Weekend Tryst With Words

Because some colours are generally dull by nature and much music odious, one struggles to struggle away from the relentless dullness that such time evokes. However, rainbows and the illusions they give disappear as soon as sighted. Yet, frail as human nature is and unlearning that goes on everytime one learns something, one lingers on the fringes of desperate vitalities, of some warm music.

Because of the generosity of a dear friend, JR , a kind of socratic atmosphere was recently recreated, a world of supposition, starting with serendipity and ending on a windswept morning, against the promise of a Tarkovskyan journey.

Words always exist on their own. They however live in a shadow world, without meaning. Voices give them texture, emotions make them more generous, the world seems humane, life becomes worth living. However, what does this existence convey apart from silent solitude, hushed steps, music heard alone, words whispered in vain, unambitious soliloquies, Hamlet in chains. It is the emotion of feelings, the rush of expression, of shared expression that makes one moment more vital than the next. And because a certain hush must be suppressed, a desperate vitality chained, a certain fire lit and another stamped out, we assemble like suicidal moths around a hot flame, burning with what love left us with.

I along with similiar survivors, dwelled on such ethereal nights recently, surrounded by logical, poetic, leftist, centrist, rational, romantic and such other thoughts, interpersed with the glow that a certain affinity gives, a kind kindred sense of belonging.
And like what life does usually, such hours too ended, after ideas and thoughts were seemingly rattled and given a shape that those hours decided was suitable.

Such is life. Everytime one thinks one's deterioration process is in temporary suspension, it begins again. A new kind of fanaticism begins, a word radicalism. Like the writer in Stalker, it is A prim , B prim C prim. And like Bernhard, it is just being a discussion fanatic.
One gets up from such fond burning, tired but enriched. A new solitude has been born. A new memory must dance. More laughter, fresh insight, same heartache, same pain.

Yet, one's deterioration process must never cease.

Chains And Ties

There are chains that tie us
with chains to chains and ties,
to things that have hooks, to places
and people with chains that tie us
with chains and ties.

Sometimes, when it is breezy and often when it is
warm, I wonder if I could untie myself
of these chains and ties, of these ties
that tie me to things and people
with chains and ties.

Because I know, deep inside of a swing that swings
from memory to despair, because with each pull
at these chains that tie, the ties get more chained
and tied, I let go and see myself
with chains and ties.

One more sunset, more afternoons, new breezes
and there are still spectres of further onslaughts,
of more memory and less reality, of real memories,
of new chains and ties that tie me to things and people
with chains and ties.