made me open the folder today. A lot of chat logs. It was surprising that I’d been able to bury so much amount of my past. Saw a few photos. Fear. It’s funny how you once endow such things with destiny and providence and other stuff like the ones Paulo Coelho always shouts about. And then you see it’s no longer so.

I guess when you are trapped in a circular, spiraling maze like this all the time, the only way out is to sometimes think it’s funny. The conservation of mass and energy is a cruel hint of the circular, pointless nature of everything. Why don’t the scientists get it? Why are they so dumb?

Look, hey, let me tell you something. I’m a weird being. I don’t miss my past as much as I ought to, and I worry about that. And I’m always guilty that I’ve let myself forget my childhood, my old friends. For the little time we’re here, I guess we all try to embrace life as hard as we can. It’s because we don’t know where we were before we first opened our eyes, or where we will be after we last close them. That’s not a good enough excuse to suppose that the things in those two intervals were (a) same and (b) unpleasant and frightening. Look at an amoeba. The thing’s got nothing called fear. Fear is a learned response due to the constraints of being a human. So it’s logical to suppose that when you die and aren’t a human any more, you won’t have any need of your instincts, including fear. Hence, it’s not reasonable to be afraid of what lies beyond.

Talk about a hypocrite.

1Life.

Singularity Finale

At this moment you see, hear, feel

For there are light, sound and emotion.

A cosmic endless list of Everything.

You nestle deep in the assuring warmth of this complexity;

And need to gaze at an unpolluted night sky for long

To remember you are on a planet.

 

The Future is a delayed, yet inevitable Present

A curse of the unwanted blessing of equality

It will be raining galaxies on your tiny spherical home

The starry night sky will drop in to visit,

And vision swallowed amid gaping voids

Will carry the only sound of a story finished.

End, will begin.

 

Blazing cosmic torches will light the darkening sky

As all things seek their way back Home.

Streams will return to oceans that bore them in their womb;

And all roads ever built will turn to Rome

Unbearable warmth will squeeze the soul free to follow the same path,

And storms engage in their last war dance.

Here, there, now, then, will cross over distinguishing lines

And all thoughts merge into one existence.

 

It comes, of that I’m sure.

A plethora of small lives, pains and colours

Laughter and sunsets, sad songs on the radio, summer night stars,

And the rain

All reduced to thermodynamic equilibrium.

 

But today you see, hear, know

For there are light, sound, and a finite being.

Counting the days till the inexorable dark end

Sweeps the meaning of Meaning away

To a single burning eye on infinite black vacuum

To look for the last time, then close to all of existence, lost forever

In Singularity.

1Life.

A Tale of Two Strings

Once upon a time there were two strings. They sprouted like fresh spring flowers from two old and mucky holes on a wooden plank. None of them knew what lay beneath the plank; where each of them led; and neither did they care.

Anyways, what is worth mentioning is that these two strings loved each other very much. They cocked their frayed ends up and talked of old times, when they both had been strong and new, not frayed and dirty as they were now. They also liked to think that through all the times from when they were young and strong till now, when they are frayed and weak, they never ceased to love each other. And so lived these two strings, immersed in each other, never caring to know where each of them stretched beneath the plank.

But nature has its rules, and one day she checked her big wall clock and decided that the strings had had their time on earth. So she sent a messenger to pick them up from home. She was a lovely lady named Death, and she came and stood looking at the two strings that were deep in conversation, and for the umpteenth time, she felt a tad bit sorry that their conversation would soon be over.

She interrupted them softly. She coughed — ‘ahem’.

‘Hello there. Good day to you both. I have been sent by a certain higher authority, you see, to give you some sad news. I am terribly sorry that I had to interrupt you like this.’

‘Go on, beautiful lady,’ said one of the strings, at which the other gave him a very narrow stare.

‘Er… you see, I am afraid your time on earth is over. You must come with me now to your true home.’ replied Death.
‘Both of us, surely?’ said the bewildered string, for they loved each other very much.

‘Yes, both of you. And now please close your eyes and think of the life that you have led, while I do my part.’

So saying, the lady made to raise the wooden plank while the two strings closed their eyes. The lady pulled at something beneath the plank and the strings went right through their holes and out the other side, still dreaming of their life together and feeling sad because they would no longer be together.

Had either of them opened their eyes then, they would have seen something they had never imagined before; that beneath the plank stretched a single string, whose two ends sprouted through two holes in the plank like fresh spring flowers, and had loved each other all their life.

— a string.