Calamity is

Not Nature's

Wrath.

It is her

Art;

Intimate and

Devastating. 

It is not

 Self-destruction, 

It is ablution. 

Knowledge is a mirror of our confusion. 

If days could

Breathe, they'd

Live on your soul.

If nights could

Cry, they'd mourn

Your absence. 

The dearth of existential freedom is the mother of essential freedom.

The expectation

Of what love

Should be

Surpasses the 

Experience of 

How to love

When reflection 

Is perennial. 

          Evolve; end. 

Let's bottle summer 

And freeze it, 

A drink might 

Come in handy sometime.

Have you ever poured 

Scathing water on yourself in the shower?

An entire bucketful,

Mug by mug, slowly;

Then all at once.

A futile attempt to

Rid yourself of your thoughts.

As if the water could wash away

The guilt and the shame and 

The pain you're feeling.

Instead, all it does is make your tears vanish.

Almost as if they were never shed. Not a trace.

The dampness of your heart

Melding with the withering shell

That is your quivering body.   

It's self punishment.

A means to redeem yourself

From the torment.

Perhaps this is why some of us

Take a hot shower at the end of the day.

Perhaps this is one of those
Secrets that die with us.

Perhaps this is why

We bolt our doors.

To lock in our secret that is the pain, not modesty.

Subsist

The mind has been seen as nothing more than a social construction. To call the mind a social “construction” seems to be an egregious underestimation of its very existence and capabilities.

The mind is the only thing that exists. It is the ultimate phenomenon- the sole survivor in this cosmic soup that seems to be floating in the terrain of this incomprehensible nowhere. Lacking physical form leads one to minimize its form as an entity. The mind is a driving force, the ultimate beacon that sets everything in its place and in motion in this nebulous fabrication that is beyond us. Everything else that ‘exists’ is a concept.

            One of the most astounding features of the mind is its ability to subsist. Despite this, the mind has concocted itself an illusion of objectivity outside of its realm; one that will actively discern and feed information only to question its very own existence. Therein lies the irony.

             Reality is a construction of the mind. It is a nothing but a mere fabrication. The physical manifestation- reality, the world around and the perception of human form- could be a mere tool for the sole sake of amusement; a means of reprieve from its state of isolation. To say the inverse is to discount the significance of this natural phenomenon that makes ‘life’ possible; and existence itself, of the self and the other.

              The mind is the creator. It is the mother of reality. The matriarch that guides us into the convoluted illusion of material and matter. Reality is a quasi-physical construct that is and could also be an iteration of the existence of the mind.  The illusion of reality is the substrate it requires to exist in some unknown harmony.  

             If this unsung and interwoven fabric of harmony is a seamless collective, then each facet of reality would be a mere thread that would fray when one questions the synthesis of life. No?

You were water,

I was ice.

I am water,

You are ice.

We pour into each other.

Seamless,

Formless,

Boundless.

Over time, we 

Take turns becoming the other,

Saving ourselves from drowning

In this ocean of insanity.

If my bones are the pen

I write with,

If my blood is the

Ink I devour this paper with,

Then poetry and

Everything beautiful

Will be not just my breath

But yours too. 

The stars were

Born of your tears,

The moon;

Your crystallized sorrow.

What could be

More beautiful

Than this galaxy

That is you?

What is a heart

But a beating mass of flesh?

What is a heart

But a pump that fills your body with blood?

What is a heart

But a seed that grows a tree of pain in your body?

What is a heart

But an ebbing captor inside a cage?

What is a heart

But that which keeps you alive?

What is a heart

But that which kills you?

If destruction could ever define you

It will be

When you fall in love. 

The mind is the matriarch that guides you into this convoluted illusion of material and matter.

And to break away 

From this cage is 

Equivalent to breaking 

My ribs to 

Free my heart.

It's not just going to hurt.

It's going to kill me. 

"The walls that keep us in and out"

"Prophesies"

I want to plunge

Into a waterfall of words;

Gently swim into 

The unexplored caves of thought. 

Where will I end, I wonder.

Feed my soul 

To the river and see

If it floods the banks. 

If not,

The water will whisper

A dance that only 

Destiny will know.

Life is a fiddler without fingers. You know this because there is mostly only noise.

If reality is presumption then is knowledge assumption?

The mediocre life is unfairly stigmatized.

When did progressive regression become a thing?

Metacognition is the mind's chauffeur. Almost everyone seems to drive these days.

The world is just your head. Where is the body, I wonder.

One mustn't question the clouds. They are vindictive; they may not respond.

Invisible thoughts make the most sense. You'll know when you see them.

Reality is malleable. This is criminal apparently.

Days are diffusing into a temporal soup of surreality. Is it time for a lesson yet?

Horses make the world surreal.

Chaos is a form of liberation.

Domestication is one of the most savage things we've done to animals.

This world should be a world in which everything right is left so that everything left is right.

Is craziness the cause or consequence of celebrity?

Knowledge is part of a bigger conspiracy we don't yet understand.

Masks fail when they fall.

Today, I saw the anatomy of an invisible sound. Think I'll die happy now.

Paranoia propels premeditation.

Privacy is dead. Is it murder or sacrifice?

Respect is a bribe.

Bad decisions make great stories.

Words are made up. Just as this is.

Tendencies tend to transfer.

A time comes when dreams kidnap reality.

Competition is tangential to success.

What if, you don't know when to not?

Sometimes you have to close your eyes to see. I want to close my eyes more often. Is this healthy degeneracy?

Feeling guilt is psychological autocannibalism. Mmh. Let us all dine.

I've come to believe that the pinnacle of escape is psychological.

The question is, are you okay with being a story? 

It could take as long as a lifetime to get out of the adolescent mindset. 

The scream of the stars
Is silenced by the cloak
Of the night sky.

If not,
We'd quiver and collapse
Amidst the river of
Our own tears. 

Fables Of A Forlorn Forever #14

The oblivion that was
Our future invited us
With open arms.

We walked,
Hand in hand,
Carrying he luggage
That was our past
With us. 

People in love are

More pieces of a lost jigsaw puzzle

Than mirrors.

They fit, not reflect. 

Fables Of A Forlorn Forever #13

You are the source
That the stars fought with every night
To paint the sky.

I?

I was a distant echo
Reverberating off
The pain of their fight. 

Fables Of A Forlorn Forever #12

The greatest
Tragedy of
Their story was
 Getting close.

The tress whispered
Solemn thoughts,
My mind rained
Brittle leaves,
My eyes breathed
Salted dreams.
I was caught in the wind
Of a turquoise
Sea of surreality.

Could this be?

Wonder
While
Wandering
Wild.

The only thing
That scares me
These days is
My mind.
Reality may just be
Its biggest betrayal. 

lust must thrust dust

What you desire must be all-consuming. It must seize your body and mind in its entirety; the world, your world. That which you crave- your lust- must engulf you, so much so that everything is affected. The insignificant must also be affected; dust.

Fables Of A Forlorn Forever #11

Distance 

Does not

Separate us;

Mountain or chasm.

You are just

A thought away. 

Fables Of A Forlorn Forever #10

To be a shadow

Of what you are

Is to breathe

Without actually living

Is to smile

Without actually feeling

Is to hide

To never be found.

Soon, 

The sky 

Will burn

Oh, 

How we 

Will yearn

For the stillness

To return.