More than Words !

the fragrance of a flower is always present in the muddiness of consciousness, for the flower is there, even if it is not the lover asks his beloved, 'does the flower have a heart?' 'not the beating one but the being one and the non being one', she replies the fragrance follows the lover like the void of cosmos, never one, but never two as-well, such wondrous play, such suchness the lover asks his beloved, 'does the flower bloom in the night or the day?' 'you are always blooming, dear one, always blooming', she replies no words of bliss and ecstasy can define this, so stay silent beloved, stay in silence, never, uttering a word just your fragrance

'discover your own identity'  As he took his first step into the horizontal capitalistic society, he confronted a serious flaw in his own existence. His thoughts were invisible here. He belonged to no groups, no normalization, no stereotypes, and no revolution. Philosophy was a constant incessant irony. From where he came, knowledge was not to think but to see. Here, even the possibility of thinking was un-reflective, vision was a rare commodity. The traditional culture portrayed this land as a land of individuality, democracy and freedom. But he found very less humans, conspired oligarchy and slavery.  Was this to be the new Atlantis, he wondered. Kierkegaard was very right, humans are condemned to freedom. But no one wants to be free. This place seems to be what Huxley tried to explain, that dysfunctional society. Where the choice of leadership is between a cruel thief and a xenophobe. Both scared of change and unity.  This place also has another face, hi...

them beautiful struggles are like quadruple doses of brilliant illusions riding faithfully to the notorious feels of being in the enterprise of lucid poetry mystical yearnings of a unit experience embracing words like a lover convinced that-- this hoax would simplify things, amused by its collectivity to define that'ness just a blissed-out state, just this moment that is why poetry is an adrenaline rush a mental molestation of your fancies, your fears your insecurities and your imaginations poetry is a close encounter with the naked person a girl, or a boy, that doesn't even matter poetry is the highest compliment, the dreadful lie poetry is reality characterized as an imbalance of abandonment poetry smells like rotting flesh, a new born baby or like Kathmandu when it rains compassionate, yet fearsome finding solace between lovers in bed or cactus in a desert impending darkness exploding lightness just the eyes of compassion just this awareness poetry is a naked person

an apocryphal story of a conversation between I's the myriad of forms is divided into two: atoms and the void, each separate, together one the dualism is the medium of communication art and science, heaven and hell, black and white the dualism is a bridge of connection a circuit through which information is penetrated into reality; that in its own rights is the most Greek view of life, Democritus once said that- "By convention hot, by convention cold, but in reality atoms and void, and also in reality we know nothing, since the truth is at bottom" because in 'ether' man is just a vibration, a being in the swift currents of life, not a human doing, but a human being thus thinking is an art of being, but as we row our boat in the rivers of time, we tend to forget that science and spirituality is an artistic one crisscrossing and ricocheting within their own walls, they were meant to dance in dualism but we are cursed to eternity, hence we fight for one, when in r...

the spring calls her beloved, wake up now... turn down the furnace of grief be gentle and walk around when daffodils sing enjoy the dance of birds do nothing at once do nothing at all just be the moment the observer observed in that observance be steady enough, to hear the soundless calls of love do not cling to ego be not bounded to sight see from within the true beauty beyond thy eyes the spring calls her beloved, wake up now...

This is subjective. Miraculous.  Only true if you can really see through the vile.  If that is so, move along. Or else thy shall return.  To your objective circle. An easy way out from here.  That is particularly where you choose to belong.    But this is for the risk takers. Mad painters.  Outspoken poets. Riddlers. Thinkers. Explorers.  Writers. Magicians. Seekers. Occasionally- artistic gods in human forms. The futurist,  the melancholic destroyer of thoughts, the hedonist.  The archaic, the high humpback whales,  the atomic tingles. The surreal.  This is for those who don't belong. Not here or anywhere.  This is for those who find youniquenss in the complex  dictionary of thought and realty. To those who alter genes.  To those who change and merge. Blend and reoccur.  This is for those who came with no manuals written. This is for those who believe in ...

the space bends you into shapes forms of colors, taste and deepness but you are not you, that you which you define  you are not you, that you which you defend  you are not you, that you which you see in the mirror you are but an expression of that divine that divine which cannot be defined by you or I,  you see, how this all is so goofy such humor, such paradox, such lie no names, no divisions, no arrows  and no bows can ever distill you in your heart,  you are free, you are freedom personified  the only cage that can bind you  is nothing else but 'YOU'  and in that joke the universe giggles  you are the giggling universe