From One Drug To Another

There comes a time when you get this realization... this epiphany... this intense moment where God decides to kick your nuts and the pain is so extreme that it travels up your body and gives you a splitting headache. 

The splitting headache in turn spreads across your body; converting into a full-fledged body ache. 

But somehow the pain seems to be concentrated on your back and in your mind.

This has to mean something right? There has to be some sort of connect between the mind and back I suppose. Something beyond biology and all that jazz. Something a little more deep, a little more meaningful. 

My theories and the ideas of other people that I respect, often make more sense to me than the scientific bullshit I've been fed throughout my insignificant existence. 

I understand that you may be curious as to why exactly the fan rotates and what makes it move.

I'd say fuck it; I switch on the damn button and the fan moves. End of story.

Maybe I'm just not scientifically inclined. But then again I love science fiction. Isaac Asimov; what a charmer. 

Epiphany time - I just realized. I would have learnt all of that scientific stuff if it had been taught with the kind of beauty a science fiction novel is written. Even a sci-fi movie's charisma would do. 

I digress. 

When you enter a new life, when you become independent, live in your own establishment that is your home and not your parent's, live with strangers who become your friends, do things you wouldn't dream of doing a while back, things your parents can ever dream of you doing, you fuck up, get into trouble, survive, get into shit again, bounce back and so on...

Until that time where there's a road-block. It's not the end of the line. It's not something that is going to stop you from being who you are and doing what you want and doing who you want. But still... it hits your eye.

There is this moment of clarity where realizations decide to make a visual appearance. And it doesn't happen rapidly, in a fast beam of energy. So fast that you can't make head or foot of it. 

It happens slowly, gradually, giving you time to think, helping you realize. 

It's like this little lady by the lake is telling you that the water is too deep to dive in. She tells you that you can try to swim across the lake if you desire so but it is dangerous. You might make it, might not. She knows that you're a daredevil, a rebel of the highest order; probably without a cause. She wants you to understand that you don't have to prove it all the time. You don't have to jump in the lake.

Not when you can't swim.

Moving on, from one drug to another. 

There is no scenario where you will not like this song. 

Back to Bedlam

You're high
Then you write
Poetry
Lucid thoughts

You wait in despair
Prepare to be extinguished
Your bright blue flame
Being watered down

The end of the line
Bottom of the valley
The deepest deep
The space within

Serving among brothers
Working hand in hand
You soldier on
Till kingdom come

Bright sun goes down
The menacing night
Wild cats on the prowl
You're scared alone

Neck deep in despair
At the end of the day
Ain't me and you
But me alone

And my God within
Who guides my way
Or he's just a sham
I wouldn't know

To the beach and back
To the city of dreams
In a tumbling train
Back to bedlam

Blurry Minds, Blurry Lives

Days when you feel useless again.

You think of making a blog post on how almost everyone you're close to are people who you've interacted online mostly.
You think of making a blog post, comparing trippy psychedelic music of the 70's with today's counterpart.
You think of making a blog post on you love life.

You don't; you instead get stuck in your immovable, morbid state... stuck with one leg in the gutter and the other in the drain.

This urge, this need to feel productive... kills me from the inside at times.
It's like you look at all these people, who are mostly around the same age, doing well in life; having achieved far more than you have till now.
People console you; they tell you that it's because of different opportunities, better opportunities. Bigger places, better chances.
All that hogwash.

Anonymous once said, "If you really want to do something, you’ll find away; if you don’t you’ll find an excuse."

But what is the deal with all these quotes, eh?
All this philosophical nonsense.
This flexibility of these feeble words that you can put to use in whatever situation and time you deem fit.
Different meanings at different times, dollar now... dime sometime.

Quotes. The fake wise-men of our generation.
Oh wait, we already have them.

Anyhow, I digress.

Mum said, "Do the best you can wherever you are."
But what if I already am, ma?

This person on this website said, "I sometimes feel I just DO NOT belong here. It feels like whatever I do or plan to do is hollow and pointless. There are phases of depression and emptiness that I face. I feel I could have as well studied in DU (smoking away my college life, which I still do but without meaning to it). This feeling reaches its zenith when your grades suck or you lose a competition."

Wow. Fucker just raped my mind and stole everything I wanted to say.

Mothers you know, wonder women of the world.
One phone call and your brain gets re-wired.
But what if you don't know if it's for the good, these re-wiring?
What if you are just being inception-ed.
False promises and fall hopes, just rotting... grub for crows.


This is pointless.

Blurry minds, blurry lives.

Basboosa

 ‎"If you don't see me, I'll burn myself." 

Basboosa

Mohamed Bouazizi sold produce on his cart all day long to provide for his family. Basboosa, as he was called by the locals, gave up his hopes of a university degree as it was an unrealistic dream that his harsh life wouldn't grant him.

He was sensitive to the torment inflicted on the innocent locals by the municipal authorities, and he was angry. Rage burned in him like a phoenix which would only burn out after self- immolation, rebirth. 

Faida Hamdi and her municipal henchmen had harassed him and destroyed his cart, his means of livelihood. She had slapped him, spat on his face and called his dead father 'a coward who killed himself'. 

Standing outside the governor's office, expecting no reply to his cries and complaints against the injustice that life itself had become, Basboosa thought to himself, "When there is nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire."

And then he lit the match that set fire to the Tunisian Revolution.