And then you came in like soft midnight gliding across any obstacles that may appear between us
Time went wild to slow and diminish the explosion of appearances, But you stood still, in faith. A lone witness, to my death and birth in the trembling silence of night. Awake, when all expands and thins out inside me, making you what you are; my mindless unbidden muse.
I open my eyes each day and reality becomes my biggest dream. I feel the odd freshness of breeze, even though the windows are never open. Cool whispers of air, trickles of water become my everyday companions... and I hold easy conversations with the vibrations of my eardrums. Every sound I hear belongs to me. Every face I see, is mine. Wading deeper and deeper into the elated waters of laughter, I leave a trail of dreams behind me (in case you too decide to lose yourself and find everything in return.)
Yesterday you asked me, why do I speak? I, a slave of my habit responded with an answering question as to why do you listen? Do you not know that I don’t verbalize any words but you create them in your mind through your hearing? You do not make my words discernible when you hear them; you make your own thoughts audible through your hearing. And if my words are your own doing then I am definitely not what you think me to be. The essence of your caricature of me is you, yourself. Not me. Do you know what I thus achieve? I achieve independence; I gain a self which is free from your scrutiny …. free from any boundaries you make to restrict it. I gain ME. But this does not mean I have dissected you. How can I? I do not have the control or the desire. This same verity frees you as well. You only have to realize your freedom just as I have. Does this make you wonder what am I then? Do not think on it. Take me as I am just as I have taken you; without queries. There is no other way for us.
Today, I killed myself with a book. Its words mutilated my thoughts and overruled everything that bore resemblance to me. Today… I killed myself with a book. Tomorrow… Am hoping to die at the hands of a film.
Black is the silence stretched upon your soul. Aging significantly with every passing moment, strong are its ties within you, without you.
Black is the colour of light shining in the solace of your room. Shattering every facade of surroundings, dead is its illusion inside you, outside you.
Black is blue, bluer than all ideas written across your face. Shadowing every line with comfort, alive is its darkness between you and me.
The only images I remember are of glasses falling… cars whirling… blood dripping… and then the visions stop- at that precise moment. I never see them crashing, colliding or staining. I never see me dead, only dying.
I love assuming the role of wind. Faceless. Artless. Breezing into your life without a guise, sending your hair flying in mute surprise, stretching your smile acres wide... And then leaving, without leaving a trace behind.
I, live in stories Of left handed trees, Men with wings, In glass bottomed ships. I live my life, Lost… YOU, bid life on my unfinished words wondering and waiting for the trunk to open, the soul to stretch for an answer And find the faith to feel
Cyber world is huge, yet all I was able to find on the life of Abdul Ahad Saaz, is this small image attached here. This is how we, the connoisseurs of art, show our tolerance for anything which is untainted with media hype.
One of his famous works is uploaded here. Read it and give voice to your silence. http://urduindia.wordpress.com/2006/07/13/abdul-ahad-saaz-nazm/
His fearless approach has bleached a lot of stereotyped modern poetry that we are used to reading these days. So, consider yourself warned as he uses words with such a brutal honesty that you will require gallons of courage just to read them!
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Planned farewells give in to spontaneous settlements.
The idiot inside has always been driven by disparities, but is now learning to walk on a side. Completely visible yet not whole, he remains addicted to the inevitable decay. There is no doubt in his head that he will be castigated for eternity, because his crime is blatant integrity. But instead of reacting, he comfortably waits for the dark robe of night to take over. In an attempt to hush silence, he has unknowingly awakened a palette of colorless chaos in his head. Stillness is red in his head and evolution merely a homecoming to his abyss.
Silence is much preferred, especially when you have Pink Floyd’s Dogs barking like crazy in the background. The spectators are, however all dead. Only the song doesn’t care. It hangs around you like a menacing ghost, conjuring illusions of contempt till it develops into a pitiful defense mechanism for your mind. And you are eager; too damn eager to spend your life chasing its elusiveness and find answers to questions you are not even sure of yourself. This song was to be your exit. Perhaps you don’t need the flight anymore.
I can’t live the button-down life like you. I want it all: the terrifying lows, the dizzying highs, the creamy middles. Sure, I might offend a few of the bluenoses with my cocky stride and musky odors. Oh, I’ll never be the darling of the so-called “City Fathers” who cluck their tongues, stroke their beards, and talk about “What’s to be done with this Homer Simpson?” – Homer Simpson
looking at the world through kaleidoscopic eyes, chaeye, tang, electricity, an honest open smile, a surprised hand resting on my knee, the sound of children laughing or is it us, letting someone else drive all the rides, walking to the sound of trees, dreaming with open eyes, listening to the music of silence, taking the long way home- and living, just living life with a joy that never seems to die. there is no end to it. there is nothing beyond the magic.
'Thinking' is supposed to purge you of your one-dimensional acquisitive views. except, now it’s merely a tool to ruthlessly crack results from 9 to 5. the very process of unmasking is gradually becoming a thick layered anthropomorphic mask, and most of the times i don’t have the energy or the desire to peel off the scrupulous layers. hence, i am here on this blog, which is not just a monologue for me. it's an anaesthetic, an energized recuperation through expressing a singular tinge of insanity without any of the routine and painstakingly disciplined copywriting, which i am becoming accustomed to writing.
lights are slowly going out. i am sitting still on a lone desk in my office trying to move towards some transcendental moment. there is no hope of going home yet. not unless i manage to pull off a couple of briefs and that i wont be able to do on this blog. but the will to close the window and get down to work is non-existent. its as if my hands are an extension of this keyboard and moving away for even a minute will be a betrayal to them. i havent enjoyed the zombie phase this much since ages. is this leading somewhere? is this moving onto some profound mahatma phase that will add some meaning to an otherwise routine day? no. perhaps tonight i want nothing to lead anywhere and me to sit amidst my clutter till nothing can be done.
it is hard to tell where to begin. zillions of words residing in the dictionary atop my table, are all mine. and all my words are songs to sings, but i neither have the voice nor the skill to express them otherwise. so i begin my flight with someone else's words, who said it so brilliantly that his words became my confession.
"even though slow and sluggish evening comes, and stops as with a gesture your song; even though you are alone in the infinite sky, and your body weary, and in terror you utter a silent mantra to horizons hidden by the veil -bird, o my bird, though it is darkening, do not fold your wings." [tagore]
"talking about oneself can also be a means to conceal oneself" (nietzsche).
And as that wishful obscurity will be a mockery on this place, so i better refrain from concealing myself and say no more
