കാവ്യാത്മതയുടെ കവിളിലെ മനോഹരമായ നുണക്കുഴികളായിരുന്നു ആ പുഞ്ചിരികൾ പ്രേചോദനത്തിന്റെ തീനാളങ്ങൾ- സദാ പടർന്നുകൊണ്ടേയിരിക്കുന്ന ഒന്ന്... ഇവിടെ നെരിപ്പോടായി തീർന്നത് കാലത്തിന്റെ ഓർക്കാൻ ഇഷ്ടപെടാത്ത ഏടുകളായിരുന്നിരിക്കാം.
മനസ്സിന്റെ മർമ്മരങ്ങളെ വാക്കുകളുടെ തന്ത്രിയുമായി കൂട്ടിയിണക്കി അഭൗമമായ സംഗീതംപോലെ മനോഹരമായ വരികൾ, അവിടെയാണ് അവളെന്ന യ്വവ്വനത്തെ അടക്കം ചെയ്തത്.
എങ്കിലും മനോഹരമായ ഛായക്കൂട്ടുകളിൽ മയങ്ങി മനസ്സ് വീണ്ടും...
ഓർമകളിൽ മറഞ്ഞ ആ ചിരിയുടെ ലഹരി ഒന്നുകൂടി സിരകളിൽ പടർത്താൻ, കോടമഞ്ഞുപോൽ എന്നെ പൊതിയുന്ന ആ സാമിഭ്യം ഒന്നുകൂടി അറിയാൻ, ആ നീരുറവയുടെ മാറിലൂടെ ഇനിയും വിരലുകൾ പായിക്കാൻ, ഈ കൈകുമ്പിളിൽ വാരി- പളുങ്കുകണങ്ങളെ ആർത്തിയോടെ വീക്ഷിക്കാൻ, വശ്യതയുടെ കൊടുങ്കാറ്റിനെ ആവാഹിച്ച നേർത്ത ചുഴികളിലേക്കു ഊളിയിടാൻ, ആനന്ദത്തിന്റെ കാണാകാഴ്ചകൾ ഹൃദയത്തിൽ ഒളിപ്പിച്ച ശംഖുപുഷ്പത്തോട് കുശലം പറയാൻ, പാതിയടഞ്ഞ മിഴികളിൽ കാമം രക്തമായി പടർന്നുകയറുമ്പോൾ നിറപുഞ്ചിരിയോടെ എനിക്ക്യാ-ആഴങ്ങളിലേക്ക് ആത്മാഹൂതി ചെയ്യാൻ.
വീണ്ടും ഘനക്കുന്ന ഓർമ്മകൾ
പരസ്പരം വിരുദ്ധങ്ങളായ പൂരകങ്ങളാകാം ഞങ്ങളെങ്കിലും ക്ഷണികത്തിൽ കനത്ത ഭാരങ്ങളില്ലാത്ത ഒരുഅനുചരൻ വിരുദ്ധങ്ങളായ പൂരകങ്ങൾ? അങ്ങനെ ഒന്നുണ്ടോ???
It can sometimes be a thought-
arises from unknown.
maybe a revelation of the CORE-
or a desire.
a unslakable thirst of the great muse.
it was she, his search for the dramatic poem.
or a picture,
an unusual picture drawn in a white- canvas in vivid colours.
I felt a hard red that drips into motherhood.
and the blue recalls the depth of her eyes.
the abundance of emotions flows into grey.
and the yellow kisses the elegance-
that never undisclosed
as if colours spread into peaks and curves.
as it was fading,
just fading, like a white dot-
in the dwindling dusk. But a recall or a feeble cry...
from the warmth of her existence
few lines emerged in my blue ink, yes, a few fragile lines
a wondering universe
and a clueless life
nature calling for the life. but my thoughts provoked with settled barren ideas.
there love never evoked,
but your proximity felt like nectar
there I shed the rusted beliefs,
and your touch replenished hopes.
Leaving you, I disappeared in the haze of death and the memories faded to void.
where am I? lost in that absence? before to horizon a kiss to remember even after death
we live under fear a kinda fear and felt unstable, always. you never know how you feel it when you kiss the death. and the fear crawls like shadows always. but you really want to embrace soothing wind blowing from the south to feel a smile, a smile of deep hush just to tast the heartbeat a rhythmic heartbeat.
I amazed, we humans hang on false beliefs always- that, we are here-forever. even pretend like never grow older. but Time has more- act to behave it never pauses for your actions. even for a cup of tea or for love, it remains between the cup and lip or hidden in the breath.
We appear in-cosmos, just like bubbles and leave when the world falls asleep the drama never ends in-universe, we pushed to act- roles, and the simpers echoes in silence.
We talk fragile in broken- and dance in ecstasy at the similar speaks wisely very next and act like insane in flashes. One in deep love and another in pain these emotions apart- creations hidden laws apart- wisdom speaks truth always, they are the audacious and beautiful make of nature. -manojeloor-
നിന്റെ വിരൽ തഴുകാത്ത തന്ത്രികൾ ഈ ഹൃദയത്തിലില്ല പെയ്തൊഴിയാത്ത വ്യഥകളും. സമയത്തിന്റെ സീമകൾ മറികടന്ന അനുഭൂതിയുടെ അമൃത കുംഭങ്ങളാണ് നിന്റെ ഗീതങ്ങൾ. തന്റെ ജഡകളിൽ ആവാഹിച്ച- ആത്മജ്ഞാനത്തിന്റെ വിത്തുകൾ കാക്ഷായ നൂലുകളിൽ കോർത്ത് രുദ്രക്ഷമാലകളായി ഹൃദയത്തിൽ അണിഞ് അവൾ ഗാനം തുടരുന്നു. ഒരു നാടോടി സംഗീതത്തിന്റെ വറ്റാത്ത വിയർപ്പുകൾ ഇപ്പോഴും അവളിൽ കാണാം. നിരർത്ഥകമായ ലൗകീകതയുടെ കടിഞ്ഞാണിൽ നിന്നും മുക്തിയുടെ നിറഭേദങ്ങ്ളിലേക്കു ജീവനെ നയിക്കുന്ന അനുപമമായ ഇന്ദ്രജാലം . അലൗകികമായ പ്രണയം നിന്നിലൂടെ ഇനിയും പ്രവഹിക്കട്ടെ...
What is the right time to have a midlife crisis? "Midlife" doesn't make much sense since you don't know when you're gonna die. You could die tomorrow, so you should've had the midlife crisis a long time back. Since I don't know the exact middle point of my life, I'd say the best time to have a midlife crisis is when you first ask yourself the question "What is reality".
What is reality? My childhood was pretty normal, normal in the sense that it was the best time of my life. Even if I die at this moment, I'd have zero regrets about it. Many of you may not find it relatable, because I lived in a time where you only need to remember the names of a few neighborhood kids to play with and don't have the dopamine addiction to check the counts on a screen. It was a good time and it also makes me realize that I'm getting older and angrier. Lately, I realized that I was getting angrier as the days go by. The other day I was watching the Liverpool game and found myself yelling at the screen, I know it won't matter but things are complicated like that.
The question first popped into my head when I was in my early twenties and one of my professors told me to read Penrose. One thing I've learned over the years is that when you start asking deep questions about life, it branches into more questions rather than giving you the answers that you want to hear. One branches into another and it continues till it gets tangled in loops that you cannot escape. You're not even sure what was the question that you begin with. Perhaps this is one of the reasons why people chose religion and spirituality over science.
My mother is religious. "It gives a certain balance to uncertainty", she says. Some things are beyond our control and you have to make peace with them, she often tells me. I loved visiting temples with her when I was a child, it was fun, and there was a sense of calm about those places and more importantly, I believed in the idea that when you pray enough, you'll get it eventually. The ten-year-old me prayed so hard to make my 5th-grade crush to fall in love with me. I'm not a religious person, I moved away from the idea when my parents got me way too many books on science, evolution to the big bang. I think a person is a strong reflection of what they read, what they see, and interact with.
There are two stages to science if you ask me. The first one is when you know the facts about the world. For example, we all evolved from some single-cell organisms, gravity is the one thing that is holding the worlds together, and so on. The second stage is when you start wondering about the meaning of facts. What is gravity? How does it work? Is evolution nothing but some random changes to the DNA? Does that mean our life is nothing but a random event?
The causality associated with our daily existence is something that we are familiar with. All that we know is that the clock ticks every second and you are a bit older than you used to. It would've been fun if we knew how to stop the clock for a moment to take a little break or if we knew how to turn back time to make a bit better decisions than what you've already made so far. It is such a shame that we are evolved in a way that we can only interact with this abstract version of reality in a linear way, one second after another. That is the reason why we are obsessed with the idea of a beginning and an end, why we can never comprehend reality to a deeper level. If that's the beginning, then what caused the beginning, what is before that? All I can say is, AC said "Let there be light" And there was light...
I'm a mere extension of all the people before me. I have heard that all past human thought is just a development of the thoughts and ideas of previous thinkers. I can't deny this, because if true, then in my thinking I would be merely repeating what others have already thought before me. I think our view of self is very complicated. We tend to have a lot of different kinds of concepts about ourselves, one for each context in which they appear.
Now, I envy people who can say "I love you". What exactly is it that you love? When people say they love you, they are only loving the parts that you chose to show them. It is the parts that are familiar to them, the parts that can fit so well on their narrative of the world, without leading to contradictions. What happens when one day you wake up and realize these contradictions? Would you still love the same? It is a complicated business, isn't it?
I met this person a couple of years back who knew just the right words to talk about stars, the universe, physics, philosophy, poetry, games and memes, and much more in the most elegant way that I've ever seen. I do not know whether I liked her or not, but I do remember telling her that I love how her brain works. We live in different parts of reality now and it would be such a cliche if I write, I still wonder about her when I look at the stars. The truth is I don't. I don't look at the stars anymore if you want me to be honest. I often end up watching disguised toast playing among us for some weird reason or some football games to yell at or some try guys or buzz feed unsolved for the billionth time.
I've seen people saying that 2020 taught them a lot of important things about life. Isn't it strangely beautiful how we give meaning to the way our tiny planet moves around the sun that moves through the vast emptiness that moves through a little bit larger emptiness to some uncertainty that we romanticize about but know very little about?
Some say that we carry the memories of the universe, that we all share some dauntingly beautiful connection that makes us more than what we can see. Stars make you feel something, something that you can't quite understand. There is something about the way they shine down on us that makes us feel more connected with one another and perhaps even a part of the universe itself. I think we love stars because they are mysterious, and yet in a way we feel like we can understand them. It's a contradiction, isn't it? Maybe they are the divine embodiment of something or someone that we've lost or yearn on a dark lonely night, we try to understand them but feel a sense of futility in our efforts. It is as if we are missing something about the way they align with an intricate part of our existence.
the sky never seemed to care about what you feel. for a poetic touch, you gave it a color, a life, and a story that fits in your journal. but it was never the same, always changing; from one color to another. blue to the orange to the red and sometimes, a bit too grey for your liking. a tiny dot in the endless space, awed by the wonders that hide from your sight but you always wondered what the sky feels.
I was thirteen when I first learned that I'm a terrible writer. I was in a writing camp where I was awed by the way some people write and think and perceive reality. My little brain couldn't comprehend the fact we were looking at the same thing but understanding it in a completely different way. The final nail in the coffin happened when I realized when you train a state of the art NLP model with enough poems, it can create one of the most beautiful pieces of literature that I cannot even think of.
At the same time, I realized that people aren't writing to be the next Neruda or Keats or some other brilliant minds. They are simply trying to understand the multitude of realities that collapses at once inside their head. Trying to collect all the thoughts to make sense of what is this that they are feeling or the why. I'm still conflicted in the why part. Does knowing the why takes anything away from your subjective experience of the world that feels so personal?
What is reality then? Is it all a simulation? Does free will exist? Is it a deterministic automaton? If you are weird like me, you may like the idea of the universe is a simulation and we are at the 42nd level. Maybe the meaning of life is as simple as that. But I do not think that it matters that much, the reality that your brain creates for yourself is enough.
Sometimes you feel too much, it is as if all the words the world has to offer is not enough to pen it down on a white sheet of paper that looks as empty as the space between stars where light forgot to touch. You're not sure what to make of it, what it is that you're feeling, or the why, so you keep it for yourself and try to make sense of it.
It is a strange kind of loneliness, isn't it?
After cutting off everyone for a while made me realize that humans are not made to survive on their own, that is why we look for a connection, it does not matter how, but we need a certain connection to feel a bit better to survive another day. It does not mean that you're born broken, incomplete, and this life is nothing but a pursuit to find pieces to make you whole, to find someone else to make you feel whole. I feel there are some words, carefully structured by someone else in a way to make art. With the very first read, it connects with you. Every line, every word, and every space makes sense, telling you the story that you always wanted to shout out. "this is exactly what I feel".
And if you survive the start and the middle to get here, perhaps that is what you are looking for here, a connection, you read to make sense, you read to figure out who you are in between the lines.
I don't think it fixes you, but for a moment you are not alone, you smile. One day you learn how to make peace with it, but still wonder about things beyond all the words and all the languages that the world remembers, beyond the mundane chains beyond the bounds of gravity, something somewhere the world forgot to reach.
You wish you could understand, how you feel complete yet empty at the same time. I wish too.
Days have been getting colder lately, and it's becoming more evident that death is the only certainty that we have about the world. What happens when you die and no one there to see it? What happens when you die and no one there to miss your memories? But, what happens when you're alive and no one there to see it, no one there to share what you feel, no one there to hold a hand, no one there to jump from a cliff to ice-cold water below and survive, no one there to get drunk on cheap alcohol and laugh about how fucked up days are getting? What's the scariest thing? Death or living?
There is this sense of helplessness about existence that we rarely ponder about, yet we walk like we know the destination.
I wish I had an answer, I wish I had a lot of things, but I wish I had answers to a few things. Sometimes, answers are more meaningful when you know the right questions to ask. But, in a way, the meaning is meaningless isn't it?
Let me ask you a simple question. Why are you here reading this? Of all the things that you could've done, why and how did you end up here reading this? What is it about the words that keep you come back for more? Are you looking for a connection like the other person reading this at the same moment, someone that you don't even know but feel the same as if there is something hidden in reality that's bringing you closer to something that you're not even sure of? A bleak sense of belongingness amidst the chaos to feel a little something? Or maybe you had a few minutes to kill reading some random things because you've got nothing better to do.
Now that you are conscious about reading this, are you aware of all the functions that are happening inside you making you aware of how you ended up here? Every single neuron and chemical reactions inside the brain, that gets activated to make you understand the nature of reality.
We are aware of the existence but completely oblivious to the mechanics and nature of existence.
Reality. What does that even mean? Whatever you perceive, you perceive through your sensory organs and your brain, a complex computation involving neurons and the way they are connected, and a bunch of chemicals that result in a certain understanding of the world around you. This means that the specific way in which you see anything is always subjective. Therefore, you can never, in any way, reach any objective reality, since all objects are available to you only through their interpretations you perceive.
You exist in these narratives that the brain creates for itself. Why these stories and not something else? Perhaps, it is the most optimized way to navigate the world around or it's the fun way. It explains our obsession with the stories, not just the ones from the books but the ones everyone around us carries that ends in some late-night conversations that feel so personal.
Who are you then, if not this machine that takes input from the world and tries to predict what happens next? A mere moment of existence in the grand stage of things, that lives a short life only to wither away into the soil as if never existed. I'm trying to understand what it means to be alive, perhaps because I'm a creature of contradictions.
I question my atheism sometimes, maybe, mid-twenties can do that to you. Trying to find a purpose, a greater meaning, has always been the core of human evolution. All those memories and instincts buried deep inside our DNA, resurfaces on nights like these. It's strange, even after all the logical reasoning and possibilities, how we find comfort in some prehistoric bunch of lies. We always had a thing for stories, right? But the question still remains, why we exist at all.
Our universe is 13.7 billion years old, if our calculations are right, from the big bang to this exact moment. One way to see it is the fact that the universe took 13.7 billion years to mold you into this existence. Another way is, you're here now and you won't be here after a few more years. People romanticize how the universe is fine-tuned to sustain life, all the fine-tuned parameters to make your existence on this tiny planet. I love how ignorant we are, still thinking that the universe revolves around us.
We don't witness the beauty of the universe, only a few ponder about it and ask the questions that lead to more questions and a few answers. Most of us are stuck in this routine to survive another day and some wake up to a tomorrow and some leave behind stories for another day.
We are the way we are because the physical system that we are embedded in has these properties, if these values were a bit different we would have evolved differently or never existed at all and there could be a parallel universe where that is true. Like an electron, given a choice, it divides itself, creating copies and choose every option, creating different realities. Our existence is just a byproduct of these values, a simple emergent property of the system. Does that make life any less special? Meaningless, probably, but beauty is our subjective perception of the world, and for me, that is the most elegant thing about existence, life.
perhaps, we live and die within people. as memories, in a stranger, at two am when the whiskey hits in the right spot. perhaps, a few lines on a bright screen that reminds them of something they lost.
it is strange, isn't it? in the end, we are nothing but some random memories on some strangers' minds. living a life beyond eulogies, and withered flowers on the tombstones. an immortal life till the time strips away the stories from the mere mortal minds.
I feel like we are ghosts chained to these mundane laws, decaying like the opaque buildings that we live in, and that is why we try so hard to find meaning to this existence. How can you ever comprehend the meaning of it all? How do you know that you're real and not mere imagination of a writer's mind? A story that they got bored in the middle and rushed it to an end? Maybe I don't exist at all, I'm just an extension of your weird imagination, a simple narrative that you created for yourself for some reason that you had no control over, and me, this, everything around you is just the brain playing some tricks on you. Can you tell the difference?
The more people you talk to, the lonelier it gets. It gets harder to keep up with their stories. All of the favorite colors, songs, things that make them happy, or sad even the deep dark secrets they chose to tell you at two in the morning. Maybe you'll fall in love, maybe fall out of love, get married to some stranger and live a little longer, and die, or you could get hit by a truck tomorrow and die a horrible death. If I die today, at this moment, you'll never know, a few will miss the memories for a few days and it slowly fades away into the noises of the world.
That is the only certainty about existence, death. You don't ponder about death even though it's inevitable and lurks in the back of your head, you are somehow wired in a way that makes you want to survive. You don't think too much about it, even when days are mundane that you jerk off to the same thing you've seen yesterday as a zombie trapped inside a nihilistic eventuality. Words don't carry truth, they carry sound often filled with a smile - a hope a facade. It's all grey, the days the feelings the mundanity that you're forced to follow. So, words fail you as you type and speak about how the days are going, how your life is going. The truth is that the clock makes the same sound, tick-tock, tick-tock, you wake up to the same thing with the memory of a yesterday that no longer exists and you are one more step closer to the inevitable entropic death. You don't know when or how, but it's the only certainty in this chaos. The truck in a hurry on the right side of the road, or the one that speaks about poetry and stars at late nights, one way or another it always finds you.
One day the sun will die too, everything that you know now will cease to exist. The world is drifting apart, faster than light can touch, in a way. The sky that we see today is the memory of the universe, stories from the past that no longer exist and drifting apart, but kept on traveling and became a part of our existence, part of our stories. Soon, in a few billion years, there won't be many stars for you to see in the night sky. The universe does not care about what we understand about its existence, we can only try to untangle the stories to find the ones that we can comprehend.
There could be some life at the edge of the universe, somewhere so far away on a distant planet just as lonely and lost as we are looking at a different sky and wondering about us, never knowing about our stories and our obsession with the way light touch a part of ourselves that made us wanderers.
Someone told me about how infinities are tiny little things that you fail to see, maybe that's why asking for meaning is futile in the grand stage of things. We exist because we exist, the meaning is just our subjective experience of these tiny little infinities around us that makes you wanna wake up tomorrow that we do not know about.
this numbness that you feel at two in the morning, is the collective insomnia of everyone that looks for answers at the strangest times.
as the clock makes another sound, you're one step closer to uncertainty. we search through the endless nights, for a definite answer to kill the pain, but it finds abode in the weakening heart.
of all the why's and the what's we couldn't figure out, I wonder how some colored pills found the right way to happiness
perhaps, we've become some ghosts chained to the mundane ways, getting rusted, decaying like the opaque buildings that we live in.
They made her hide beneath the walls Both her body and soul,she wasn't the owner They said they owned it..all what is hers They called her 'Lekshmi' ...the lamp of their home Her voice struggled beneath throat As it feared to seek expression Her words died rotten inside her heart All what is hers was suppressed And what came out was woman India What they wanted her to be...never she