Recluse

Amidst the ceaseless cacophony
the incessant babbling
of the cantankerous crowd
of syncophants
cankerblossoms all,
the pauses were heavenly indeed.
The change was not apparent,
yet undeniably there. The silence was my sole solace,
that I might care as I withdraw into my newfound hermitude.
With my rediscovered puissance
I sealed the barriers once more
Traisping about, or rather, floating
in submission to the darkness of my making.
The occasional tune
The occasional waking
Disrupts not the final recluse

Eternal Summer

Humans are full of paradoxes. So while I dread the creeping feelings of loneliness, I too, dread the presence of humans in my space. Or maybe it is just me.

I yearn for love, for company, yet is disdainful of the incredulous amount of effort at maintaining the new relationship when the status quo is much easier to sustain. I am no able conversationalist and the silence between is sometimes overwhelming. Rather the silence within the confines of my mind.

Till the end, I am a staunch disbeliever that love is even in existence, when I am constantly supposing that the definition of love is duty speckled with lust or the other way round, as one sees fit. Love is just a convenient term.

And so, the echoes in the dreadful silence of my mind boom louder until I can't hear anybody else, their voices conflated with the sounds of my mental making.

World's End

It is time, isn't it? Atrocities abound, evil is rampant, cruelty is ubiquitous. I detest the false humanity of mankind. I abhor it. Every race has its massacres and the End is truely well-deserved. Let it end, while it still can.

Quaser

Quaser /ka:r'zз:r/ n. 1 the realization of an ideal, grounded in the relative terms of human gratification and hedonism, although not an absolute. 2 personal achievement essentialized.

A rhyme or two

One, two, buckle my shoe. It's important and crucial that at one and two, the shoe is buckled. If not, once you reach three and four, you'll have to pick up sticks and buckle your shoe at the same time. And it will be messy.

Three-legged frog

Everything is meaningless. That is the purest sense of postmodernism.

Because with postmodernism, everyone is disillusioned. Everyone was deluded.

Voices

This blog is a nook, lying among the vast space of the world wide web. It is a small voice, pleading for its existence, a small voice among the cacophony of the web. It expects not to be heard, except for the occasional stranger. Its pain, merely a glitch among the myriad aches that the body experiences. It expects no response. The voice is lost in the emptiness of the void.