Cranberry Sauce

Life is as random as can be. Ubuntu is good, but the grass is always greener on the other side. Web horcruxes means that my life isn’t really my own, even in the individualist west. I’m so well connected, like everyone else, that life doesn’t really require human intervention to run. It runs almost in autopilot mode, just like the myriad tech gadgets that we now use. Sometimes, it proceeds without an administrator password, making it appear that my life isn’t my own after all, but a coordinate in a haphazard conglomeration of entities incapable of self existence, adding up to a complex dynamic system called society. I wish I could use the word robust or systematic, if only I could make sense of it. Maybe, just like ant colonies, we're not meant to comprehend the role of an individual in the bigger picture and yet contribute to it. However, a human ostensibly possesses consciousness, and hence is constantly aware of most of the things s/he does. This is the perfect recipe for que...

6:05 AM I guess I have nothing much to do otherwise, so I’ll just write. Such moments of paradoxes, existential or otherwise, should rightfully be celebrated by writing about them. And that being said, I do feel like a sell-out again, and the self-reinforcing loop continues. The self-loathing is strong, it always has been. An endured punishment called existence. I might sound too full of myself, but that’s not necessarily true. Besides, alternate techniques of living a life have somehow eluded me. Not that I am complaining; I’d only know what I’m missing out on if I knew what it’s like to be otherwise. But then, the design is robust, and the curtains provide good insulation from light, so I (we) might never know. This last comment was entirely uncalled for; I just pretended to rise above my own problems and generalise them to the world, thus demeaning people around for my own flaws. Nice try, Watson. Turns out that the once sleep-hungry procrastinator has turned into a sleep-deprive...

And so I am invited to write by my Other self. There isn't a theme in particular to write on, but then, there rarely is. Oddly enough, it is New Year's day, although by the time I publish this (if I do), it wll be past midnight. Its a fairly monumental day to write on, and hence I shall coax myself to ramble on. Its funny, the climax of 'When the music's over' is playing in the background, and nothing else (eg. blogging) can really matter, but then, here I am, a living contradiction of ideals, as I constatly violate the ideals I stand for. It's all good, I remind myself, and decide to write on, the whole idea now seeming more pointless than ever before. It would make a modicum of sense if I actually wrote about something at all, instead of being self obsessed that I am, accentuated when i'm drunk. I could write about the action packed, fun filled (?) last week or so I've had. Matter of fact, it's an rollercoaster continuum that I can't put  star...

The paradigm is fine while it lasts, but what happens when it breaks down? Do you then do as per what you learnt in the paradigm, or do you change? But how exactly do you change - the paradigm has defined yourself, including your knowledge to change. What about the time when external reality has no internal reference? Is it still reality then? what if there's no going back to the old paradigm - will you still survive, in hiding or otherwise, or will you rise and morph, change, transform, transcend yourself, in an attempt to survive... or will you transform the external force, thereby acting as the driving force in the paradigm shift that you were so afraid to be exposed to. Is this exposition called adaptation or evolution.... or is it shaking hands with the devil? For the latter at least, you must have known what you call the devil to now reconcile with it. Most of us do, but then most of us are far far off the mark with reality. Yes, the same reality that varies from me to you, b...

Long silky hair.... albino white.... ripped abs.... flexed biceps.... untrembling hands.... that look of raw intensity in the eyes.... axe in hand.... blood on face, hands, clothes.... the blinding lights.... the deafening silence.... the careless beauty in the inanimate eyes.... the face of horror and satisfaction.... the mirth of breaking even.... long, long silence........................... regret The inaudible scream of the butterfly. please wake me up, mother.......... please put me to sleep

It would seem as if diversification is the key to relative happiness; when you got nothing to lose then baby you’ve got it all? Why is it then, that we are constantly driven by vertical goals, every now and then at least? There comes a point in your life (every now and then at least) when you’ve expended yourself sufficiently to be reasonably reluctant of playing out the remainder of your cards too, if there are any left. Solitude helps, but not explicitly. Solitude kills, but comfortably. Maybe you rise after that, maybe you fall deeper. Hopefully, you reach a point when it doesn’t matter, and either outcome leads to the same singularity. That is the dream. But they say dreamers are very impractical. Time will not tell. Dreamers will continue to dream by the nature of their circumloquacious ontology. That’s their flaw… and their merit. It’s the same.  A sage is not a doctor – the ability to see your own misery guarantees no solution, it might even insulate you from a potenti...