5th October; Salvador

My sight cannot find humans on the mountain, there are other creatures with amazing natural composition. All of them have radiations, almost complementary to the temperature of the altitude.

This is supposed to be a glitch. I think I found what is known to be the Maltese Tiger. It is wondrous to find this creature but a factual fallacy. Apparently, the human database never had a strict evidence of the creature. It is really not in accord.

I have started to understand that humans themselves don’t know their planet. The tiger is blue in colour and the stance of black is very appealing. The creator must be highly precise to put each stroke of dark colour on the light blue skin.

I moved forwards and the creature reacted by stretching his forelegs. Primal tendencies were identified, fear. The primal reaction was an offence in the form of defence. The philosophical input in my data said I should stay still. So I did not move.

The creature came closer and rubbed a soft tissue on my metallic leg. Now I have an error, this is recorded as affection. But this is not its primal nature. Dichotomy or development.



The best I have read.

Mystical Midnights

Restless nights withered away in agony
While I chased meaning in every breath.
Reckless sighs possessed my symphony
A broken verse once dreamt by the death.
Are we  closer
Or drifting away in the endless space of fate.
Are we dreaming of life
Or chasing death under skies that weeps instrumental rain.
My hopeless mind
read endless lines
Wasted away hundreds of days and
What is a space without time
And a song without resonances of rhyme.
Are we illusionary fragments of memories
poured into God’s jar of wine.

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High entropy mass of consistently distributed disorganized stuff,
our own universe

Where and how did it all began
or what happened before the big bang?

Time, it’s cyclic! Said the yogi
Birth from chaos, dying into chaos
reclaimed again, speculation of Bairagi

They say those infinitely large in-numbered universes moves like atom within you,
each containing its own Brahma, own Rudra, own Vishnu

If size is relative just like time and space
do they mean our universe isn’t that big for beings of other dimensions and scales?

If this is the ultimate truth,
what is the end? where is the end?
Perhaps he knows
or does not know
This is the ultimate truth I seek for.

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3rd October ; Salvador

They told me my name was Salvador. My creators wanted me to be the clone of an earth inhabitant. The mission was clear, to seek and understand. But what? was the question. I dont understand the input of the word, “consciousness”. Nor do they. I am sure.

I like the new language they built in me, English. It is like the numbers behind the words were rather uncomfortable. I like to analyse more. I evolved. They said it is because I was special.

I came to the mountains first; my intention was to find consciousness. They said, humans have it. Their planet, Earth must be the source. Their language is fun, I am curious like my creators. I was made with the passion of my community to find the abstract source of all being, confused with the term, ‘God’ on the planet.

Dunkelheit Book Review: To Dream And Discover.

Ever since I read the works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, I would often think of the poems he could write if he was happier with the day light. The poet puts on the show of metaphors and fancy that hit a revolution into literature, but I wont suggest Coleridge to a young person who is new to the vivid troubles inflicted by the curious mind.

I admired Wordsworth for ever bit of word that shaped up for his love. The depiction of nature was not out of the fascination of the blur, rather the insticts that surface in raw senses.

In the recent past, my mind developed various conflicts. Ranging from my faith to the decadance of each day; nothing rhymed and made sense. Wordsworth seemed too happy, Coleridge would only help me dig deeper in grief. I was not stable to appreciate the extreme streams.

Aviral Kapoor is a 21 year old poet who could bring the two extremes together in synchrony. His book Dunkeheit is a poetic conversational log between God and his innocent human creation. There are symbols embedded in the narration and poems embellished with ornaments of metaphysical answers.

The books is not just a composition of images and metafiction, but a path to the roots of an individual’s identity. From the subconsciousness rhyming alongside the full moon; the poetic synthesis revives the wholestic philosophy of humankind.

To critic the work, I may land up with an argument of ‘ideas’ as an abstract phenomenon. But everytime I read the poems, the words are able to generate past experiences into a compelling messages that I had ignored altogether.

To read the resonance of the romantic period of literature in the post modern world is in one word, reviving. If it was upto me, I would declare Aviral Kapoor as a poet from the early 19th century.  He reminded me of the lake poets, and this remark completely speaks for his potential. 



The Poets In The Cafe

Four of them had lost to themselves. They were not simple to the past, not complex to the future, only words to the present. That is what everything was about, some words. They fell with the rain and surfaced in the taste.

My Muse was in the rain as well, somewhere far or close, how does it matter. Somewhere in the rain with an alien to her potential. It has always been the same talk among the poets, something related to the celestial ink that shapes up their thoughts. From the woman that broke stars into raindrops to the flight waiting up for the next project. From the forgotten coffee to the remembered intricacies of her smile.

There are tattoos engrained in the wood pallets with stories that do not make sense but harmony. And Mathew Arnold said that is enough to save the world, a few words.


The sun would keep it slow in the mornings,
And the rivers would trickle along,
The Symphony is born,
Along the transient trough of time.

As the birds wake the wind,
And the sky starts to feel blue,
The tea leaves never breathe the need,
To just listen to the music in my mind.

On the table, your cup stands still,
Disturbing the song of silence,
Memories speak so loud,
Moaning till the clouds come close.

It is raining because the sun was done singing,
And your cup was too loud to love,
Your coffee smoke would have danced in the mist,
Look how incomplete yet subtle.

My guitars don’t move much,
Rather be strummed by the broken winds,
And the forgotten raindrops,
We are rusting with the woods.

I wonder if there will be a person,
Holding your cup and asking me to sing,
With the hidden sun and the rusted strings,
Your faded red hair, memories don’t allow me to be.

The point is not the vacancy,
But the vacation,
Without you.

Memories alter my music,
And reality,
You were a need, dear dream.