I Cry Because I Know an Answer

Why gaze at every direction?

Searching for the vision, my eyes,

A mirage of illusion fades away

And the darkness folds from the emptiness.

Why listen earnestly in the silence?
 Searching for familiar sounds to comfort my ears,
When the noises prevent the hearing

And painful voices is all I can hear within me.

Why smell out for the familiar perfume?

Hoping for the fragrant life, my nose,

When the smells bring me pieces of memories

 Leaving me hurt.

Why stretch out earnestly for the touch, my hands?
Needing the feel of a familiar and helping hands,

When all I have is my cold stretched hands,
 None embraces me.

My heart cries quietly in loneliness,
It yearns to find warmth and happiness,
It asks many questions,

But these answers are all that i get.

That is the answer.

The above poem was written in Bangalore, 7-1-2012 says about senses. The poem discovers how every functional sense betrays, deceives and desolates from ones own body.

Gains of Going Odd

When I was a child,

My parents said, 'Don’t play this and that.'

But I played.

When I was a school kid,

The teachers said, 'Work hard.'

And I listened not.

Now i am married;

She said, 'Learn from others’ husbands.'

But I closed my eyes.

When I have a child,

He said, 'Let me do this and that.'

And I let him!

                                             

 Because

everyone taught me a lesson or two;

Playing taught me to learn,

Laziness taught me to work hard,

Comparison taught me to realize who I am.

And I let them pass

Than nothing at all!

 It truly is true; nothing in life is failure. Ones philosophy of life is another niggling to it. Everything will be good if let naturally of its own. There is one side in life; your side, which will be always be right side.

Rights to Write

Writers in ancient times were known as the great creator (makers), philosophers, and constituters of society. Aristotle, Plato, Homer - to name a few-were glorified.

The Death of the Writer and the Death of the Reader

Art and literary works were considered as unique creations of the artists but for long time. People were serious about the purpose of producing art and literary works. Shakespeare, Milton, Hardy, Wordsworth, Keats, Dickens, Brontes, etc, bore a deep meaning. Dramas, novels, poetry, and books predominated society.

Now, in this era called the postmodernist, every Tom, Dick, and Harry or every Sonam, Tashi, and Pema is a writer. With the onset of computers, media and advancements in technology, television and computers are dominating society. People no longer believe in art and literary works bearing one unique meaning; they would rather believe in deriving their own meanings from pieces of art and literature. It is the time when everybody writes, but nobody reads. Interactive media and the Internet led to the distribution of knowledge.  Copying and preservation of art and literary works by the means of digital media is the means of an artist becoming less popular.

A dying reading habit because of modern amenities looks like there is no future for a writer. Our youth are carried away by ‘mouse,’ ‘robotics,’  ‘trends,’ ‘phoning phone,’  ‘dinky-hinky,’ ‘kinky-pinky’ life, nets, etc, not ‘inky-bingo’ life. And men are occupied by ‘minting monies,’ ‘gambling-wagering,’ ‘whoring-pourboire.’ Where is the scope of the writer to be appreciated in this environment?

I wish and is selflessly dedicate many writers to write, promoters to promote, readers to read, and to conquer by words. But the truth is readers have conquered words and words have no meaning to them. Writers, therefore, have a bleak future.

Life is…

Mixing and matching,
Twisting and turning,
Praying and hoping,
Dreaming and considering,
Never knowing yet always knowing,
Wanting to, yet not wanting to,
Mixing my heart,
Matching my soul to others,
Twisting fate with the flick of time,
Turning my life over,
Hoping that it would end,
Praying that bad things never happen,
Thinking it was beginning,
Wishing of good things,
Dreaming of its coming,
Considering letting it steal within
Never knowing if it's true,
Always knowing that it's there.
Wanting to live in the light,
Not wanting the darkness to come,
The love of another
The dreams of someone close,
Remembering what we used to do,
Can it come back if we pray so?

Note: This piece is an inspiration of those who puddle and pucker life.