The Ballads of Gravity

Debauchery, Debauchery, Debauchery! Oh, notorious cyprian, thee debauched conception of thy desires evil, emptied thy holy grail in the deception of Thy nights, too good to be good too evil, fill me with good and evil, poise me with thy poison of Nature, no good, not god- but a man no evil, not a devil- but desires no sin, not a sinner- but nature, in essence god, evil, and sin let me explode into thee, into.

T he greatest question I face, till the date, is how to serve my father? We speak very little! The amount of the words we speak can be easily calculated of collected by any being; it’s that simple. He is the only man I’ve ever seen who made or rather makes his fortune for his family from the toils to palace. He built his family with pride and love. I feel myself very pity that I never gave him anything. I have no memories of hugging him or kissing him or even sharing a bit of time laughing with him. I am a very miserable human being, no doubt. What a human being I am? How miserable I am! He once or twice said that too! (I think we are all miserable sometimes) I need to be sentimental in my attitude towards the people who love me. Certainly, I lost my way in between; I took a turn that was absolutely strange and chaotic. I had to survive and fight well with the nature of my path I chose. I never celebrated my birthday neither my parent’s. I kept myself away from the casual and no...

E very man in his pride wept for his past, and in secret, lamented for the expiring of his time along with the age- the inevitability of his mortality and the worst thing he can’t defend himself. Subtlety of my seductive fallacy, then, towards the vanity of the world allured multitudes of images  ( intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time ), among which I found the reflections or rather existence of hers perfectly corresponding to the explicate and inplicate orders of my morphic resonace. There, torqued, begins the story of my infinite passion for my amorita; from there, everything began to be a mythical cosmic battle between faith and chance. What voice was that kept me alive in her thoughts and obviated the hiatus of facinorous time? Eloquence of silence in absolute immersion of hers hatched the abundance of her thoughts and divine proportions of unconditional and nonpareil affection, which carved her nonbeing into a dainty being, arrested the entire uni...

"They say when you meet the love of your life, time stops. What they don't tell you is that once time starts again it moves extra fast to catch up."

The eminence of parallel existence and phenomenal synchronization or encountering of my subliminal doppelganger with the cognizance of my ubiquitous existence elevates me unto a state of crazy hyperactivity. The penumbra of my clone is mostly like a phantasmagoria, almost completely foreign to my interests and tastes. I think, I’ve manipulated the possible readings of yin and yang. Hahaha!!!     P.S.:   Yeah! I'm laughing out loud like a 'cocaine sniffed Buddhist' floating on the air under the blue moon!  #She's mine, and as the time witnesses she'll be crowned the queen of  Never Never lands !

"How many did you love after me?' "None. You left me incapable to do so. The insatiable hunger and desire i once had for you, there is only one thing i demand now with the same intensity; Death" P.S.:   the Joker said!

"Your sign is everywhere,"  I said. And I kept looking at her—again and again. Each time, she transformed, becoming a celestial body suspended in luminous anticipation. Everything around me was in flux, dissolving and reforming, yet she remained—my constant universe. A constellation of madness, love, beauty, hope, and longing, endlessly arranging itself around her presence. She stood at its center, crowned—silent, sovereign—the queen of that vast, tranquil, and radiant expanse that had somehow folded itself into mine. Time itself seemed arrested, caught in the monstrous vacuum of eternity, only to unravel into fragments—memories, dreams, echoes. Infinity carved her image with relentless precision, and the image began to bleed. My heart, unable to contain it, broke apart—scattered into shards of her memory, into splinters of thought that refused to settle. And somewhere—far beyond the reach of imagination, in the margins of non-being—a zephyr moved softly, carrying the distant...

The ecstatic soul dancing with pertinacious impeccability, of itself and myself, orchestrates my subtle congruence with parenthetically parallel existence. Reserved Epicureanism contends with the extroversive but strange figures drags me towards the unconditioned and enigmatic spheres. Intellectual monomania adorned with the determinism of the universe and the randomness of human intellect injects crazy thoughts into my cognitive hemisphere. The Lone Rider and the Alpha badge I wear upon signal the impertinent tenacity of my absurdist. The way words originate and behave, things occur and enact attract me unto the abyss of inconsistent interpretations of life. Joie de vivre! The BEAuty of life is just like getting lost in the absolute space and flying to eternity breaking the laws of gravity or driving your Humvee alone into the wild or diving from the sky or going to the north pole or Everest. And happiness of it is doing something stupid and laughing about it for w...

Unintentional initiation of an empathetic soul carves a name above the firmament and down the abyss.  As an un-quenched thirst of a gratification, my soul becomes irritant on something never thought, felt, saw, or said.  The vague phantom of gathered memories weaves an absurd image of some   non-existing  non-being.  The self-confrontation of conformity against the predicted possibility of futuristic prospectus and materialization, in terms of swaying credibility,  weigh hundreds on my head and heart. 

Incineration of soul with antagonism often credits the incredible insufficiency of my material sociability. Sometimes, it’s really hard to survive the inessentiality of a stupid “mob” especially when you know incongruous codes of their guises and play.   They are all self-trained thespians of a floating opera; a masquerade enacted for material gratifications. Their lineaments are of folly and their masks are of self-declaring clowns of self-mockery.   Polluted smiles from their hollow façade crucify my existential credos on the 'altar of "Frailty"', what 'he' once called.   It is true that a dead fly causes the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking smell.