The Ballads of Gravity

"He was born to be told and heard. .." Jonah  fell into the  chasm of  his childhood days of innocence and reveries. Michael placed himself under the root of fence on which Jonah unfolded the inception of his creation in to a man of flops and gains. Little Caroline amazed by the beginning of the story which drawn her towards the story behind  "to be heard and told." Both Michael and Caroline seemed to be the little pets of an almighty who leads them to the world of imaginations and the fictionalised realities of existence that awaits them  ahead. The almighty sits on the fence. " Who is he?" asked  little Carol. " He is not named Carol!" replied Jonah. " Why?" asked Michael. The overriding image of fence dominated the thoughts of two little heads. "Lets not name him." Jonah developed some mysteries before the two little eyes of anxieties... "I need so,me water. Let me find it out". ( to be con...

It is fate, that  the fulfillment of my dream costs the value of your entire freedom. How can you live chained? Wont you be shattered like the fish catch out of water? So...no... let my dreams be burned. And you... beat your wings and fly  unto the endless sky of freedom. ( Written by Shana K, my friend.  )

I celebrate my life spiritually. My spirituality is even hard for me to define the way I have conceived it. It helps me to accommodate the whole world in to mine, existing or non-existing. I formulated my spirituality from the great Indian concept 'TAT TWAM ASI' (You, the individual self, are the universal self). When I grew up I met Walt Whitman who wrote the great work which I keep in the midst of my sacred books,  Leaves of Grass.           "I contradict myself  because I contain multitude." (  Song of Myself,  Walt Whitman)  My spirituality is not religious and bond to any established belief system.      I read Whitman, who are assigned to me by my wish without his  consent, because I find my soul somewhere in his words. He also professed the concept of 'Universal Soul', my very concept which I successfully execute in my uncertain life of 'beautiful absurdities'.  I, lat...

After noon around evening, I was in my usual cafe where I go for everything that roams around my external psyche that possibly links my internal too. I learn many things from the cafe rather than from the classroom itself. Classroom teaches me, specially, nothing. The usual course of ritualistic attendance of classroom discussions produced many a time my own contradictions to me myself. Classroom teaches me the mere theories, but fails how to implement in the realities of life. The cafe teaches me how to read people and how i must be in order to analyse me. People come and go, and it repeats and repeats. i order coffee and taste and it goes on continually. One day i was sitting on the corner side of the cafe where I usually place myself for no reason, may be. Two men gently be-seated next to me, but not with me. i can interestingly over-here  what they say. Two of them were interesting, after all, most desirable. One guy started talking someth...

far from the land of eternity, i see the departed me of other. my several men inside me spoke the language of unknown and uncertain. they were of several men. men of lust, men of love, men of calm, men of rush, men of thought, men of spirituality, men of absurdity, etc. i lost my being among them. i cared my individuality and professed, but i knew all of them were in vain. i have no me, essential self. i am an existence of multitude, 'i' contain multitude. there are numerous 'i' inside me, of whom i must select to be my face? no one, but all. one is not equal to the other but they can't stay in the absence of the other. let me love all of them, embrace me, my me! 'i' born each time, from one to one. not new. things were there.and always will be. they are mere repetition. 'i' is many. never define 'i'.   

What is there to ponder on the uncertainties of 'certain' life that we all will die someday? What makes us unsatisfied? Greed. What makes us guilty? Conscience. What makes us love? ( if you know why we love don’t tell me because that’s not why we love) What makes us fool? Wisdom. What makes us different? Self. What makes us slaves? Life. What makes us same? Difference. What makes us smile? … What makes us lonely? Togetherness. What makes us cry? … What makes us live? Hope. What makes us hate? Expectations. What makes us dream? Realities. What makes us sex? … What makes us forget? Memory. What makes us think? Answer. What makes me to write it? I don’t know. And what makes you to read it? Don’t know. no one knows, but  the 'no one knows' knows why we do it. I’ve heard about Italno Calvino and i love his work. I ve n’t ever read any of his work until now and I’m in anticipation of readi...

My soul is a secret orchestra, but I don't know what  instruments - strings, harps,cymbals, drums -strum and bang inside me.I only know myself as the symphony.

things, they are nothing but merely things only. waiting, nothing but waiting, since life itself is a long waiting for the uncertainties of the anticipated certainties. life, just athing. we make things out of life and the things beget again and again. love, romatically beautified thing. i just write things i just can't get through and imagine that i never meet. what if we never have our absurdities, life would be apile of mess of mere things. and i started to love my absurdities and make it beautiful. nothing would have been this much interesting in my life other than my absurdities, they lead me throuh the craziness of normalities and the naturality of the culture, after all we are all leave to the eternal home of our nothingness.

Teach me to be soft and nice. i know I'm rough for many reasons for that's what the way i am. i see nothing but uncertainties of my life. they inspire me to be soft, but i fail to be the one up to the expected levels of anticipated growth. i loved not, even a girl at least for the sake. i always wanted to fall in love with the uncertainties of my life and a girl of whom i never think and romanticise. i fear my future that i may fail to love her with the expected dreams of future life. i will tell her to tech me to be soft and smooth. but, i will never go through . I'm not much confident of myself. the reason why I'm rough and the way i am is nothing but i never romanticise anything in my life but the life itself.

We all leave something behind—not by accident, but for a reason we don’t fully understand. As though some cosmic law silently demands it of us. And we obey, unknowingly, yet unfailingly. We, fragile creatures, live not just to exist, but to leave traces of that existence—marks etched in time, invisible perhaps, but undeniably real. We come into this world incomplete, having left a piece of ourselves elsewhere. When we first take the shape of a foetus in the womb, something essential is set aside. And when we die, we don’t simply vanish; we begin a journey back—to retrieve what was once ours, what we unknowingly surrendered. But even in that act of return, we leave more behind. Our lives are full of quiet departures. A moment. A glance. A word. Our love lingers. Our memories settle into the corners of rooms. Our shadows remain stretched across places we’ve passed through. Our presence clings to people in subtle, haunting ways. Sometimes we leave behind dreams never fulfilled, words nev...

Everyone claims a place under the sun—a purpose, a soul, a meaning assigned and accepted. I reject the comfort of that claim. What you call purpose is often conditioning in disguise; what you call identity is repetition rehearsed over generations. I do not pity the soul. The soul does not suffer—it is not bound, not owned, not defined. I pity the life that submits to being shaped, reduced, and disciplined by the machinery of society. You call it culture. You call it tradition. You call it belonging. I call it compliance refined into virtue. Man does not become—he conforms. He inherits a past and kneels before it. He calls it legacy, but it is fear—fear of stepping beyond what has already been approved. Tradition, when it refuses movement, becomes a prison that celebrates its own walls. And the most dangerous prisons are the ones that teach you to decorate your chains. Do not misunderstand me—I am not against all tradition. I am against that which arrests thought, that which suffocates ...

For within the tapestry of existence, the passage of time is but an illusion, a mere veil that shrouds the eternal nature of reality. For, whatever is today, already has been, woven into the fabric of history, its threads intertwined with the narratives of bygone eras. And whatever will be, already is, a potentiality awaiting its turn to step into the realm of actuality, a destiny shaped by the echoes of choices made and unmade. In this intricate dance of moments, the past is not truly past, but rather a continuum, a reservoir of experiences and lessons that flow into the present. Likewise, the future is not a distant horizon, but a realm of probabilities, an outcome that finds its roots in the seeds of the present. As we navigate the rivers of existence, we find ourselves entwined with the currents of the past and the currents of the future, all converging in the ever-flowing stream of now. To comprehend this profound truth is to glimpse the timeless expanse that stretches beyond t...

🐸 Oh, gentle rain, bestow upon me the serenity to embrace both lily pad and ripple. May my croak resonate with the wisdom of ancient streams, and may my leaps carry the echoes of time's boundless journey. 🐸  To the moon's gentle glow, I lift my gaze, seeking the ephemeral beauty that graces the night. May my leaps be guided by dreams as boundless as the starlit expanse, and may my croak harmonize with the universe's eternal song. 🐸  In the symphony of twilight, I find solace, knowing that even the shortest day births the longest night. May my leaps transcend the limitations of the earthly realm, and may my croak echo with the courage to embrace the unknown. 🐸  Beneath the shimmering surface, mysteries unfold, reminding me that truth often dwells in hidden depths. Grant me the insight to perceive beyond the obvious, as I leap through life's enigmatic waters and croak the language of profound understanding. 🐸  As dawn's first light kisses the horizon, I a...

In the tapestry of my existence, the hue I favor above all is the enigmatic blue—a color that embodies both the essence of desire and the void of nothingness. My very name resonates with the promise of bliss, an aspiration I hold dear. Likewise, my chosen gemstone, a beacon of hope, stands as a testament to my convictions. Yet, who truly comprehends the depth of these pronouncements?                                    I find a profound solace in the scent of the pristine earth, mingling with the cosmic harmony during the union of the firmament and the virgin land. Rain descends, imbuing her with vitality, breathing life into her very core. The fragrance of her form and the symphony of her libidinal calls resonate within me—a celebration of sensuality that intertwines with spirituality.  Am I confined by the constraints of time and space? It seems I have encountered myself on numerous occasion...

Amidst abundance, a sense of solitude often envelops us. Nature grants us precious moments that unveil our true selves, rendering loneliness an exquisitely beautiful phenomenon. Within this existential aloneness lies a profound connection—a communion between the transcendental Self and the Soul, with the potential to metamorphose into any conceivable form.  The experience of loneliness becomes deeply metaphysical and transcendent. It is a singular instance where the nebulous ego engages in discourse with the soul, enshrined within the corporeal vessel. Amidst solitude, a jubilation of the self and soul ensues—an ephemeral juncture when the soul is exclusively ours to behold. This communion with the soul exists on a plane that is profoundly metaphysical, elevating the self beyond its confines, enabling a breach of boundaries between reality and dreams, virtue and vice, sanity and madness, and more. Fortunate are those who relish their souls and partake in such experiences, for the...

It was an unexpected occurrence, a beautiful accident, and yet I nurtured its potential, knowing that it would eventually come to an end in the autumn of our time together.  Her ravishing eyes and captivating presence have left an indelible mark on me, one that cannot be erased.  Oh, the vanity of it all, the fleeting nature of our existence, and yet I cling to the hope of another chance encounter. It is all vanity, all is vanity, and like a dewdrop vanishing into the thick air, so too may our time together be gone forever.

With the remnants of his desires lingering, his gaze was fixed upon her. In that very instance, a scene of divinity unfolded, a moment so profound that even the heavens themselves seemed to watch over its passage. Ignited by the intensely combustible spark of the moment, he drew her into his embrace. In that fleeting second, it was as though a dormant soul had been reawakened from slumber.

Love, the traitorous thief, who abandoned me in the midst of plenty. As I gaze upon the darlings of another, parading before me on the pavement, I am lost in the sea of faces.  I seek refuge behind my mask, my face a veil for the pain that love has wrought upon me.  Oh love, why have you left me alone amidst the crowd, suffocating in my solitude, yearning for a way to escape the prison of my own heart? Let me disappear into the masses, where I can hide from your relentless torment.

At times, I am engulfed in a state of disorientation, wandering in the vast expanse of my mind, until I stumble upon a place where I come face to face with my Ego, Id, and Libido. It is a surreal encounter, leaving me feeling both lost and found. In that moment, I am consumed by a sense of emptiness, a nothingness that permeates my entire being, yet it is also beautiful in its own right. The silence is deafening, yet the stillness is enchanting, allowing me to bask in the glory of nothingness. It is a state of mind that leaves me feeling frustrated, as I struggle to make sense of my thoughts and feelings. The physicality of it is equally daunting, as it drags me down a path that I do not wish to tread. Reading and writing become a chore, a task that I cannot bring myself to do. I have never encountered the Muse of letters, and even if I had, I would not dare waste the precious moments of my absurdity and nothingness. It is in this abundance of nothingness that I feel a nocturnal glo...

I was once  Alexander the Great —not merely a man, but an impulse: to arrive, to see, to conquer. I believed the world yielded to will, that meaning could be carved into existence with the edge of intention. And for a while, it did. Kingdoms bent, distances collapsed, and horizons submitted to my passage. I gathered the world into my reach, believing expansion was completion. But conquest is a hunger that does not end. Every victory opened into another absence. Every horizon revealed the inadequacy of arrival. And so, I turned. Not in defeat, but in exhaustion of illusion. Not away from the world, but deeper into it—until I encountered another way of being, the stillness of  Gautama Buddha . Here, I saw that desire governs more subtly than any empire. That to possess is to be bound. That the need to become is itself a form of captivity. I let go—not the world, but my insistence upon it. I laid down conquest, identity, ambition. And in that release, I discovered a silence that...