Gloriously Free.

My love,

Is difficult.

She buffets me, wrenches me from myself,

Gets me back,

Fills me, completes me,

Confuses me.

My love,

I want her happiness

But I bring her down,

By being me.

She’s a paradox.

A bittersweet frustration turns

Into an electric blue anger,

And finally, swirls into

A scarlet love.

Collapses into passion.

My love,

I will love her.

Kiss, and the world ceases to matter.

Our passion leaves us breathless.

Touch her, and I regain innocence.

We are bound, by our own yellow cords,

Of an irrational conscience.

Break them. Scandalous happiness.

My love,

Scares me.

With her visions of the future.

Of a time when she won’t belong to me,

And I to her.

Of a time when we won’t liberate,

And be liberated.

Of a time when I won’t make her happy.

Love is clichéd.

So this doesn’t have to be that.

It can be simpler, less ponderous, less heavy.

It can be like a free white breeze,

Blowing over the Pacific blue,

A balm to love-wracked mariners

And their aching hearts.

It can be like a wild mustang,

Gloriously free,

Galloping into a golden sunset.

It can be like a flight of mystery,

Of science,

Of pushing boundaries of what is known.

Of the thrill of knowing, and of the human spirit

Ever indomitable, behind it.

It could be like a walk in golden Prague.

Amongst a crowd of people who don’t know us.

Surrounded, yet alone together.

It could be like what I make you  feel, when I look into your eyes.

It could be like what you do to me, when you pant,

Breathless on love.

It can be like something I strum, and something you sing.

It could be all that. We could be all that.

Together, we could be one.

But lightly so.

Symbiote.

Love,

A gossamer blackness.

An all consuming mist of suspended lucidity.

Sucking me down.

Whorls of liquid longing.

Rip you out of my self,

And a part of me dies.

I cut myself off of this sweet misery

Pray for a suspension… of emotion

(But I know, my flight of freedom

Is just temporary relief for my self righteous ego).

Intellect is satisfied, the heart remains unresolved.

And I surrender, to mottled-grey confusion.

I love you.

I hate you.

Normalcy returns, and chugs on into the morrow.

…

One day

It’ll all be

Okay.

Rhymelets.

Happiness is being,

Suspending logic and seeing

Inside, for you’ll find

Purple and red strains, of an ice cream music.

Waltz in your train of hope, and wait for the stars,

For I’m there with you.

The impermanence of emotion,

Of love, of devotion,

Constricts by its very subtlety.

Like creeping death, envelops you,

Before you recognize the tell tale signs

Of emptiness.

Creeps over me, creeps over you.

The tears don’t fall. There are none.

Learning to Fly.

The plane lifts off, an explosion of defiance against the first man who denounced the concept of human flight. Who said, ‘It cannot be done’. A cheer goes up within the aircraft; a family (company granting confidence) yells with the same joy and in the same spirit that the first man who flew had, who thought: ‘It can be done’.

And we’re airborne.

The thrill of speed gives way to the sudden exhilaration of unrestricted movement. One that cannot be expressed in words, but still one tries, for the wonder is too great.

We’re Learning to Fly.

And we gaze out, unto the city.

Freedom.

All our troubles are relevant 37000 feet below, not here.

A child cries, not understanding.

The adults understand, and hence feel no reverence.

Shards of ice form on the window. You touch the window; it is unyielding.

And all the while, the aircraft climbs higher.

Floyd plays in the background.

The strength of human will and individuality echoes out a half read Rand novel.

We reach Kashmir.

We touch ground.

The roar of an approaching reality, and the speeding tarmac,

Hits us.

We’re in a spoiled paradise.

Idle Thoughts, Late One Night.

How blessed it is to be a Human Being,

To be granted the powers of Reason.

To be bestowed upon this Earth.

To see, to listen, to learn

And above all, to be able to comprehend a (albeit small) part of this ever reaching, Infinite Cosmos.

To find Beauty in Science, and Science in Beauty.

To love, and be loved,

And not be bound by loving.

Or, if bound, then

To desire, only such a binding.

To be able to Think, and Reason out the Truth for ourselves, and not

Indulge in idolizing, sycophantic worship

Of old books, and bygone people.

To have our bodies as our only temples, and

Our minds, as only objects worth of worship.

To know that our Dignity has not yet collapsed under the dark weight,

Of ugly cynicism.

And to know, that You and I can be One.

You, towards whom, I realize,

I have strived

In all my hours of worthy work.

You, whom I’ve tried to See,

But blinded by mundane, earthly bonds

Have seen but impenetrable mist.

Let us be one,

So that I may finally see the Truth, and lose

Myself in Your bliss.

That is all I ask.

Implosm.

Let me fly away,

On wings of desperation

Away from all this.

Away from this guilty emptiness, this vacillating confusion.

These yellow-tinted memories of an undulating past, haunt

And beckon me,

Like Homer's temptresses, to fall into them.

And so, I escape away, into a phantasmagoria of colour and light.

A Floyd-esque paradise.

Where nothing is what it stands for, but what it is.

‘Isness’, rather than Representational.

Where nothing matters, except existing.

Where You and I can be free..

Distinct, yet alike; the same, yet different.

Where I am You, and You are me, but

Our identities are our own.

Where order breaks, and all that remains

Is a beatific, innocent chaos.

Where feeling and shades and hues and Objects

Meld and flow into each other,

Into one endless stream of thought-consciousness.

(To be differentiated from one another only when forced through

A Prism of narrowing ‘Reality’).

Where the sound of stillness fills, and surrounds Us,

And then softly, dies away.

Where the air is alive with a vivacious, violet intelligence.

And You and I gallop away, into an all forgiving, and all forgetting slumber…

…

I wake up, in the darkest recesses of my mind.

And I’m alone again.

Insanity?

Circles.

Look for answers

Struggle,

Traverse, to understand:

Pilgrimages of the soul

End at,

The beginning.

Hubris.

Blinds our wisdom.

Overreaching,

Over-thinking, to realize,

To reach,

The beginning.

Make me,

Pure energy

Pure thought

Pure music

Pure.

Tired,

Of corporeality

And dull Reality.

Phantasms,

Streak by me.

Fantasies,

Blind me.

Let me see

Give me visions

of unnatural Beauty.

Truth isn’t Beauty.

Though as subjective.

Beauty isn’t Truth,

It couldn’t be.

Live.

Exist.

For the sake of Beauty.

Contradictions within themselves.

Circles within circles.

…

Laugh at myself.

Insanity?

Incredible sanity.