Ginger drafts...

The lane beside my home is perhaps the single most figment of my memory that never fades; the dark lane, passage so thin that only one person could go at a time, tall walls on either side, mud dropping from the exposed bricks, stench of closeness surrounding me, the nagging discomfort that there is someone behind me, that someone from above is watching me. I would lean on one of the sides, look either ways, survey the surroundings and after confirming that there is nobody around, I would just stand there, blankly stare into the darkness. That was my time; nobody could take it away from me. My obsession with darkness is so becoming; that as if by some force of impulse that I find myself dragged into it. I barely recognize the different traits and vicissitudes that my obsession has favorably given birth to. I close my eyes in an attempt to recoup the losses, for the compunction that I could have just stayed there in the dark never to return to the world of caprice and malice-the world of

Everybody gets to play a role, but each of us is dissatisfied with the role we are playing. The play writer, in his confused state of mental aptitude, sketches the character. But, the character wishes to have more, he struggles to pin down accurately his feelings and fantasies of the person he would like to play. The more he plays himself, the more he fantasizes, and eventually the point of breakdown occurs, wherefrom he no longer realizes the inconsistency in his role play. He looks down upon himself, depressed, always in anticipation of something wonderful, something fanciful. He, the character loses himself, as the play writer watches in a seamless isolation, for he is the play writer and the character; for he is the narrator and the audience; for he is all there is to it; for it is his story that he is living and playing, constantly as if in a movie that never ends, as a book with perpetual addition of leaves. With every step he takes, every action he performs, he is constantly vig

There is certainty in death, its sealed once and for all, fully, wholesome and never to revisit again. Death occurs only once in a life time, it’s the rarest and precious of all the events in one’s life, a rational being would ready himself, all braces for the event, to confront the event with a fair degree of volitional powers. But, unfortunately, one doesn’t acknowledge this; one irrationally clings to the fear of confronting and finding himself on the other side, the darkest place or perhaps the most lonely corner of the universe. The individual infernally rejects the certainty of death to a point that he unconsciously surrenders to the disillusionment, and he draws support from other adherents of the frivolous coexistence. The collapse of one’s rational state begins from the day he is born; life is at the helm of irrationality, every live creature increases the quotient of irrationality in the universe. Death is rational, death is universal, death is an end in itself, it’s a water

Why is it that I am attracted almost by the force of an impulse towards greenery, plants, little shrubs, and tall trees? Paintings of thick forests, atmosphere that of misty evening with tinge of pale yellow color on the back ground interest me. The obscurity of paintings, the hidden qualities that reveal themselves occasionally, as if the painter is alive painting in another world while the hideous nuances fall apart one after another in this world. In the shadows of an evening sun, a hut that can be seen only through the two inseparable yet dissimilar brush strokes, one over the other; the antelope with its horns transmogrifying into dry branches of a dead oak tree, against the territorial pale brown background; the yellowish twigs on the forest floor that suffer at the weight of rain drops; the green leaves on the branches of trees that hold rain water in them, curved as cups, they hold water until water itself gains weight with one last dab of the fine brush painter holds at this m

The things that I have come to own up as mine have all lined up and together, they form a perpetual order of affiliation dragging me towards them. Unwholesome as I am, I subconsciously acquiesce to the ordered death of my personality. The charm is lost; the feathers of gravity that pin me down to an individual are broken, now I am not fixated to the ground. Now I am free, to wander aimlessly, to forget for the rest of the time that I have ever lived so close to the purpose that the vicinity scarred me, left me lacerated. Angered I was, extensively exposed to the cruelty of the impulses. So, I broke the tethers, and I am now aimless, far away from the pillars of impulse and instincts. Far away from the individual that I once was, today, afloat in air, I recall my days and whine suspiciously if my days of glory can ever be recovered. My surroundings are effusive, vibrant and demanding. I relish in the comfort of timelessness, today, I have stooped so low that I am unable to differentiate