You sitting there, few feet away
In serious thought, in a mindless
Day dream, with a bamboozled
Look in your round eyes. What
Placidness in your body, in your
Supple limbs. They convey your
Silence, your lack of action. You
Fumble with the keys, struggle
With your posture, yet in
Proud countenance do you seem
To work. What parody is this?
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Life
This race to Be,
This game we play,
This frantic pace,
This thing we seek,
This thing called life.
Conceived by love,
Borne by spirit,
Held by particles,
Run by a program,
Thought by a brain,
Enriched by Us,
Celebrated by Me.
This game we play,
This frantic pace,
This thing we seek,
This thing called life.
Conceived by love,
Borne by spirit,
Held by particles,
Run by a program,
Thought by a brain,
Enriched by Us,
Celebrated by Me.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
The Blade of Grass
I sit, on the banks, the place
So familiar to me. I am in deep
Thought, pondering o’er my life,
In meditation over the past, my
Actions, my good and bad.
There is a blade of grass at my feet,
Still young, two shoots old. Rustling
In the breeze. Joyous it is, with life.
In a swing of my arm, I pluck it out,
From the barren earth, still soft from
The moisture o’ the last rains.
It comes out with its roots, holding
Its life, quivering in my hands.
Feels like I touched the low limits of
My endurance, to my self worth.
I keep looking at it, taking off its
Soiled roots, with the blades left
In my clutch. I took it off its world,
A figment in its destiny to die today.
But why? My mood is not the price
For a life. If I cannot create, can I
Destroy? Can my limitation be the
End of a meek life? I carry the dead
Blade with me, to ponder later. To
Make it a martyr in my struggle
To become a better Man?
So familiar to me. I am in deep
Thought, pondering o’er my life,
In meditation over the past, my
Actions, my good and bad.
There is a blade of grass at my feet,
Still young, two shoots old. Rustling
In the breeze. Joyous it is, with life.
In a swing of my arm, I pluck it out,
From the barren earth, still soft from
The moisture o’ the last rains.
It comes out with its roots, holding
Its life, quivering in my hands.
Feels like I touched the low limits of
My endurance, to my self worth.
I keep looking at it, taking off its
Soiled roots, with the blades left
In my clutch. I took it off its world,
A figment in its destiny to die today.
But why? My mood is not the price
For a life. If I cannot create, can I
Destroy? Can my limitation be the
End of a meek life? I carry the dead
Blade with me, to ponder later. To
Make it a martyr in my struggle
To become a better Man?
O’ you moon
O’ you moon, who shines
So high, in silent glory,
In the purest white, as the
Symbol of solitude, as the
Image of a chastity promised
To man by the Gods, in the
Celebration of excellence in
Spirit. Come down to us moon,
You who are so high, up there
There are no paths for us to
Come to you, neither are there
Ladders. Our necks pain from
Our craned yearning for you.
Shine on our courtyards. Our
Children, play on their brows,
They sleep in sweet innocence,
Make them smile then, in vestal
Satisfaction of the moment, of
Their youth, of their purity.
So high, in silent glory,
In the purest white, as the
Symbol of solitude, as the
Image of a chastity promised
To man by the Gods, in the
Celebration of excellence in
Spirit. Come down to us moon,
You who are so high, up there
There are no paths for us to
Come to you, neither are there
Ladders. Our necks pain from
Our craned yearning for you.
Shine on our courtyards. Our
Children, play on their brows,
They sleep in sweet innocence,
Make them smile then, in vestal
Satisfaction of the moment, of
Their youth, of their purity.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
They come, they go
They come, they go.
They give, they take.
They live, they subsist.
They concede, they counter.
They deride, they praise.
They demand, they deserve.
Program teaches reason.
Reason feeds naivety.
Naivety hounds truth.
Truth defeats the lie.
As I try to reason, as
I search for my meaning,
For one truth, in hard reality,
They feed me with the lessons
Of my life, with the harshness
Of a whip on a colt. They lead
Slow and sure, to the truth itself.
I endure, for truth is sweet.
They give, they take.
They live, they subsist.
They concede, they counter.
They deride, they praise.
They demand, they deserve.
Program teaches reason.
Reason feeds naivety.
Naivety hounds truth.
Truth defeats the lie.
As I try to reason, as
I search for my meaning,
For one truth, in hard reality,
They feed me with the lessons
Of my life, with the harshness
Of a whip on a colt. They lead
Slow and sure, to the truth itself.
I endure, for truth is sweet.
The Sunshine of My Heart
Oh you, the sunshine of my heart,
Happen like land to the blind sailor.
With the sails, his speed he lost.
With the rudder, his bearing.
Tossed by the seas, by the giant
Waves of its wrath, by the small
Countenance of his vessel.
He would kiss your expanse, who
With a handful of you, will reach
The purpose of his life, praying to you,
In a macabre ritual called living, from
The ordeal of his existence.
Happen like land to the blind sailor.
With the sails, his speed he lost.
With the rudder, his bearing.
Tossed by the seas, by the giant
Waves of its wrath, by the small
Countenance of his vessel.
He would kiss your expanse, who
With a handful of you, will reach
The purpose of his life, praying to you,
In a macabre ritual called living, from
The ordeal of his existence.
I have been here....
I have been here. The
River bed, sans water,
The sands, in their winding
Patterns, in the breezy
Dusk of a hot day. The
Twilight holding promise,
Of a night of rejoice and
Warmth. The returning birds
Calling out to their kin, in the
Joy of a day happily made.
I saw a sparrow, lone, flying
With pride, to its home, sure
Of its flight, of its path.
The place full of life, the birds
So full of energy. I return today,
To find the place devoid life,
In eerie silence, like the haunted
Old house, with odious pathos
In the air. Silence unbroken, the
Twilight too advanced, the birds
Gone, the sands dark and the
Foliage darker. The moon showing
In patches, the stars shying to come
In infinite mass. Did I find the place
In its transient form, in the moment of
Its dark, in the throes of its perilous
Solitude. In deep thought, as I
Reflect on the truth of the moment,
Life comes and goes, as does the
Twilight. Now it is dark, and I
Return, broken in spirit, shrouded
By the dark, a thorn pricking me,
Clad in Silence. I have been here.
River bed, sans water,
The sands, in their winding
Patterns, in the breezy
Dusk of a hot day. The
Twilight holding promise,
Of a night of rejoice and
Warmth. The returning birds
Calling out to their kin, in the
Joy of a day happily made.
I saw a sparrow, lone, flying
With pride, to its home, sure
Of its flight, of its path.
The place full of life, the birds
So full of energy. I return today,
To find the place devoid life,
In eerie silence, like the haunted
Old house, with odious pathos
In the air. Silence unbroken, the
Twilight too advanced, the birds
Gone, the sands dark and the
Foliage darker. The moon showing
In patches, the stars shying to come
In infinite mass. Did I find the place
In its transient form, in the moment of
Its dark, in the throes of its perilous
Solitude. In deep thought, as I
Reflect on the truth of the moment,
Life comes and goes, as does the
Twilight. Now it is dark, and I
Return, broken in spirit, shrouded
By the dark, a thorn pricking me,
Clad in Silence. I have been here.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
In such moments am I beautiful
In the laughter of a dear friend,
In the heartiness lies the innocence
Of a soul buried in itself, smitten
By its own tenderness, as we all
Turn into children, drooling over the
Trivial, in absolute peace, mindless.
Never wanting more, not even less.
In thoughtless spontaneity, in casual
Flambuoyance, as we were created,
Rudderless, thoughtless and worriless.
The moments in this state vanish, as
All good things must, and there come
The morbid compulsions, of unending
Expectations, of the omni present
Disappointments. The complex State
Of our existence. Simple things are
The most beautiful. Let them be.
Let life be complex, in the quest for
Our higher endeavors, in the search
For peace as an Adult,
Peace with conviction,
Happiness with knowledge,
Existence with awareness,
Thoughts thus made clear.
In such moments am I beautiful.
In the heartiness lies the innocence
Of a soul buried in itself, smitten
By its own tenderness, as we all
Turn into children, drooling over the
Trivial, in absolute peace, mindless.
Never wanting more, not even less.
In thoughtless spontaneity, in casual
Flambuoyance, as we were created,
Rudderless, thoughtless and worriless.
The moments in this state vanish, as
All good things must, and there come
The morbid compulsions, of unending
Expectations, of the omni present
Disappointments. The complex State
Of our existence. Simple things are
The most beautiful. Let them be.
Let life be complex, in the quest for
Our higher endeavors, in the search
For peace as an Adult,
Peace with conviction,
Happiness with knowledge,
Existence with awareness,
Thoughts thus made clear.
In such moments am I beautiful.
Walk down the calm road....
Walk down the calm road,
In darkness, in silence, but for
The song in my ears. Some genius,
Playing the tune of my heart.
I come to this bench. Seems like
The Gods must have sat here. So
Serene, unlike my mind. Boiling
With my desires, limited by
My perceptions, repenting my
Prejudices and mocking at all this.
As my fist crashes against the
Seat, the pain shafts through
To my head, the music mocks at my
Mute anger. My fist pays for my rush.
My silence pays for my emotions.
My anger pays for my passion.
My pain pays for my hunger.
What will I pay for this impotent rage?
To cross the line, to scale the wall.
To move up, like when I was born.
A new birth, a new being, a new meaning,
A new terms and a new world.
To think fresh, to start without a thought.
In darkness, in silence, but for
The song in my ears. Some genius,
Playing the tune of my heart.
I come to this bench. Seems like
The Gods must have sat here. So
Serene, unlike my mind. Boiling
With my desires, limited by
My perceptions, repenting my
Prejudices and mocking at all this.
As my fist crashes against the
Seat, the pain shafts through
To my head, the music mocks at my
Mute anger. My fist pays for my rush.
My silence pays for my emotions.
My anger pays for my passion.
My pain pays for my hunger.
What will I pay for this impotent rage?
To cross the line, to scale the wall.
To move up, like when I was born.
A new birth, a new being, a new meaning,
A new terms and a new world.
To think fresh, to start without a thought.
Breeze
Breeze, you come to me,
Refreshing and cleansing my soul,
In the cool, casual amble of yours,
Touching my senses, in causal
Sensuousness. In impertinent
Rudeness do you unnerve me, at
The moment that is desolate, my
Mind at its lonely sojourn. Would
This moment be less remembered,
Without you ruffling my hair, in
Gentle caring, as my cheeks go flush,
As my heart swells, at the thought
Of your equal, the gentle breeze that
Touched my calloused heart, the wood
Stock that it was, moved by the
Fragrant self, in one sweeping motion,
Off my feet and into the abyss of
Longing. Come to me, in pangs of
Swift pain, cutting through my soul,
Through pain am I shaped for you.
To your ever changing whims.
Turn into the monster that you can be,
Toss me into the unending twister,
Let me see ecstasy in the helplessness,
Of your mastery over me, as I give
In to the power of your hold.
Refreshing and cleansing my soul,
In the cool, casual amble of yours,
Touching my senses, in causal
Sensuousness. In impertinent
Rudeness do you unnerve me, at
The moment that is desolate, my
Mind at its lonely sojourn. Would
This moment be less remembered,
Without you ruffling my hair, in
Gentle caring, as my cheeks go flush,
As my heart swells, at the thought
Of your equal, the gentle breeze that
Touched my calloused heart, the wood
Stock that it was, moved by the
Fragrant self, in one sweeping motion,
Off my feet and into the abyss of
Longing. Come to me, in pangs of
Swift pain, cutting through my soul,
Through pain am I shaped for you.
To your ever changing whims.
Turn into the monster that you can be,
Toss me into the unending twister,
Let me see ecstasy in the helplessness,
Of your mastery over me, as I give
In to the power of your hold.
Friday, March 18, 2005
My Flowers….
My Flowers....
Beauty among beauties is
Merely relative.
Beauty they say is an end,
Resonating from our souls,
A part of the perfection,
Strived for and inspiring.
Let these flowers deserve you
As they deserved their great
Garden, as the Nature’s Hand
Shaped them to their uniqueness.
Let them announce beauty to
The ignorant.
Let them be the celebration to
The connoisseurs.
Let them speak forever, your
Resplendent beauty.
Beauty among beauties is
Merely relative.
Beauty they say is an end,
Resonating from our souls,
A part of the perfection,
Strived for and inspiring.
Let these flowers deserve you
As they deserved their great
Garden, as the Nature’s Hand
Shaped them to their uniqueness.
Let them announce beauty to
The ignorant.
Let them be the celebration to
The connoisseurs.
Let them speak forever, your
Resplendent beauty.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
My Poetry
My Poetry
As I step out of my abode,
To my place of thinking,
A thought comes to me, like
A fresh breath through all the
Clouds of perception, those color
My vision of the world. I would
Write today, like a poet. I would
Create something, like a web of
Words, that would convey in
Subtlety, my mind’s thoughts.
I would create something, that
Would gush out like a spring,
From the dust of the desert and
Create the green of a meadow.
Like a solitary rose, that would sit
Proud on my love’s fragrant hair,
Like my words, proud on the intent.
Today, I will write, like a poet.
As I step out of my abode,
To my place of thinking,
A thought comes to me, like
A fresh breath through all the
Clouds of perception, those color
My vision of the world. I would
Write today, like a poet. I would
Create something, like a web of
Words, that would convey in
Subtlety, my mind’s thoughts.
I would create something, that
Would gush out like a spring,
From the dust of the desert and
Create the green of a meadow.
Like a solitary rose, that would sit
Proud on my love’s fragrant hair,
Like my words, proud on the intent.
Today, I will write, like a poet.
The Firefly
The Firefly
You are right there, glowing
And making merry, among
The bushes, with your green
Body, giving light, not to
Show us the path, but to etch
Your presence in the darkness.
That there can be such light,
Such brightness, in the gloom,
As you search for your worthy
Partner. You come near, search
For the light in me, which is
In you. Sitting on my arm,
As I glance at you in attuned
Attention, at the best that
I can be, the light I yearn for,
You go again, free as you were
Conceived, beautiful as you are
Now. Its enough for this lonely
Warrior just to be with you, as
Your light resonates in my being,
Good things happen to me,
Letting me come closer to you.
You are right there, glowing
And making merry, among
The bushes, with your green
Body, giving light, not to
Show us the path, but to etch
Your presence in the darkness.
That there can be such light,
Such brightness, in the gloom,
As you search for your worthy
Partner. You come near, search
For the light in me, which is
In you. Sitting on my arm,
As I glance at you in attuned
Attention, at the best that
I can be, the light I yearn for,
You go again, free as you were
Conceived, beautiful as you are
Now. Its enough for this lonely
Warrior just to be with you, as
Your light resonates in my being,
Good things happen to me,
Letting me come closer to you.
Distance.....
Distance
As I move closer, as I move away,
As I lay still, as I splash around,
Distance is always there, to be
Reckoned with. It feels like a
Point in space, at the mercy of
Every other point to decide its
Utility as itself in this universe.
Inconsequential in inherence,
Building around itself a web of
Importance, by program, by the
Properties it was bequeathed.
As it waves around in its quest
For consequence, it really feels
Like a very small point in space.
As I move closer, as I move away,
As I lay still, as I splash around,
Distance is always there, to be
Reckoned with. It feels like a
Point in space, at the mercy of
Every other point to decide its
Utility as itself in this universe.
Inconsequential in inherence,
Building around itself a web of
Importance, by program, by the
Properties it was bequeathed.
As it waves around in its quest
For consequence, it really feels
Like a very small point in space.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Somewhere....
Somewhere in this supple,
Rounded, familiar shape
Lies the mind I love.
Credit be to the Hand
That devised such tangle
Of destiny, of intertwining
Paths, towards living we all go.
In every sparkle, in every caress,
In every touch, in every smile,
In every passing moment,
There rises a silent prayer to
The Hand, that devised this.
A prayer in volition, of a
Predestined accord, devised
For me, as I grow; as shaped
By the Hand, the mind I love.
Rounded, familiar shape
Lies the mind I love.
Credit be to the Hand
That devised such tangle
Of destiny, of intertwining
Paths, towards living we all go.
In every sparkle, in every caress,
In every touch, in every smile,
In every passing moment,
There rises a silent prayer to
The Hand, that devised this.
A prayer in volition, of a
Predestined accord, devised
For me, as I grow; as shaped
By the Hand, the mind I love.
Friday, March 11, 2005
The Silk Brocade
The Silk Brocade
The silk brocade
Caught in a thorn, losing its
Value, for life, for adorning
A beauty, to qualify existence,
To justify the Creator, whose
Deft hands crafted it, with care.
The smooth silk dies. The craft
Will forever create brocades
That will delight who
Seeks it, in endless giving,
Blending in color and in sense.
Silk is chosen, condemned to
Everyone who can want it. Like
A thing that can be passed on,
With easy ebullience, still to
Lend itself to creating beauty,
And so goes its legacy.
The silk brocade
Caught in a thorn, losing its
Value, for life, for adorning
A beauty, to qualify existence,
To justify the Creator, whose
Deft hands crafted it, with care.
The smooth silk dies. The craft
Will forever create brocades
That will delight who
Seeks it, in endless giving,
Blending in color and in sense.
Silk is chosen, condemned to
Everyone who can want it. Like
A thing that can be passed on,
With easy ebullience, still to
Lend itself to creating beauty,
And so goes its legacy.
The Insanity of Seeking
The room, enormous it is,
Like a wily twisting maze.
Restless, clueless, I am
Enclosed in its womb.
All ways lead to the torch,
Bearing the eternal flame.
Yet unthinkable it is for me,
To reach out, for it
Could die at my touch.
Let the flame give me warmth,
Transmitted through the walls,
Through the floor, in a gentle
Caress of a touch, a mere rustle.
Feeble in transmission, amplified
By my emotions, fooling my
Rationality. Forever in my paradise.
Clouded by my mind’s ravings,
Of my passionate calling.
Making silent love, in the depths of
My soul, forever embroiled in love
In the cold cell, desire
Running like a fever, so passionate,
So deep. I moan in pain, at the
Insanity of seeking warmth,
At the cost of the flame.
As my eyes burn, the fits of searing
Desolation hit me in waves,
Again and again, pushing me,
To dream the end of my exile, to home,
To her warm bosom, that bed of roses,
Upon which may my head rest, to
Fog into its deserved slumber.
Like a wily twisting maze.
Restless, clueless, I am
Enclosed in its womb.
All ways lead to the torch,
Bearing the eternal flame.
Yet unthinkable it is for me,
To reach out, for it
Could die at my touch.
Let the flame give me warmth,
Transmitted through the walls,
Through the floor, in a gentle
Caress of a touch, a mere rustle.
Feeble in transmission, amplified
By my emotions, fooling my
Rationality. Forever in my paradise.
Clouded by my mind’s ravings,
Of my passionate calling.
Making silent love, in the depths of
My soul, forever embroiled in love
In the cold cell, desire
Running like a fever, so passionate,
So deep. I moan in pain, at the
Insanity of seeking warmth,
At the cost of the flame.
As my eyes burn, the fits of searing
Desolation hit me in waves,
Again and again, pushing me,
To dream the end of my exile, to home,
To her warm bosom, that bed of roses,
Upon which may my head rest, to
Fog into its deserved slumber.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
How to Name It?
My thoughts flow,
Like a river to the sea,
Towards her.
In bouts of sweet pain
Do I exist the days.
In fleeting glances, and
In enduring pride.
So near yet so far.
In spirals of pale despair
Do I endure the cool evenings.
Under the Orion, and in
The silence of my soul.
Hope seems less possible.
In my books and music
Are my nights spent.
Seeking that flash of
Passion. Ever so intense.
So far yet so near.
The thoughts butt the walls
Of my mind, like a torrent
Trying to break the dam
Of my silence, my sanity.
Ever trying to make me
The callous monster.
To cry out in pain,
Unfeeling in my impulse
To let her know
How I feel then.
How to name it?
How to name it?
Like a river to the sea,
Towards her.
In bouts of sweet pain
Do I exist the days.
In fleeting glances, and
In enduring pride.
So near yet so far.
In spirals of pale despair
Do I endure the cool evenings.
Under the Orion, and in
The silence of my soul.
Hope seems less possible.
In my books and music
Are my nights spent.
Seeking that flash of
Passion. Ever so intense.
So far yet so near.
The thoughts butt the walls
Of my mind, like a torrent
Trying to break the dam
Of my silence, my sanity.
Ever trying to make me
The callous monster.
To cry out in pain,
Unfeeling in my impulse
To let her know
How I feel then.
How to name it?
How to name it?
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
My Wait.....
My Wait.
I walk down
The paved path
In sylvan surroundings,
Butterflies and humming bees,
The morning’s light wreath
Turns the cold into rousing warmth.
I feel empty
As a dull numbness sets in
Leaving me gasping for thoughts.
With a vacuum of sorts.
The time comes
When my beauty is realized
By her presence, a smile,
In ethereal stillness.
With her lilting fragrance
Lighting up the instance.
A moment in rhapsody
With the cure for my malady.
Transcending everything else
That was created by
The very same Hand.
In perfect harmony with
Her body and her spirit,
Forever young and perfect.
Made for love, to be
Given without question,
In absolute, with exaltation.
As my chest swells
With the pride in swells,
To life I rise for a toast.
The moment ends.
Leaving a void widened,
Ever deepened.
With love as the end,
And love as the means,
I plough on, through the days,
With its waves shaping my heart
Into the perfection
Of its love.
I walk down
The paved path
In sylvan surroundings,
Butterflies and humming bees,
The morning’s light wreath
Turns the cold into rousing warmth.
I feel empty
As a dull numbness sets in
Leaving me gasping for thoughts.
With a vacuum of sorts.
The time comes
When my beauty is realized
By her presence, a smile,
In ethereal stillness.
With her lilting fragrance
Lighting up the instance.
A moment in rhapsody
With the cure for my malady.
Transcending everything else
That was created by
The very same Hand.
In perfect harmony with
Her body and her spirit,
Forever young and perfect.
Made for love, to be
Given without question,
In absolute, with exaltation.
As my chest swells
With the pride in swells,
To life I rise for a toast.
The moment ends.
Leaving a void widened,
Ever deepened.
With love as the end,
And love as the means,
I plough on, through the days,
With its waves shaping my heart
Into the perfection
Of its love.
Monday, March 07, 2005
My Own Prison
How does it feel?
To be on ur own,
No direction no home,
Like a complete unknown,
Like a rolling stone....
When I am alone, I feel like I am free. But for how long? Till I feel I am not losing anything by not being with people or till I feel I am not gaining anything by being alone. Why should i feel free?
Happiness is a present attitude, and not a future condition, says Hugh Prather, in "My Struggles to Become a Person". Attitudes are shaped by external factors. If attitudes are shaped by externalities, then happiness is external too. We look for externalities to be happy. Someone has to tell me something to make me happy. Someone has to do something I like for me to be happy. I make an externality a precondition to be happy. When I am dependent on someone or something to come to a happy state of mind, I am placing it in the hands of an external factor, which may or may not respect my stakes, may or may not respect my terms and requirements in the whole thing. We have created a relationship between attitude and happiness.
When I say we have created the relationship, I mean that the conditioning we have been through tells us to be pleasing, to be good by someone else’s standards, and therefore to look for external criteria to satisfy. We never had a choice on this, because the relationship was made when for us the world was our family, when the mom and pop were Gods. My happiness lay in theirs. This relationship is ingrained in our mind, deep. To the point of being the only morally acceptable and known means to be happy.
Doesn’t every religion preach the ideal eternal bliss in the Self? What does it take to have nothing to possess and still be happy?
Every pit I am in, I have dug for myself. Every time I find myself in a pit, I find that I will not get out till I realize that I dug the pit. We created our own prisons.
To be on ur own,
No direction no home,
Like a complete unknown,
Like a rolling stone....
When I am alone, I feel like I am free. But for how long? Till I feel I am not losing anything by not being with people or till I feel I am not gaining anything by being alone. Why should i feel free?
Happiness is a present attitude, and not a future condition, says Hugh Prather, in "My Struggles to Become a Person". Attitudes are shaped by external factors. If attitudes are shaped by externalities, then happiness is external too. We look for externalities to be happy. Someone has to tell me something to make me happy. Someone has to do something I like for me to be happy. I make an externality a precondition to be happy. When I am dependent on someone or something to come to a happy state of mind, I am placing it in the hands of an external factor, which may or may not respect my stakes, may or may not respect my terms and requirements in the whole thing. We have created a relationship between attitude and happiness.
When I say we have created the relationship, I mean that the conditioning we have been through tells us to be pleasing, to be good by someone else’s standards, and therefore to look for external criteria to satisfy. We never had a choice on this, because the relationship was made when for us the world was our family, when the mom and pop were Gods. My happiness lay in theirs. This relationship is ingrained in our mind, deep. To the point of being the only morally acceptable and known means to be happy.
Doesn’t every religion preach the ideal eternal bliss in the Self? What does it take to have nothing to possess and still be happy?
Every pit I am in, I have dug for myself. Every time I find myself in a pit, I find that I will not get out till I realize that I dug the pit. We created our own prisons.
Music and Beauty
The reason music is so valuable is that it is an incarnation of beauty, for me. A thing is not beautiful because it is beautiful, but it is valuable because it is beautiful. Beauty is value. What better incarnation can be there for beauty than an art?
To show beauty to someone in any form is a supreme effort. If I am feeling the beauty of a song or music, what would it take it to create it?
Beauty is a state of mind, of the creator and the beholder. The creator creates something, when he is in a particular state of mind, so sees beauty in his creation. To appreciate this beauty, the beholder must correspond to this state of mind of the creator. Thus, the two minds must be on a plane that is mutual.
Surely the creator of so much value, that is beauty, must have been one with the divine when it was created. Consorting with the deepest values of his existence, which are brought out in a state of extreme involvement.
This is the emotional level. When the sounds of some string kindle a feeling of love, sadness or even ecstasy, this is like someone holding the strings and I am a puppet.
What joy in helplessness. To ride the wave, to go with the flow. When you know nothing else matters at that moment, what is the point in thinking? A rare moment. Ascetism could lead to this for longer periods of time, or an orgasm for a moment. In all these cases, the thing that stops the mind is beauty, of the mind itself, of our raw instinct, unsaid, yet expressed.
I am listening to this song now, what else exists but Me.
To show beauty to someone in any form is a supreme effort. If I am feeling the beauty of a song or music, what would it take it to create it?
Beauty is a state of mind, of the creator and the beholder. The creator creates something, when he is in a particular state of mind, so sees beauty in his creation. To appreciate this beauty, the beholder must correspond to this state of mind of the creator. Thus, the two minds must be on a plane that is mutual.
Surely the creator of so much value, that is beauty, must have been one with the divine when it was created. Consorting with the deepest values of his existence, which are brought out in a state of extreme involvement.
This is the emotional level. When the sounds of some string kindle a feeling of love, sadness or even ecstasy, this is like someone holding the strings and I am a puppet.
What joy in helplessness. To ride the wave, to go with the flow. When you know nothing else matters at that moment, what is the point in thinking? A rare moment. Ascetism could lead to this for longer periods of time, or an orgasm for a moment. In all these cases, the thing that stops the mind is beauty, of the mind itself, of our raw instinct, unsaid, yet expressed.
I am listening to this song now, what else exists but Me.
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