google killed my old account

Arizona Bay(A Change of Seasons)

2012-01-13T20:51:00.000+04:00

They dance around a flaming pyramid of wood to the relentless pounding of drums, whooping in delight as the flames bite at the bitter, retreating cold. The cold that surrounds them, the cold that they run from, swear at in unison, the cold that they try in vain to defy for as long as possible.

I watch from my window, even stealing a laugh at their antics, as they seemingly throw inhibition to the wind, pirouetting around, closer than ever before, to their fellow man, and to their mother earth.

But they have their rituals, as do I.

As the sparks float up past my window, I hand myself a blade.
I acknowledge its power, gleaming in all its cold, steely glory, firmly gripping with willful hands.

The drums stop.

I face myself in the mirror, silently looking at the past of the future.
I see much, but the time to reminisce, as silence reveals, has sadly run out.
I make the first cut, and feel nothing.
Yet the face in the mirror flinches.
I continue, hacking away at what once was, as the face in the mirror turns silent, too stoic to show its pain.
The blade runs through like a knife through butter, the heat from the fire propels, smoldering through, surging forth, to expose, to bring to light, the inner skin.
The mirror is in metamorphosis, chrysalis now in sight.

The drums, faster now, head toward a climax as their hands feed the flames.
Crackling, giddy in their self-consumption, glowing ever brighter as the night flinches, prancing back in disgust.

My hands drop to my sides, shaking from their labours.
I see now, through eyelids welded shut.
I see now.
All around me, it lies.
Nameless, formless, waiting to be flushed away.

The blade drops from my tired, shaking hands, and shatters as it hits the floor, becoming a hundred thousand atomies that shine forth brilliantly, and swallow up all that lay on the floor, finally disappearing, leaving nought but ash.

The fires have died out.
The phoenix has risen, and flown away.
The ash, the only witness.

In their minds, the seasons change, as they usher in Baisakh with their song, dance and flame. Is it only me then, who wonders, if anything has changed?
This ritual, of reinvention, of coming full circle, what does it mean?

I ask not for them, but for me.
I ask not of resurrection, let the phoenix have his way.
I ask of reinvention, of my very own Arizona Bay.

--------
ciao

Come Clarity

2011-10-17T23:11:00.002+04:00

Life's been hectic.

And weird.

Yes,a whole extra serving of weird.

It's like a crazy roller-coaster ride, running 24x7, hurtling through at breakneck speed as you try to make sense of the continually morphing kaleidoscope that is all around you.
The colours fly by, different every time, but still somehow mundane in their ways.

But what's interesting, is that every once in a while,there are these little moments of clarity that manage to break through the madness and present themselves to me.

One such instance, was in the middle of a crazy English lecture, which seemed more like a foreign film on TV( sans English subtitles)playing a mere three feet away.

The bearded, raving clown spoke thus:

"sukhiya sab sansaar hai, khaye aur soye

dukhiya das Kabir hai, jaage aur roye"

In these words, I found not only meaning, but also a fitting reply to @chikki's comment on my previous post.

Also, dear audience and blog(yes, you are now an entity to me) I apologise for not having posted sooner, but i cannot deny that I believe that it is for the best.

ciao

Haggard

2011-08-27T18:38:00.000+04:00

Hello people.
Its been 3 months since I last posted.
Its been a weird three months,fraught with change.
I never managed to post,because I never could land myself in that frame of mind.
Simply couldnt.

Back to change.
I am now studying in Delhi,and will be doing so for the next few years.
Hope itll be a good ride.

So here's the new post.
Hope you like it.

---------------------------------------------

Haggard, he walked into a tin box.
A shiny, air-conditioned box on rails.
His skeletal visage caught the eyes of many,but soon enough,
they turned back to their own pathetic microcosms.

All turned away, but one.

A golden-haired bairn, barely three or four.
Toddling toward the old hunchback,he motioned to his own empty seat.
The simple man, he started to make his way to the seat.

Quickly, the mother scooped up her son, and thrust him firmly back in his seat, with a resounding "hmph!"
The haggard prophet simply stood as he were, for it made no difference to him, to sit or to stand.

But within, he cried.
For another light had been put out,
never again to brighten this world.

-----------------------------------------

ciao

Is there a light?

2011-05-18T19:52:00.000+04:00

Hello guys, its been a while.
Major change in scenery.
Moved from muscat to bangalore/bengaluru.
Been staying at a hotel for over a month.
Don't have a home yet.
Quite lonely.
Here's the first thing ive written up in a long, long time.

--------------------

He reached in.

Skeletal arms disappearing into a similarly skeletal torso.
Disappearing into a void, an abyss.
Flailing around desperately, but failing.
Feeling only the silky,velveteen touch of nullity.

He felt the voices resonate through his cranium once more.
--

You are death, yet you are life.
You are sorrow, yet you are joy.
You are master, yet you are slave.

Reach for the light.

Reach for the light, and be whole again.

--

He said to himself:

"It must be there."

"somewhere."

--------------------

ciao

silent night

2011-03-25T04:36:00.000+04:00

this isn't part two of the previous post i wrote up.
something i wrote up before math.
hope you like it.
don't hesitate to write back.

-------------------------

bloody hell.
the sound of gunfire rings out.
instincts say 2'o clock, over half a click away.
not to worry,I haven't been spotted.
they're just trying to spook me out of cover.
hah.
bloody amateurs.

these guys have plenty of guns,but a shortage of good shooters.
hell to that.
what the spooks really lack, are good thinkers.

I'm still concerned, though.
I'm getting sloppy.
I cant always bank upon their inexperience and inefficiency to get my ass outta the killbox.
gonna get myself killed,one of these days.

nevertheless,i was holed up pretty damn good.
dense african rainforest, the bane of any search party.

or so i thought.

shit.
a torchlight flickers through the undergrowth, accompanied by the crash of feet on dead leaves.
growing steadily louder.

lying still.
very,very still.

I see the all-too familiar AK snout poke through the foliage.
the stamp on the lower receiver tells me its just another chinese-made clone.
just another testament to the universality of 'Made In China'.
Clone or Kalashnikov, it still spews hot lead with as much benevolence as an angry ex-wife.
My angry ex-wife, if you want specifics.

Carrying it, is a kid in his early teens, wearing a stained t-shirt with some rapper's face on it.
He comes to a halt, looking around warily, his knuckles clenching tight around hot metal.

Bloody americans.
Thanks to them and their insatiable capitalist lust, this kid's life expectancy just plummeted off the goddamn chart.
The idiot can't even hold his gun the right way, thanks to those gangsta rap videos on mtv.

I really wanted to step out,and show him how its done.
Of course, that meant I'd have to kill him too.
And I couldn't risk leaving behind another body.
not now.

So I let him go.
Let him have a second chance, without him ever knowing.
As the crunch of dead leaves slowly fades, something monstrous starts to stir up inside me.
The feel of power.
Of holding consequence in the palm of your hand.
Oh, how it allures man,to touch that naked flame, not forseeing that it would be his hand that would burn first.
Someday it'll get me killed, it will.

silence is restored.
Just me and the jungle once more.
Quick glance at my gps.

Need to make some serious ground before dawn breaks.
Or ill find myself in the thick of a serious power vacuum.

The kind that arises, when you kill the one-eyed king of the blind.
The kind that arises, when a warlord dies in Africa.

----------------------

ciao

hello.

2011-03-17T02:56:00.001+04:00

hello.

been awhile.
board exams.
working on a few more posts(coming up after a week~math exam~)

onto more important things,
change is everywhere.
and god has a dastardly sense of humour.

turned 18.
didn't really feel anything.(contrary to public belief)

leaving the country thats been home for eight long years.
isnt as big a relief as some may think.
whats better,my neighbourhood is due to be leveled in a couple of years.
its like someone's trying to erase the "wali was here" stamp.

effin' hell.

atleast 3 a.m. still feels the same everywhere.
or is it?
i'd like to believe 'tis so.

serene in its sleepyness,slowly stirring into morn.
slowly rises the sun,felling night with its scorn.

well,goodbye my love,and fare thee well.

ciao

Blue-eyed blues(part one)

2011-02-14T04:01:00.001+04:00

Sorry, my abysmal audience, I have been forced far from you by my circumstances.
Board exams loom ahead, and I spend a lot of my time lost in the conundrum that is twelfth-grade chemistry.

Well, I still try.

This is the first of two parts of a story that i have wanted to write for a very long time.

The second will be posted soon .(I hope)

-------------------------------------------------

Belgium,1944.

Somewhere in the countryside, near the ruins of what had once been a small town before the war, stood a lone stately home.
In it, lived an eight-year-old boy, Joachim, with his mother.
His father was a minister, and they had been hidden here by the government, lest Brussels fell to the Reich.
Joachim didn't get to see him much, unlike the old days.

Whenever he did happen to drop in, Joachim would bombard him with questions.
Questions about his classmates back in Brussels,about their old neighborhood,questions about his old nanny;questions his father couldn't bear to answer, for he knew better than most,that his dear Brussels lay in ruins, that they had left just in time, just before the Blitzkreig began.

Joachim's mother was a strong woman, able enough to run a house on her own, despite having lived the life of an aristocrat.
She had once served as the headmistress of the finest school in Brussels, L'academie Delacroix. Now the only student in her care was her son, whom she taught for hours on end, knowing that it was her education that had brought her into the upper echelons of society, to her husband, and ultimately to this secluded home, tucked safely away from the Nazi blitzkreig.

Joachim was a bright little fellow, and was quite at ease with his lessons.
But for him, his day began only after he stowed away his books and pencils in the big cupboard by the kitchen.
Every day, soon after his midday meal of chicken soup and bread, he would go off and explore the ruins that stood so desolate next to his own lively home.
His mother didn't mind, she knew no-one was to be found in the ghost town, and besides, it gave her some much-needed time for herself, to write in her diary, to think of the past and the future, and to hone her skills at her new found hobby, gardening.

Joachim was making his way through a the first house in a ruined row of six, all joined together for some strange reason.
He climbed up a flight of stairs,and found himself in a room like any other.
Dust and grime, are all that live within these walls, he thought to himself.
All of a sudden, something caught his eye.
A trapdoor.
There is something, I'm not sure what, about the very word trapdoor, which pumps fuel to the lamp of adventure which shone especially bright within our young protagonist.
Unable to contain his curiosity, he pulled down on one of its corners, and a ladder swung down into view.

He clambered nimbly up the ladder, and found himself in a long dark attic, running unbroken through all six houses.
It was too dark to see, besides he could hear his mother calling for him as night approached.
He ran back home, promising himself that he would return the next day, armed with his mother's electric torch.

------------------------------

ciao(for now)

Grief

2011-01-21T02:50:00.000+04:00

Wrote this after reading up on American Indian history,so that's the backdrop for the poem.
Also,as the title suggests, I wasn't exactly feeling on top of the world at the time.

I dreamt the dreams of better days
For they felt so far away
Of selfless love, and come-what-mays
Grew darker, day by day.

Gone, was the spirit, the fierce pride
Shriveled up, like autumn leaf
The shell was empty, nought inside
Nought remained, but grief.

Gone was the calm, my heart defiled
Filled with night even in day
Grief, not for the widow, nor fatherless child
But grief, for the the death of the way.

Still, my eyes well up with grief
Dripping from my lashes
To see the chief, no longer a chief
Living in his own ashes.

ciao

Up In Smoke

2011-01-09T01:37:00.003+04:00

She woke up, about half an hour after daybreak, to the chirping of the birds outside.

I was watching.

She began to change her clothes, and I felt little tingles run down my spine, as I watched the layers come and go.

~most people don't usually change with the curtains drawn back, with nothing but a large french window between your privates and the great outdoors, but that false sense of privacy is exactly why you pay top dollar for a remote chalet in the Tuscan countryside~

In any case, I was quite happy given the present circumstances.

And before you ask, YES.

I did zoom in for a closer look.

Most guys would, given the chance.

For she had an exquisite body.
The sort of body that wouldn't just make most men break into a sweat, but the sort that would invariably land its owner in deep water (as seems the case here).

As I watched her walk out into the driveway, something made me want to change my very way of life, maybe find myself a nice mamacita, settle down somewhere sunny, restore an old '68 charger, hell, maybe even raise a family.

As that last thought soured in my mind, I decided it probably had something to do with the size of her breasts.

And her car.

Ooh, fancy women, and fancy cars.

Truly, a match made deep, deep down in the fires of hell.

A Maserati, a worthy example of Italian opulence, and their skill with cars.

Under its hood, lay a 4.7-litre V8, twin-turbo, with a 6-speed gearbox,the works.

You know me, couldn't help but check.

I really would have loved to hear her roar, but my thumb was already pressing down hard on the detonator in my hand.

Man, I hate my job.

oh how i miss thee,sweet rant..........

2010-12-10T22:45:00.002+04:00

well,i think i haven't been doing justice to the rant-loving sections of my audience these last few weeks.......so here goes.

oh bugger.
exam time.
not studying,even when sometimes i really want to.
wasting time.
(innumerable exam-time cliches follow.........)

but......
ye olde,devilishly inevitable but.......
something new is happening......
feels good.
probably up to no good(quite obvious,after that last line)
~dont know where this this here train's goin,but i sure hope it aint a trainwreck..........~

also.....
parents took away the fancy wifi-enabled n79........
back to me ole trusty ngage qd....
fer these coupla weeks,anyway.....
the good side is,im gettin ta lisn ta a lot of the music that i usdta lisn to a coupla years ago,now that im havin ta use the stereo fer music again.....

anyhoo......
im gna gt back ta tryna study.....
wish me luck,people..
heaven knows,im gunna need it.

ciao

the man behind the mask

2010-11-27T03:43:00.002+04:00

everyone has a mask.

everyone.

its who we are,when we know someones watching(even when said watcher is but a figment of our imagination/ego/dementia).or even when we try to be cautious of how others react to our presence/behavior/antics.

its quite simple really.

whatever we do under said circumstances,quite frankly,just isnt us.

what we do as a group,says nothing,absolutely nothing, about who we each are.

if someone was watching when,to us,no-one was watching(even that little voice in your head didnt know),theyd have us figured out.

theyd know everything.

theyd play us around like a little bug,making us squirm all we can,even when we all know the end is coming.

dont bother.

ever.

shine that light back at the maggot, and hear its skin crackle under its 100W beam.

i know you cant manage to do that to one person the whole time.

we all know no-one can.

no-one but the man upstairs.

so do it to everyone.

paint a little tarnish,a faint brown patina on every other little critter.

savour that faint,sooty smell of dry roasting.

i know you cant sit back and admire your handiwork,you gotta keep up the work.

or youll fail.

youll give someone else that chance to fry you.

and you will burn,and with that,youll realise,that you arent much different from any other maggot.

or you can persevere,give up your own life,your very self,in the conundrum that you are,your "quest for survival".

and after a while youll notice.

cliche-"everything is an illusion"

yes, dearest retard.

weve all heard that one.

but the rabbit hole goes deeper,still.

ive already put you through these many lines of drivel,so i dont think youd mind a few more.     

i promise itll end soon.

when you see through the mask,you see beyond the face,beneath the skin.

you see inside the man.

the mask is his desires,fears,aspirations,thoughts,his lifes work, his very own matrix.

the mask is his wall.

think of it this way.  
the mask is just a colour negative.

just as simple as that.

youve just gotta take every little pixel,and flip it the right way round.

just takes a little elbow grease,is all.

oh cmon.

dont throw that half-arsed look at me,i havent done any of this crap.

i just give out the instructions around here,mate.

now sod off.

~distantly calls~

ciao

five

2010-11-17T04:23:00.001+04:00

The world of scientific experimentation is like an iceberg.

What we see or hear about is but a fraction of what actually goes on under the radar.

This is the story of one such experiment.

In the professor's laboratory,tucked away from the world,and its regulations and red tape,five human embryos,taken from five races,five continents, lay ready to be "tweaked".

A synthetic chromosome,the culmination of decades of his research,was to be implanted in their DNA.

Its function,was to make its host be able to "read" the thoughts of those,in its presence.

Once the implant was complete,the embryos were sent to surrogate parents on five continents,who were to nurture them till birth,and beyond.

Their role,however, did not cease there.

They would monitor every aspect of the child's life,and relay the data back to the professor at regular intervals.

Five children,completely different in their upbringing and circumstances,but alike in one aspect.

The chromosome,and the unique ability it had given rise to,in each of them.

The original intent of the experiment,was to create alpha-humans,or superhumans,by giving them one unique ability,using which they were expected to rise above all their peers.

However,the outcome was not quite what the professor had expected.

Each of them had taken their own life,and not one had lived to reach adulthood.

Ponder awhile.

Write back if you like.

Ciao.

Faust

2010-11-08T00:56:00.001+04:00

I'm in yer guitar strings,

and inside yer blues.

Restin' on yer pillow,

and walkin' in yer shoes.

Met you,at a crossroads,

black,as an inkblot.

Don't worry,my son,I'll have ye,

well afore ye rot.

I cut ye yer slack,

gave ye free reign.

Don't you go forget me now,

for meet,we shall again.

Someday, you shall all be mine,

just yerselves ta blame.

For my name is Mephistopheles,

and Faust, 'tis my game.

ciao

nadir

2010-10-22T23:14:00.002+04:00

this post,i dedicate to every girl whom ive ever thought i had a chance with...

I was born a bastard.

A couple of years later, i became an orphan too.

I lived alone,in the slum,my ten square feet of rusty tin and corrugated iron,where laid whatever little proof that i even existed.

Id made it to fourteen like countless others,by living off the crumbs of someone else's plates,their joys, their beliefs, their lives.

Every day, i would go to the old lady's house,stopping by at the temple,not to pray,but to survive,on the remains of yesterdays prasad,that they gave away.

I could not steal,or fight to feed myself,for i was weak,simply too weak.

She taught me, out of pity,and out of love,for the son she had lost years ago.

It took me hours,even days, to learn what most learn before they turn five.

It was only through her reassurance and conviction,that i learnt,how to read,how to write,how to live.

I left her house,and treaded along a familiar path,headed to the playground.

I sat lamely at the boundary,watching the boys fight over a disputed wicket.

It was then, that i saw her.

Looking out of the window,not much older than eighteen,watching the match with brown,deep brown eyes.

Just then,the ball came by me.

They called to me,to throw them the ball.

As the child in me took charge,the notebook fell from my hand,which instead picked up the grubby sphere and let fly,with what seemed a colossal effort.

I tried,i really did.

Yet it fell,not so far away.

Laughter ensued.

I was only too used to it,and had long ago,put up walls of stone,to block out the laughter,to block out the hurt.

It worked,but,somewhere,somewhere deep inside,was a little wound,still bleeding,still burning.

Hurt,i turned my eyes away from the ruffians,muttering curses,when my eyes met hers.

She smiled.

I dont know what happened,but i felt something well up inside me.

Some part of me knew,that like the old lady,it was but pity that made her smile.

But still,i found myself thinking there was more,more reason,more meaning,more something,more anything,behind that smile.

All i wanted,even for but a moment,was to rise from my nadir,and float up,up into her balcony,into her life.

Then it all blacked out,as the ball rapped against my temple.

"SIX!" screamed the batting team,and danced joyously onto the ground.

I woke up,dazed,my head throbbing.

I looked around at the victory celebrations.

Then i looked up at her balcony,and saw her celebrating too.

It hurt.

It hurt more than my swelling head.

It hurt more than the crippled ego of this cripple.

It still hurts when i think about it.Not a lot,but not a little either.

---------------------------------------------

P.s.-i hate writing emotionally-charged pieces

-nadir means the lowest point

Ciao

things that are underrated(grossly,more often than not)

2010-10-12T00:29:00.002+04:00

1.not posting on your blog for a very long time.

2.not making any sense at all(context may/may not matter here,its upto you)

3.webcomics -examples follow- XKCD , OGLAF(NSFW,but funny as hell), THEDEVILSPANTIES(SFW) AND QUESTIONABLECONTENT

dont just go on their names and write em off(exactly what this post is against)

4.swearing in class as a background noise(usually incessantly,and directed at absolutely anyone).

5.not knowing how many people read this shite.

6.exam-time activiies(when IN the exam room),such as playing table-drums,pretend-shooting at people,and chuckling happily to oneself.

7.listing down shite that you do under such crappy titles on your blog.

8.staying up late(to the point of turning nocturnal)

9.writing in CAPS(not all the goddamn time,though)

P.S.my dear absymal audience,during my absence,nothing interesting EVER happened,and yours truly was not shaken from his perch of eternal boredom and damnation(even if you were unaware of its existence)

ciao

after a good couple of weeks,hello...

2010-05-28T18:01:00.001+04:00

ive bin called a lot of things,but a happy camper,thats one of those that i dont acknowledge...
Ive smiled and ive laughed,both in truth and lie,sometimes to invoke,sometimes just at thoughts in that lake between my ears.
Theres always something to be disgruntled about.
Why not?the past and the future are always visualised cesspools,and theres no tellin whats to be under your boot the next step,a steaming-fresh cowpat or a silver dollar.
Id like ta say ive seen both(and ermm,avoided one),and that every cesspool has a silver lining,but once again,im opposing myself.
If a choice were to be made between optimism and realism,what would one choose?rather,how would one comment(i would much rather criticise) on anothers choice?'he who chooseth optimism is but a dreamy hippie bed-of-roses peacefreak' OR 'he who chooseth realism is the purest specimen of a pessimist/cynic for whom life is meaningless'
at this point in time,having forgotten the actual logical theme of this post,i wil now proceed to insert a random thought,so here goes-
"i wish D-O-I-N-G was pronounced DOINNG! (like a huge inflatable ball bouncing right in front of you)"
adds a litle more spice to the day,dontcha think?

Reading-various books about the dhofar insurgency in the 70s

ciao

words of the week:edition 6

2010-03-29T14:42:00.003+04:00

angsty
lame
overjoyed
negative
eager

ciao

want someone to want to talk to me

2010-03-24T00:00:00.003+04:00

read the title...it seems like such a loser-ish statement...i dnt knw if you see me as a loser...i dnt knw if you should see me as one...i dnt evn knw how many 'yous' exist...
But yeah,to want human contact is a basic pillar of human nature...
Im bein a dick to try and justify myself here...i dn evn knw if i wana justify myself here...sometimes i feel like i dont really need anyone apart frm family,at all...really...even romance/play seems unimportant...i think that my present station in life is sustainable,without any need for anyone apart from my immediate family(sometimes even they dnt seem that important)...i luk at myself,and think'maybe i can be the perfect,lone stranger'..,no need for anything more than mere acquaintance,and the joys of living my thoroughly simple and uncluttered life,unbothered by peer pressure,social conformity,and the need to put up with others' bullshit...best of all,nt being judged,and feeling judged...a life of ease by belief in minimalism...

And it feels nice.

Ciao

damn you blogspot.

2010-03-18T23:18:00.000+04:00

i was doin an awesome,heart-wrenching poem.
and just as i finished,,blogspot decided to delete all my autodrafts,and simultaneously sign me out.
i loved that bit of my heart that i had poured out onto this speck of the internet.
maybe there is a conspiracy in the works at google,against me.

maybe its all for the better.

ciao

words of the week:edition 5

2010-03-18T22:03:00.001+04:00

well,after goin thru tons of hatemail for missin a week,herez what i could muster up

nubile
impudent
nefarious
nemesis
yeeehaw

ciao

as ironic as it may sound........

2010-03-15T11:48:00.001+04:00

hello again,my absymal audience.
My end-of-year exams just got over...i had a party afterwardz...no drinks...got home late...every kids idea of a perfect post-exam day...

(*here cometh the infernal BUT*)
But.
It all js seems very boring and unfocused.Very very boring.
One day ur focused(or not) at achieving something(fr me,it was marks) and the next day youve made a decision to achieve for urself an absolute,pure dose of nothing.
Where do you think one would feel better,or more meaningful(i just wish i could demarcate GOOD and BAD here)?
I dont really know about the rest of you guys,but i chose the first.

Ciao

words of the week:edition 4

2010-03-10T18:20:00.003+04:00

boring
overt
obsessive
zeitgeist
escape

ciao

human nature

2010-03-06T23:27:00.001+04:00

Everyone is a hypocrite.Some to greater lengths,some to lesser.Some in shadows,some out in the open.Everyone lies.Everyone cheats.Everyone discriminates.Its just a question of how,and of how well you look at it.
And we acknowledge this fact,and also choose to ignore as and when we like.We revere those as Mother Teresa and Jesus Christ for their unending love and affection and lack of a bad side.But,we place them,and have placed such above ourselves,above humans.

I forgive people for being so.
(forgive me for takin the high and mighty point of view here)
And forgive me if this is biased.

Im only human.

Ciao.

words of the week.edition 3

2010-03-03T00:14:00.000+04:00

evil
xylene
asswipe
magnanimous
serene

ciao.

she sparkes,and she sings

2010-03-01T23:38:00.000+04:00

she beckons me
to her,to leave my confines
to breathe deep,
take in her earthy perfume

she who awaits me,
so pure,
yet complete.

Se caresses me,
my hair,my body
so tender,yet lush

she offers me
all that she has
i accept,and savour
her touch,her feel

and yet i cry,for
i have none to offer
much less be accepted

i think,i ponder
our love imperfect,
so short,yet lasting

as i savour,our
every moment,i
do fear that instant apart

i do give my heart,
to my love,my solace,
the rain.

ciao

dan brown,get a life.

2010-02-26T00:05:00.000+04:00

i wasted a day today.
i should have spent it doin chem prep for my exam in 2 days,but instead,i spent it reading "The Lost Symbol" cover to cover.
Previously,i have read angels and demons cover to cover,and skimmed through his others(just SKIMMED for good reason)
So,i thought that maybe he finally wrote something new,something to justify the hype.
I was let down,majorly.
it was his style of writing:
1.one fag(langdon)
2.one woman
3.one mentor
4.one assassin(usually a sadist;may also have another independent villain ordering him around)
5.one cult(usually about science and/or religion)
6.one terribly shocking fact(to be revealed)
7.about one day to save the world as we know it
8.one terribly boring monologue about god and man(finally revealed)
His writing is rich and inviting,full of new,shady facts and myth.But COME ON!!!!its the same bloody story,over and over again!!and langdon NEVER gets to kiss the girl(portrayed to be very attractive)........what kind of shitty novel is THAT!!!

what he should do for the sake of the world economic conditions is bring out an condensed omnibus of sorts,with a different variable for each of the points above in a generic storyline,and the specifics of each scenario listed out like formulae in a vast glossary.....

it would be cheaper,and more than comparable to the originals.

@brown:go do something for all those devoted readers or yours who needlessly create megatons of hype each time you publish that same picture seen through diferent colored tinted glasses.

ciao

words of the week.edition 2

2010-02-23T23:41:00.000+04:00

clear
ogle
concentrate
kill
sleep
sorry,im 2 days late.
Parents had taken my n79 away.

a champi,scent of a woman,and exams.

2010-02-23T22:54:00.000+04:00

well,here we are.
Exams in 4 days.
Chem first.
Spent a whole lotta time on not studying.
Watchd many,many movies.
The only one that really stuck was Scent Of A Woman.
The story revolves around 2 characters,Charlie Simms(michael o'donnell),a young harvard hopeful,and Lt.Col.Frank Slade(al pacino),a blind,eccentric black humorist who has found a life partner in jack daniels.
This movie of how these two strangers meet,and change each other over the course of a thanksgiving weekend, left me in plain awe of pacino's portrayal of slade,and i feel that this was one fully deserved oscar for al pacino.
Well,ive decided to try to get myself to study finally.
And im 17 in less than two weeks.
So ciao.
HAH!

well,the times,they are a-changin...

2010-02-18T22:50:00.000+04:00

finishd my last practicals,and had my last few hours at school as a 11th-grader...
Exams in 10 days.Not a very pretty thought,especially with chem up first,but neither something i can ignore.
Ask yourself:how many times have you given your papers with the thought that your lives will be shaped by their outcome??
So i guess its time ta get a little serious about stuff.
*wipes tears
haha
ciao

words of the week.edition 1

2010-02-14T20:40:00.000+04:00

haha.
Startin frm now,i will post up 5 words once every week like so.these may be related to my week,or be completely random.its my take on microblogging.
Here we go.
Hyperactive.
Sequence.
Trampoline.
Confused.
Wigidiboo.

Haha.
Do you guys really care?

dirt

2010-02-10T19:30:00.000+04:00

captain magnus eriksson.king of the skies.
Thats what they would have called him.
If only they knew.
World war two had been fun.
Hed flown in europe for all three powers,the yanks,the british,and the krauts,blown through the ranks of each at different times,under different aliases.
He had no problems with language.
He was born a total orphan,with a silver spoon in his mouth.
Imperial,extensive schooling had made him a man,an inherited collection of airplanes and a flying manual had made him a man of the sky.
He felt no love for any being.
He lived for the thrill of flight.
Killing was an acquired taste for him.
But it never left him either.
There was no safe way to fly in a civilian airplane those days,and he gave up plainclothes for his one true love,albeit after nearly being shot down once before.
He was a natural pilot.,out of years of exercise,but he had been combat-trained by the best of the RAF,the luftwaffe,and the USAF.
He had flown all their best birds,and had stolen his favourite three-the messerschmidt,the hellcat,and the spitfire.
After the war,he forged an amalgam of the three.
An indominitable machine,with all their strengths,but flying this beast was something only he mastered at a great price.
But it paid off.
The only thing was that no one knew.
Rather no one alive knew.
He had shot down over three hundred craft in a hundred and six sorties,all in the years of the war.
Novice or ace,soon all were just burning wrecks in the sky.
But the bloodlust remained even after the truce.
In his beast,he shot down every aircraft that dared to fly in european skies.
He was unknown to all,except for those he shot down.
He always passed by them as they tumbled.
He looked into their eyes as they went down.
He tried to understand people by the emotion they showed in their terminal moments.
After the first hundred,he decided he was nt much of a people person.
April 12,1956
Flying above the alps,he looked far and wide,but the skies were clear.
He had cleared them.
It had been three weeks since his last kill.
It had been easy.
A light plane.
No more dogfights.
No more breakneck spirals with guns blazing.
Only novices with civilian planes these days.
He tried to make them squirm to get away,to get some little kick out of his day.
These kids always let him down.
No wonder,as hed already shot down any instructor skilled enough to take off.
There was no sport here.
No thrill,no pleasure,and goddammit no kill!!
No one else.Nothing.
The realisation hit him hard.
He planted himself in a forty-five degree dive,switched off the engine,and for the first time,felt pure silence.
He was deaf.
His love for it grew uncontrollably as he passed 30,000 feet.
He didnt want anything more.
Didnt need anything at 5,000 feet either.
Neither at a thousand.
Nor at 15.
The end.

rain day

2010-02-07T17:10:00.000+04:00

rain in muscat is a much-loved,much-needed break,but sometimes life just jumps too far off its rails...
Haha
startd rainin in recess.first thought was of football,but thanks to teachers,that little joy could not be availed.
So we came in droves,and simply stood in the rain,mouthing curses at teachers,and runnin about,lookin at gals with open,wet(and kinda sexy)hair,and getting gloriously wet,as the school field turned once again,to a rectangular patch of muck...
In the last 3 periods,i had some crappy,crappy times, stuck a HELP ME sign at the window right behind my place in class,in the hope that someone,anyone would get me outta the drab,drab classroom,and into the rain...but sadly,to no effect...
After school,the rain let up,and the sun shone through...searched for a rainbow,but found nothing.
Decided to try and bunk tuitions,and called kamu from a payphone sayin that i wouldnt make it...then ran to check if my bus had left,only to find that all the senior students of my bus were stranded too...went to a friends place,and rang up mom.she said she mite not be able to pick me up,as the traffic was very very shitty,and said that it would be a good idea to stay at a friends place nearby,and then go to tuitions directly,to which i agreed...walked back to school to find someone to hang with,and got a burger...a friend asked me to come watch some friends at dance practice at the social club(right next to school)...so i watched them hang about and do their thing till about 3:30,when i left for tuitions.
Reached kamus place by cab,went inside her house,and she tells me that tuitions had been canceled at the last moment.
So there.i catch a cab back to school,and play football\rugby on a basketball court with a tennis ball in the rain,and call up dad and ask him to pick me up from school.i spend the next twenty minutes talkin to a friend.and reach some very shitty conclusions.
Dad arrives.i get in the car,and listen to a bullshit story my driver gave to my dad as an explanation for my failure to get home on time.
Reach home,make myself masala chai,drank it with choc chip cookies,and now here i am,soakin in the hot tub,typin out this memoir on my phone...

look to your left,and look to your right

2010-02-03T22:01:00.000+04:00

7 am
kid walkin to school.walks up to the road right opposite the front gate,and stops,narrowly missing a birdshit.then he thought about how he woulda been the laughingstock of his social circle,had he been.he thought of how that girl in class he thought was hot wouldnt dare to go near him,disgusted.he thought of how porn was better than real life,of how the hottie on screen seemed less hostile than the one in real life,and easier to see naked too.he thought of running back home to get a change,but glanced at his watch,and decided to cross the road and take his chances at a normal day at school,albeit with a stained shirt.
And then there was a bus.

LADY GAGA CANT SING FOR PEANUTS(pokerface,specifically)

2010-01-26T01:09:00.000+04:00

before reading this,please listen to
http://www.filestube.com/0c61aeb6af3b09ea03e9,g/Lady-Gaga-Poker-face.html
.........its cartman covering the song poker face........
dont worry,you can sue me for a million bucks if you get some sort of virus that wipes out all your stuff in a minute and a half.........

Cartman performs the song in his own voice,far superior to gagas technologically-enhanced male moan...it makes more sense and is easier to decrypt than gagas shitty,boring gas-discharge...
The bottom line-Pop is overrated,by far...south park rules!
Listnin to ledzep-ten years gone

wierd msn fonts

2010-01-22T22:40:00.000+04:00

i love using funky/quirky fonts on msn..........not the all out wacko wingdings/webdings shite,but something that js isnt so monotonous............
the only problem is half the tym ppl cant gt wtf im typin
e.g.- scruff LET(current)
OldDreadfulNo7 BT
jokerman LET
westwood LET
curlz MT
goudy stout

and the deal is that these arent usable on blogger.........but why????
and to any of my msn contacts,whom i am sure outnumber the readers of my blogz ten to one,please do tolerate.................and give em a try

hola

2010-01-21T23:30:00.000+04:00

heylo,my absymal audience....
After about a year of my old account being seemingly killed by google,i return to the blogosphere,with gusto...
~fake laugh~
for that portion of my overly large audience who dnt knw,my old outlet for teen angst,boredom and sexual frustration was located at
www.whyexactlydidichoosethistemplate.blogspot.com

til the nx tym,
ciao