The ultimate destiny of life is linear despite its non-linear variation and plurality. Life is a singularity. It is identical to the ultimate singularity withal the pluralistic variation. We have once stayed in the singular in an infinite dense. Nothing was visible there. We had no shape, any line and the linearity at all. We stayed there unrecognized, waited to define by shape and name. We were waiting for the day when infinite dense would be exploded by the chaotic disorder. Density never resisted long to its dense state and it was exploded.
An explosion means deep. It means the breakdown of a singular state, denotes the magical appearance from an invisible dense where ‘shape’ cannot resist, where ‘time’ doesn’t exist and the linear tendency of ‘things’ can never be multiplied in multilinear dimension.
Life is the gift of unspeakable silence. Everything stated there like the singular dots with an infinite strength of chaos. Dots was the beginner of everything that is now dimensional by horizontal and vertical lines, geometric by cones, figured by cubes, distorted by curvatures, encircled by the circle and reshaped by the interchanges of dots which I mentioned here.
Yeah, the beginning of life is an imaginable blob in the blotting paper. We have existed once in an infinitely thick blotting paper as the condensed blob. It crackled down and scattered by myriad dots in the shapeless blotting paper to create the multi-colored variation of dots. These dots later dubbed in life, and we are now celebrating the dotted life in a dotted universe.
Life is a dot; the strange presence, interaction, and relativism of everything could be imagined and interpret as a variation of dotted singularity. Myriad dots combined them in a figure to create life and the real-looking natural world, which is mere elusive due to the fragility of dots.
Life is the gift of unspeakable silence. Everything stated there as singular dots with infinite strength of chaos.
Existing world is a unique combination of million blobs. They are the building block of the variation that we praised now ‘existence’, defined now as ‘things’, marked as ‘being’ and evaluated as the essence of all existential validity of life. However, all this multiplication appeared delusive to us when we realized that, this dotted lifeline is not static to its status. It cannot prevent its own decadence, cannot resist long to its linear dimensions, it breaks by single dots to prove the axiom that, — nothing is able stands permanent to its line and shape.
We are living in the world where everything appeared fine-tuned with shape and design. The meaning of ‘fine-tune’ is deep in a sense. It means everything reconstructed and redesigned here according to the order and discipline, to serve the necessity of life in the timely fashion. The struggle is necessary for legalizing the adaptability, an envious cruelty needed to establish the altruistic benevolence, injustice is necessary to find the landing zone for passionate love.
Life is a dot; the strange presence, interaction and relativism of everything could be imagined and interpret as a variation of dotted singularity.
Necessity is the dotted line of life. War is essential to realize the beauty of peace. An epidemic is inevitable if we wanted to realize the value of dotted life. Billions of horizontal and vertical dots make all this ‘things’ in here, but they are not fine-tuned to enjoy the immortality. Dots are dialectical and tried to supersedes others. A vertical line of power and aggression tried to subdue the horizontal line of equality and justice. The desire of dominance undertake the 90° angle for occupying everything and the evil action appeared urgent to prevent the decadence of self-gratification.
Life is geometrical and the fine-tuned dots of life is futile to resist the ultimate decadence, where linearity waits to have vanished in singularity. The ultimate destiny of multicoated life yet even unknown, as likely the beginning moment was unknown to us. Everything was salience in the thick density on that moment of creation.
Yes, everything was in a tacit chaos and that’s the singularity which we exploited to define our appearance in a dotted reality. However, what is destiny? Where could the multicoated blobs gonna be after the casualty happened? Where could they vanish after decadence? The question yet unsolved but quests are continuing from the very beginning of this planetary life.
We were waiting for the day when infinite dense will explode by chaotic disorder, because density never resisted long in its dense state.
Life is the matrix of poetic blobs, mathematical dots, geometric cubes and a whiff of a delusive maze, where things have appeared to vanish. Only God knows ‘where’! Perhaps they vanished in somewhere for ensemble them in a new harmony in an unspecified singularity.
Footnotes: Readers, I’m not sure you understand my talks or not. It could be you feel dizzy to read the text, maybe today’s content sounds cliché and unnecessarily complicated to you. I apologize for this if it sounds like that, but what can I do if the cliché words or thinking seized me to follow the dotted line of beginning and ending! Maybe my talk is a meaningless quest for the meaningless existence, which is made by temporal dots and ruined be the same ways. I perhaps meaningless and humdrum in my talks, but others perhaps not like me. They yet continued their thoughts and quest, as a blogger (poet and storywriter as well) Nishaad Rao continued his quest in his blog “In Imagined Fields”.
Fine-tune means a lot here. That mean everything retouched and redesigned here according discipline and order. Everything designed here to serve the necessity of life in timely fashion.
I don’t want to say that his poetic metric represents my talk or it is similar to my humdrum, but the poetic tone and vision provoked me little to think about the purpose of life and fate of its dotted line according to my imagination and aspiration. I added some dots from his blog-pages, so you readers can trail and imagine the visual dots according to your insight and sounds.
Poetry makes the sound to wake up the readers, provokes the readers as quest and question, it sounds to find the answer of life’s purpose, its birth and germination, its destruction and elusive future-fate. Nishaad probably did this more meaningfully rather than my humdrum quest and talks.
I lie awake in bed tonight,
Wondering with trepidation
About what ifs and if onlys,
Without any provocation.
With open eyes I’m forced to give
Free reign to imagination,
And juggle futures that exist
In quantum superposition.
What’s this pointless divination
That has taken my sleep from me?
I must stop overthinking; bear
Whatever it turns out to be.
It will be a world of laughter,
Or desperate sorrow, perhaps.
But for now I must sleep, and wait
For my wavefunction to collapse.
Originally published at Poetry Section of In Imagined Fields Dated: August 6, 2016
A Sense of Humour – II
I thought up some lame joke today –
The kind you would always smirk at,
And, shaking your head in false dismay,
Snigger and scowl, scoff and sneer.
I turned to tell you, but had to stop,
Realizing at once you aren’t here.
Originally published at Poetry Section of In Imagined Fields Dated: November 26, 2016
You Who Might Be Passing By
You who might be passing by,
With heavy feet and tired eyes,
Take a little interlude:
Sit with me and have some chai,
Tell your stories, truths and lies,
And share awhile my solitude.
Originally published at Poetry Section of In Imagined Fields Dated: November 29, 2016
It’s a cold and empty night,
There’s rust in all my bones.
I turn off the reading light,
And sleep all all alone.
Originally published at Poetry Section of In Imagined Fields Dated: November 21, 2016
I Am Almost As Old As The Trees
I am almost as old as the trees:
Each day at least a year seems to pass
So that, in some abstract, metaphorical time,
My bones grow older,
Older each day by more than a year,
While the trees outside planted god knows why
Remain in their half-shorn autumnal state,
And age only a day a day.
I am almost as old as the rivers:
My soul, like Hughes’, grows deep like the rivers,
While their waters flow under a thousand bridges,
And age only a day a day.
I am almost as old as the air you breathe:
The air that grows colder as winter comes,
Gushes through your town so far away,
And ages only a day a day.
Soon I will be as old as them.
Perhaps then, abstract, metaphorical time
Will give in to natural time,
The clocks will reset themselves,
There will be twenty-four hours to the day,
And like the trees and the rivers and the air you breathe,
I, too, will age a day a day.
I, too, will age a day a day.
Originally published at Poetry Section of In Imagined Fields Dated: November 11, 2016
The Morning Papers
This bright morning as I stepped out,
The newspapers announced new enemies.
My cereal grew soggy amidst a bout
Of misanthropic tendencies.
Originally published at Poetry Section of In Imagined Fields Dated: September 15, 2016
Everything is so much bigger here:
The buildings are tall and endless –
Huge gothic things that cover entire blocks.
The portion sizes in the restaurants
Are so incredibly large
I make a few meals out of just one order.
And they have the biggest squirrels
Who scurry along I imagine
To their secret giant drays.
The horses are bigger,
And so are the policemen who ride them.
Mammoth grapes, humongous apples, enormous cars.
Sometimes I feel even the sun and the moon
Are somehow larger,
Since everything is so much bigger here.
You are so far away that you seem tiny.
Very soon now you’ll disappear,
Lost amongst these other big things.
If only the sizes were smaller,
Then it wouldn’t be so bad, I think.
But everything is so much bigger here.
Originally published at Poetry Section of In Imagined Fields Dated: September 6, 2016
Let Me Write Some Clichéd Lines
Let me write some clichéd lines.
Don’t ask much, just for tonight,
And bear in silence my clichéd lines.
Don’t expect me to write like the masters,
I’m much too weary for all that.
I can’t conjure up Xanadu,
With its pleasure domes, its caves of ice.
I can’t bind words in metered lines.
I can’t wax lyrical about daffodils,
Can’t compare fog to cats,
Nor make caged birds sing.
I can’t construct elaborate designs,
I can only write some clichéd lines.
I can tell you I love you
More than words can ever say,
Can compare you perhaps to a summer’s day.
I can write about storms,
About dark clouds and silver linings,
Or tell stories that start once upon a time.
Tonight I can’t write original lines,
And ache instead for the familiar confines
Of known phrases, old as hills
That won’t strain my tired mind.
But now day is done,
Night has fallen.
The sun is gone,
And moon has come.
So don’t ask much, just for tonight
Let me get away with clichéd lines.
Originally published at Poetry Section of In Imagined Fields Dated: August 18, 2016
The bus stops at a red light,
Lurching me forward,
Making sure I obey the law
Of conservation of momentum.
Stumbling, I just about
Manage to grab the railing above,
Arresting at once my impending fall,
And start to wait for the green
Which will hurl me
In the opposite direction.
Backwards and forwards,
I’m flung about
Like waves on a sandy beach,
Obeying the natural laws
Of red and green traffic lights.
Backwards and forwards,
To the tune of traffic lights,
In a bus that brings me finally
To where I need to be.
Originally published at Poetry Section of In Imagined Fields Dated: March 31, 2016
Universities have a way
Of emptying out over holidays,
Lending them temporary semblance
To ghost towns.
Abandoned coffee shops
Still dimly lit from inside
Have their chairs stacked upside down
On those small, cramped tables
That coffee shops serve coffee on.
Cobbled pavements lay deserted
Even by those few characters
Who would stand in their usual spots
And ask you for petty change.
Students who hustled and bustled
Through the city streets
Have hustled and bustled out.
I stand in the middle of a crossing,
Surrounded by hollow concrete
In this square that only yesterday
Was filled with the smell of kebabs
And the wails of the saxophone
That the guy on the corner
Plays every evening.
The thumping of stomping feet
Lent, only yesterday, a sort of dull rhythm
To the chatter of people exchanging gossip.
But now there is silence.
I stand here like the last sock
In a suitcase that stubbornly
Refuses to dislodge and fall
Into the pile with other more compliant
Items of clothing.
At once, I realize
That I too must leave tomorrow,
Leaving fresh footprints
On snowy streets
To be reclaimed by fresher snow,
Leaving the town abandoned –
A ghost town, if you will –
Complete with disappearing footprints,
And no evidence of me ever having been there.
Originally published at Poetry Section of In Imagined Fields Dated: January 3, 2017
… but what can I do if the cliché words or thinking seized me to follow the dotted line of beginning and ending!…