Conversation, over the phone.

~  “Why do you want to do this? There are a lot of people in this world, who sleep hungry most of the days in the week, sitting in some old broken room, their taps leaking and they have a sink full of garbage and scattered ketchup. Forgive me for saying this, BUT you are ruining your LIFE”.


~ ” Wasting my life, you say? I have heard this phrase so many times now man. I now question these words etymologically. “Wasting my life”. I don’t even get it now. It is beyond my understanding. What great things did anyone do, for somebody like us really value it. When we see, the majority has wasted their lives. Hurricanes are here, MAN! I don’t in the slight feel what I am doing is “wasting life”.You know I love to write. Writing is good for me, at least I feel ALIENATED when I write, which I love. I feel sometimes too connected with humanity. I need space. 


~ “Alienated? You are miserable and terribly unfit. I don’t know but your sense of things makes me laugh.  You can’t be writing your whole life, to feel alienated, to want space. I mean don’t you want to just stop writing for a while and be just OUT THERE, in the real thrill, the real world, the real reality … How can you not want that?”

 

~ “That’s me I guess. I know the world is luring. And I too want a little piece of it. I don’t want to deprive me off this beautiful world. In fact, thinking about this “little piece” keeps me going on. You know, as far as writing is concerned, I feel I have not even started yet. For me, THIS IS THE REAL REALITY, the real world, this BLANK PAGE, beneath my fingers, waiting…”

~ “Yeah, it is waiting”. I could feel his grin, through the space knotted between us through wires.  “Well, if it is what you want to do, then it is alright. Cannot judge a man, can you?”

 

 ~ Oh, go on. Judge me. I don’t have a problem with that. I have to accept the events, which can very much occur because of my choices. I know,  I will continue to write and yes, you will be rich, someday. I will have a small home, a small kitchen garden, and you will have a mansion. You will have a happy family, and I shall have my  moments. It’s absolutely fair with all heart. I understand. But not everyone has a same object of desire. I know, writing seems a stupid thing to you. I respect that. What can one do? Some worship money, some trees, some stars, others don’ care, some believe there is One God. We choose, as we keep moving. 


~ He kept silent for some seconds. He was trying to get back to me, and defend his position. “Man was born for survival” He said. ” There is no money in writing. You will be poor, only if you want to. Join your father’s business, man. Help him. You will be approached as a gentleman. Do you understand what I am saying? THAT’s the real life.

 

 ~ “Yes, I understand you, But like I said for me it’s a blank page, it’s smell, the rust on the metal, the earthquakes, the rain, the winter leaves drenched in lifelessness and water. That’s all it for me. 


~ “Ah! Well… Let’s not stretch this conversation! Why aren’t you getting my point. These things cannot be discussed on phone. I mean, at length. I am telling you to re-think on your decisions. What will you win, by doing this. You are losing out on everything”. 


~ “Yeaaaahhh! You do know that this mind set has been of a puzzle and a problem for me. I don’t care about wining. I get my stories through my failures. I don’t care if I lose. Adam failed, Eve failed, I have failed too. Its not a big deal. I want to learn. That’s very important to me”. 


~ “You are right, I guess”. What you are failing to see rather is that there are mistakes, then, there are really big mistakes. You can’t just erase them, once done,  and live a clean state, pretending you did nothing wrong. You cannot always be like “I AM LEARNING”. Do you thinking your rationality will allow that? In the end it doesn’t matter, whether you do this or not. What matters, is the money in this world.
How much time will you dwell on your thoughtlessness, void, emptiness, longing, nothingness. How much of it is there anyway?! It is suffocating.

 ~ I don’t just write about these things you have quoted. And … What do you really know about suffocation? Don’t talk to me about suffocation, passion, and dreams. I remember all those sessions with you, and your longing, frustration for the world and all the injustice therein you spoke off, every single day. No one is happy all the time. Don’t tell me upon you doesn’t dawn any realization, that there is something more important than money, and yes,  you have to admit as of now, have failed to achieve it, just because you quit seeking further. 

 ~ You sound like a mad Freudian philosopher. I cannot understand any of this Freudian explanation you are giving out to me. A man will turn to a crazy horse thinking about these things. Just relax man, relax, eat something, feel the sunshine.

 ~ “Yeah, why not. A little sunshine didn’t hurt any one. Well, see you soon”.

~ “Yeah, and just think about what I said”

~ “I will, and I wont”. I said these words to him, and a sudden outburst of laughter seized me. I was having a fit.

~ “You are a mad man”.

~ “Take care, man” I said as I kept laughing, only hearing half of what I had said. I hung up. I kept nodding my head for no reason, and still laughing in intervals.

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Four O’ Clock …

Does this mean anything to you, The
four o’ clock, the dawn?
The rain settling hard on the tin rooftops?
the sound of roaring automobiles, the sounds of paper
rustling through thin threads of nylon
Do you believe a rainbow will appear, Above
all dust and ashes?
Does this mean anything to you at all, ALL THIS, which
appears to be?

no home.

I got no home in the barren wilderness of my childhood or in the self psychic surgery of past.
I got no home in the isolated land of strategies, wars, politics, accidents, loss of loves and deaths.
I got no home in the arms where my loved ones lay under earth, or in redemption, freedom and poetry.
I got no home in the orchards, in the midnight, in crying, in falling, in cosmos or in the drunk shade of laughter shot in the streets of blood.

 

I got no home in the painful understanding of blunt books which never matched my wisdom, or the roads I was going to walk on.
I got no home in the lost signal of the shivering phone which ordered the bombs to explode.
I got no home in the moans of this broken radio which in one slumbered afternoon was crashed against the wall to pieces.

I got no home in the coughing heart of old age, in the eyes of my grandmother , or in the moment when her tears fall on my hands.
I got no home in the mystic face of my mother , or in her sad presence where her cloak looks like the cloak my grandmother.

I got no home in the possibility of life or the possibility of building a house , raising children or having family.
I got no home in the place where me and you shivered for timeless hours loosing grasp of truth, washed in the rivers of hope.

I got no home in the place where our promises were found dead by the soldiers of destiny and recreated by the workers of fate.
I got no home in the place where we wept those endless dawns in solving the mystery which revolves around the faith with wings.

I got no home, no home whatsoever, in this maddening world.

Beyond?

Beyond night and sleep, there, a stranger knelt,
a desert wept.

Beyond hours, sand, clay, and age, a piper came,
while his tunes escaped, in a hearty run.

Beyond lives, times, some kings burnt their own people.

Beyond moments, movements, right and wrong some cried,
and drowned cities, their memories burnt the heaven.

What about you and me,
what shall we do?

 

The Two Rivers.

We realize
that something is pushing us, rearranging us, decorating
us in this chaos.
and also to maintain a common type, we too watch the sand slipping through our fingers,
and accept the hopelessness of our lives.
This way the circus shall go on, and we see our Youth – the king,
our crown, sinking in the sea of time.
The tune to control the crazies, the misfits plays on, screams out through the loudspeakers.
The streets were never this loud.
We, the Hamlet is mad now, in true terms.
We can realize what is to be realized in a factual way, more
certain than iron in its composure, which shall not wither way,
by winters of Influences.
Even then we shall break, and if we do, it is okay,
everything shall break off, eventually.