Busted...

Colors are fascinating, and so was my life,
the pull of thirst, the call of a drive.


There 'er fancies, unreached, dull and bright.
Likewise, I dreamed of water, sand and light.


And the windows that gave pass to the stars,
were ever open for the eventful and alive.


The roads shrunk in a flick, just one wrong turn,
It was too dark to fight and too late to return.


Now, there ain't much left to save,
A pile of shredded dreams, and my shed turned grave.


Confined by my protection, I feel stuck,
I am busted..


Abandoned by you, my imaginations have rusted,
I am busted..


Left to myself, I feel torn and wasted,
I am busted..


Hey Chris, hi Ana, fuck you, fuck all,
I am busted..

The destined pop

Let your whims embrace you,
and let your demons die,
go, go take a plunge tonight.

If it quacks like a duck, n it walks like a duck, it must be a duck!!

It was raining that day.
The sky was colored gray with blobs of reddish-brown secreting for expanse, randomly. It seemed as if the earth was being shielded from the sun by a dark canopy of clouds, patches of which were faded of the quality of abstraction, thus allowing the purposefully ignored star to surreptitiously evince its presence in form of the reddish-brown sores. He was enjoying the idea of his heterogeneous occurrence, brazenly speculating this contemptuous haggling between the “non-living entities” from his rooftop. As if a revenge to the impudence of “the living”, the rain started pouring heavy…very heavy, in fact. He, the avidly exuberant witness of the celestial bargain, wanted, as if in full cognizance of his guilt and in welcoming compliance to the penance, the rain to stay.
To his dismay, he knew, it would not.
He, the flow-awaiter, the motion-seeker, the velocity-instigated-mirth-reaper, in killing-destitute of continuum-preserving happiness, saw himself covenanting with quiescent-death, by trying to stop the rain water pouring on his terrace of its flow by mercilessly blocking the niche letting the water flow-out, with an imperfectly carved brick.
This was a deal between dynamic and static existence.
One between life and death.

He waited, standing on the drenched floor of his terrace which was virtually rising above its absolute level, by effect of some law of optical physics which he did not care to recall then, and paradoxically, virtually sinking down under the effect of the relatively rising water-level.
He waited till the umbrella was drained-off its last drop of water, thus loosing its virginity of abstraction to the scorch of virility of the sun.
His soaked eyelids opened up to see the manually maneuvered, natural-mirror of the thick loaf of water, choking him to the depth of an ocean of nostalgia for the last drop, the last emissary of the kinetic form of universe, that was dying in form of seceding wrinkles of motion somewhere on the periphery of his extent of vision.
He stood still, sans motion.
He could see the soggy hair of his feet, loosing their otherwise dry fluffy form as if in homage to the quality of flux of water, to a more jovial and living form of underwater weed.

He could recursively watch his own self, peeping down to finding his interrogative eyes darting up from under water.
He could see the bed of the water below and that of the sky above as a reflection on the still surface of the mirror, transparent and opaque at the same time.
To him, it seemed unreasonably logical to feel that it was the pair of eyes he could touch, that were watching the ground he could feel under his feet, and the pair of eyes, he could not define the power of volitional perception of, that were observing the lightly grayish sheet of impalpable sky above.
Strangely, the sky was still fighting for its gray, though faded, metaphorically resembling the almost inevitable coyness of a young girl left breathless after her first tryst with the divine, leaving her spirit open for gamble, trying to hide her bare skin from her lover.

He found himself smiling at the discovery of finding himself smiling.

Then recollecting his self, at the event of perfect-cessation of flow from his immediate world, he carefully rose his feet, thus relinquishing his fantasies unearthed, and moved, driven by a cause towards the clogged opening, as if to set his own will free of the stagnancy of this uncommendable, flux-indifferent void of space.
He moved, relieved by the knowledge of his aim, inconsiderate of the undefiled state of equilibrating inertia of the stillness of the coating of concentrated water, clumsily splashing it and forming ethereal craters of vacuum with the follow-through of his steps.

Then, at that point of time, standing inert, over the blinded life-redeeming orifice, in full heed of his longing, and the abstract longevity of his wait for this self-regaining moment, he ruthlessly murdered the agony of his past, and relished the completeness of the anticipated-future-soaked-present.
This was the pain he bored while intentionally experiencing the waste of the dynamics of the cloudburst to the stale of a reserve. He did pass through that state of self-indignation, only in light and hope of the enormous potential of that waif reserve and because he could foresee the most dignified climax of that source of flow.
And, this was the joy one lives through when a decisively planned outcome is just about to be met and a long-deserved prize awaits you.
Then, with one swift, brisk motion of his hand he almost plucked the motion-refraining occlusion and haughtily lived the déjà vu that he knew was to be faced.

With a thunderous swiftness, heavy masses of water, as much as the down treaded pipe adjoining the hole could carry, flowed out of the rear end with uncompromising brashness.
As if in coherence with the flow, the glow of the sun, streaked of the expanse of perceptible mortality, indiscriminately cutting through the gray sheet and eroding the earth with its bright.
At the same time, something burst within him, as if a bag of emotions punctured, and loud with the immense of vigor and exuberance, a clear, sparkling drop of tear rolled down his eyes.
…
HE is ME.

By the way, who is John Galt?

is..

It was his move..
He looked at the cue ball, and then ran a race of his sight for the flawless, undaunting solids.
Substantially, he rose above the table, the warfield of his mark, above all organic and inorganic complexes, beyond worries and envy, surpassing greed and social demarcations, vacating the earth that was serendipitedly underneath, to his mortal physical form..
He rose up for he knew that only a broader picture of the dash c'ld bring him closer to fetching his aim.
He rose up for he wanted to do justice to the game by rendering the necessary homage to its flow...
He leviated for he was 'he'...

43 degrees right of centre, towards the bottom, a mild stroke...
The purple beast couldnt' buck and budged compliantly to the knock.
Coupled with this, the cue ball, retracing its path in the mirrored fashion, and exhaustively spinning on its axis, as if exuding the consequence of the impact, stopped acquiescingly 7 inches from the GRAIL of the round, ball no. 8.
There was an evanescent clamor among the personae.
He heard a voice blurting, "damn! the black bastard eclipsses the hole from the white."
At that moment he had his due, for another murmur conformed from within...
It said, "well done."

...
HE is ME...

"FANCY" is the name of the game..

You're beautiful.
You're beautiful.
You're beautiful, It's true.

I saw your face,
in a crowded place.
and I don't know what to do.
'coz I'll never be with you.

The Drizzle

It seeps through the edges,
it drips along the banks.
it trickles for a cause,
repressed and gone.

it waits for its turn,
graved, bygone.
unheard, unfathomed,
stays there for long.

your rainbow tears,
your romance wears.
they say, all your believes,
are junkyard thongs.

it dribbles, it creeps.
the tumbler into the well,
sapless, as it is,
dead, forsaken, as you raise the tong.

the drizzle of life,
the nectar of animation.
is a part of the game,
be it right or wrong.

let it flow,
and wet your cheeks.
for then would you leviate, to self-cognizance, 
and every trill from the roof-top, would be a song.

The Protocol of Reason

All this crap, that you, prodded to depression, by me, are actually about to sift through, was destined to surface here, when, I, dolce far niente, exhausted of the mighty dormancy, finally decided to land my arse, submissively, on the single seated, Chetak, the thirsty mule, quench its lust for Rs.50/litre, and frisk the roads of Lucknow, aimlessly, and in the odessey, happened to drift around a lively turn, banging head on to the massive human-culture that seemed to irresistibly block the passage for some petty diordered jam, that reflected to centre around a couple of blockhead buffons with no traffic sense(no sense, for that, i concede).

the side-effects of the encounter:

and when you trace the trajectory of the turn, you know you have entered the arena of the sortie, for here comes face to face, for the first time(, every time) a mighty graciously lengthed track of the dash.

Do everything, anything, something to get par the still more genially packed live trash, that you add to, as and when the point of reference changes.

With your hands, which refrained, some time, not long ago, to budge, when someone called authoritatively for forelimbs to "I's", and slacked for want of enthusiasm, when someone, a bit more earlier, asked for volunteers for the pithy rank of class-monitor (foreseeing the fact that everyone would see you as some-being, baptized, "Mr.Bicthy-shit monitor", and then there would be a time, when you, for avalanche of mighty social recognition(read prickings) would cease looking for the cause of your nascent existence, and drift to the eclipse of self-oblivion.), in complete attorney of your destiny, you know, that what has been is history, with lessons to teach, and precautions to preach, and look optimistically to the one that would be archieved to apostels of your memory in moments to arrive.
Every sense in you(i guess, even the non-sense), is then assigned a layer in the infrastructure of thought-building and stimuli-generating algorithm that you need to adher to, cohesively, coherently, in full cognizance of the differential changes of entropy generated for continuum of collective swings and trails of the normalized air content and decibel level in the ambience.

A whoo$$$shhhh there, and a bon$$g-bon$g here, everything has a meaning, every sign is a regalia, which epitomizes/decodes some broken piece of information of the childishly drafted(childish for its haphazard outlay) gijzaw to which you are so often put to test, that the question of more relevance to you, has transmorgified from the "This one! Lemme see.." to "This one??! phoo$$$sshhh".

The aim at hand, the wish to realize the win, the pricking(which reasons out as an enticement) ambient-thrust, the mashing turbulence of the massive eddy thought-flow, and none the less, the want of an alternate redeeming exit, yell cries for an honest, avid, and spontaneous participation.
As and when you comprehend this utter need of the bypassing moment, you, for the first time, androitly relinquish some of the innate energy to flex the neck muscles, in order to abet the two synonymously placed spherical lenses above, to buoy up over the almost collinear head-lings, and look beyond to peruse the peculiarities of the labyrinth turned Armageddon. Shots of these visual singnals synchronously hit another bifurcated organ of the body, thus generating collateral pulses of high's for the jerking-tool of your organic frame, which is in full charge of the most microscopic motion of the alien machine under your bums.
Everything that follows has to abide by the impulsively conglomerated(do not read, generated) set of protocols in order to abstain from the almost inevitable sense of expurgation.

The Protocol of Reason:

(1)Time: Always time your run, right from the begining. Do not dare to loose a flick of undaunting heed, for something(the only thing, fit for the adjective to follow) absolute, with a talked of mnemonic, TIME, would not spare you for the most probable fidgety.
P.S.- Never race time, race yourself(read I, Dimension for comprehension)

(2)Foresee: Visualize, foresee results. Try, not to bump to outcomes, land onto them, and that too along the strip lenght.

(3)Act: Do not wait for your turn to come, for its not going to descend on you. Grab the opportunity, and dare to risk your score at every dash, for only then at the end of the innings would you relish every differential slam to its apogee.
P.S.- Every tang of a differential victory, brings you close to enlightment and nirvana.

(4)Synchronize: enuf said.

(5)Move on:
Its yet not reached, move on.
Two of them left, trod on.
None of yours continued, pace on.
on and on.
on and on and on.

(6)Modulate your thresholds: Be ready to compromise your thresholds (no off-line principles), when the blaze of the infermo is at stake. Do not let the fire die.

(7)Alter objectives: An effecient and indomitable feedback link, to the arbit
source of human-ness for unquestionable amendments in the definitions and
approach of the previously defined aims, would be appreciable.

(8)Comprehend your stand: Always be aware of the distance traversered, and the displacement achieved.

(9)Whack off the traces of track cues: Do not cram the fucking track. Dont be such a dumbass as to extract the sap of contentment from the cowardly morphed win over a similarly morphed challenge, framed hypocritically over the carcass of a mugged head-slot.
P.S.- Why the hell would any sane homosapien then, fathom a word as
relieved as "recollection"?

(10)Contemplate your win

(11)Be ready for next.