M130 Rut

Rut
____

Things are not going very well—just a clockwork of rusted ruts.

In the attempt to feel different, I let myself get lured into one project or another, until the meaninglessness of it all pulls me into the depths of despair. A pathological unhappiness—anhedonia—where joys once reveled in become distant memories And it's calibrated by how few words I speak in a week—sometimes none at all. But nestled in this muteness is the pervasive and painful feeling of disconnectedness that I can't share with anyone who would want to understand without judging. And if spoken words are a way to communicate, anything I say is moot; there's nothing I fear I can add to the act on the stage in this tragic comedy I am featured in, possibly as a shadow or a ghost. Yes, I'm just a ghost, and very importantly, a meaningless one.

This spiraling downward into a pitiless dark void, more like my sophomore dreams of falling from a cliff with a receding lover's face, is rife with internal critique at the circumference of each narrowing spiral. Each fractal curve digs further into the blights of trapped memories, revealing deeper malaise and forgotten hurts buried so many decades ago.

A postponed rivalry with my own essence, packaged deep in my subconscious, is a constant subversion of what I sought to be, but linked to it, it ended up as this united grotesque mind-pair, vainly inimical for its own good—an unrivaled belligerent fatigue that kicks the weak and tired fallen internal figure, starkly honest and too anachronistic, into disrepair.

And in this hellscape, where hope feels oppressed and emotions turn heartless, the opium of the moment is nothing but a shut door—shut everything, shut eyelids at least. I hang there precariously until I can burden my nerves with sleep, and then more of it, until I forget who I am. When I am absent—a nobody, abandoned by tired neurons too starved to care anymore—I start over again, floundering for reasons to exist.

It's true, my aspirations were plucked too early, like flower buds never allowed to bloom and the resplendent flourish put on unremarkable clinical hold. Very few people would see the side of life that I did, and if they did, they'd be equally cynical and deranged. And now it feels like a harbinger of my own destruction with these walks back the memory lane, yet within this turmoil repeating, there are lessons found and lost for people like me, who are not me, if only they could read.

M12 My cup of late-night tea

My cup of late-night tea

________________________

I may be alone with my tenacious worries, or I may not be, but even when I'm not, I can only worry about the worries that I see. Yet these worries and the worries I craft as reasonable placeholders for people of my type of bent are both equally indistinct ephemera in the nervous system, which we share with invertebrates, as well as at the chemistry level with the rest of what we call life.

I know that while this doesn't help allay the hostilities that boil inside from time to time or grind away the sharpness of the past memories of the former me, it's one rabbit's hole I'd like to know more about. I did read about the fact that we're probably at this place because we have invented the future in the brain. Our brain helps us hop from point to point on this time line of life made from the tattered bits of fragile palimpsest that our relationship with our memory allows, a stitched-together sort of sorry fallen figure, at least in my case, who's never felt comfortable in his skin or at any age.

This is in contrast to the great many people that I've been personally allowed the time to observe, who, by no fault of their own, come packaged with grandiosity and self-flattering habits that make life with the person inside a beautiful poem. An exaggeration of this would be that, in my mind, a person stuck in perpetual orgasm—a brain such as this—would be least desirous of anything else in the world.

If only we could invent such a drug, a superfentanyl, without any side effects, humanity would dwindle away in one generation since sex would be a poorer pleasure for those senses. If the AI does get the upper hand and gets hold of such a tethering tool, it might very well be predisposed to use it, guided by our fiction and prophetic expectations of cosmic doom. Or perhaps we would merge with AI and get an orgasm while feeling what it is like to be divided by zero, or riding on infinity in zeno's dichotomy paradox, crossing a room in half-distance steps. A brave new world in my cup of late-night tea. 

M128 Happy Diwali

Happy Diwali 

_____________

Diwali, the Festival of Lights, offers a profound metaphor for our times. It's a reminder that the dichotomy between good and bad isn't always clear-cut. This festival, rooted in age-old traditions, symbolizes the triumph of light over darkness, knowledge over ignorance, and hope over despair. Yet, its true essence goes beyond these binary oppositions, teaching us a lesson that's crucial for our survival as Homo sapiens.

In today's world, where tribalism and religious irrationality often overshadow our collective humanity, Diwali's symbolism urges us to look beyond our narrow confines. The "light at the end of the tunnel" isn't just about personal salvation or success; it's about recognizing and embracing our shared humanity. It's about cooperation, mutual help, and the understanding that our destinies are intertwined.

We live in an era of unprecedented challenges—genocide, war, climate change, political turmoil, social inequalities, and the lingering effects of a destabilizing pandemic that has shaken the very foundations of our united society. These challenges demand a collective response, a willingness to rise above our differences and work together for the greater good. If we remain entrenched in our tribalistic instincts and irrational beliefs, we risk not just our well-being but our very existence.

Diwali teaches us that enlightenment isn't just an individual pursuit; it's a communal journey. The lamps we light are not just for our homes but for the world. Each flickering flame is a beacon of hope, a call for unity, and a reminder that our collective actions can dispel the darkness of our times. As we celebrate Diwali, let's commit to being the light we wish to see in the world. Let's embrace our shared humanity, rise above narrow divisions, and work together to build a future that's bright for everyone. Only then can we ensure our survival and prosperity as a species, living up to the true spirit of this timeless festival.

Happy Diwali everyone

M127 🅶🅴🅽🅾🅲🅸🅳🅴 🄶🄰🅉🄰

🅶🅴🅽🅾🅲🅸🅳🅴  🄶🄰🅉🄰

___________________________

There's a frothing ferocity in my depression when it corrodes away the patina of the hunky-dory facade—the anesthetic of a disconnected mind. It's like the depression is a sort of short-circuit fuse wire from my brain to a grounding reality. 

Amplified when I see the bubbles of irregularity and irrelevance, and apathy plastered wall to wall on LinkedIn, each iridescent frolic bubble cavorting in its own make-believe virtual halcyon, hiding the real life within. I see many use pseudonyms and avatars instead of portraits, even proxy locations, and yet, gleaming in the dullness of this pastiche fakery, these fraudsters are just like any other lowly lifeform. But I guess this is the new us, everything and everyone behind a mask playing back a ritual mime mimicry, which in turn spawns more contrived behavior until we don't know what the fuck anyone is talking about. A blindfolded idiotic spastic moving of parts so that someone gets an advantage out of it, and this when we can ill afford reality. 

The universe doesn't need to crush the infinitesimally pointless plastic world and magnum opus of homo sapiens—distorted sensibilities, now almost a spineless invertebrate that has crowned a pernicious duplicitous character as a coveted permanent fixture. The people killed in Gaza, hidden or flagrantly in the open—it doesn't matter what you put before the horrendous word "genocide. ", it's still murder. It's a mindless slaughter. It's not right to get used to it, or we won't have anyone with us when we get slaughtered. 

I remember when we were children, there was a puerile future mongering so that, with the knowledge invested in our sordid past, the wretched mistakes wouldn't be repeated. But here we are—retributive genocide, and more importantly unthinking amnesiac people. When the unthinkable becomes mundane and civilization comes to an end, the moral providence expires into the instinctual feckless tribal dance of the rabid ape that we are beneath the branded t-shirt and double entry book-keeping. 

The ponderous and slow clockwork of counterbalance, once decimated, isn't easy to reconstruct. It matters little where we live—an Indian in India, an American in America—the crisis is personal because we are breathing the same air, and once the reigns of secular commonsense grow malignant tumors, there's nothing left to hope for. The leaders are spineless cowards. The void in voices makes me feel weak and throws me into my own haunting. 

The Bengali girl fetching water from a pond is sort of affirming the human and cultural simplicity with which I grew up in this mad, selfish, and indifferent world. I no longer can identify myself as part of this new world, and it depresses me. No longer will she, if she was given life and allowed to climb out of the LinkedIn screens into the ludicrously hostile reality all of us inhabit. 

M 126 I'm a bengali

I'm a bengali

_____________

I'm a bengali turd, life brief and hard,

I don't even know who the fuck I am.

Definitions inconsiderately untrue,

I'm not the type on a calcutta tram. 

I smell worse than dog poo too,

Yet from an esteemed holy ass.

Godawful the color and complexion,

In me trapped bubbles of flammable gas.

Also a family heirloom, 

A dynasty of princely pin worms. 

Very flat, flat worms coiled in, 

Not ordinary my usual terms. 

Hindoo I should be, by my birth,

Embedded cheeky chants as farts.

Elevation I desired as my goal,

But now on a pan my splattered heart. 

The world has shattered my dreams,

How will I forgive the hairy birth hole.

How will I reconcile my holiness,

When mommy is a puckering asshole.

I sit sad I can only be mad,

I see the mommy opens once more.

What do I see—brethren like me,

Plop like before and make me sore. 

The fresh feces smell like hindoo hell,

The ground beneath slippery wet.

Soon a yellow river says hello, 

Cello tuned fart, biblical a piss flood set. 

If I had a mouth I would scream, 

Sans holes, I am full of shit and fart. 

Circling a hole, I see my mommy asshole, 

Gets fingered and I exit in several parts. 

M125 Darling

Darling 

_______

Darling why are you so upset,

Why show all your teeth?

Surely I can fuck if I try,

If I can talk my dick out of its sheath.

You know how tired I feel, 

Work is such a bossy bitch.

And when I come back home, 

You're working up a shrill pitch. 

Calm down and turn around,

I need to take a shit.

Last time you hated the color, 

The smell gave you a hissy fit.

Don't worry your last eggs are good,

Maybe they're taking a little time. 

My grubs are warm inside the balls,

Spineless sperms mostly supine. 

Bake me a cake or something, 

I could appreciate a desi wine.

Be good to your man always, 

Hint : make his dick shine. 

Plus the holy dihydrogen monoxide,

You sprinkle when I take a shit. 

It infected my asshole whole,

A pious but painfully lumpy zit. 

I shit through the zit, can't sit, 

On my ass after defecating. 

Plus the masala with green chillies, 

Keeps the asshole bleeding. 

Loud dogmatic pitch tear the stitch, 

Super afraid the gigantic turds. 

Her scolding scalds my brain, 

Acerbic her fierce words. 

The gods are fucks too these days,

Colluding political partners in crime.

A poor rickshaw puller knows not,

If ever he'd see a better time.

Holy hindoo barefeet and bullshit, 

My pet a pubic tick on my ball-sac. 

Treacherous life treasonous kin, 

Multiple stab wounds in the back. 

Romantic slimy thick a new bride's lick, 

Happy were the times of your feast. 

Pristine that smile, now a hole of bile, 

Ferocious animus in an unrestrained beast. 

Perpetually profane and in public, 

A spectacle of lower middle-class. 

A fart begins, her fear forces a cease, 

A tremulous cadence flutters my ass. 

Highly strung and not well hung, 

I am a man who lives in his mind. 

Can't find her honeypot, 

Hidden in flabs of the gluttonous kind. 

So massive that her mass bends light, 

I see stars bickering, lost in their trip. 

Decorous this shanty of peaceful scanty, 

Only when she's fast asleep.