The ultimate destiny of life is linear despite its non-linear variety or plurality. Life is singular, identical to the ultimate singularity withal the pluralistic variation. We were once singular in an infinite dense. Nothing was visible there; we had no shape, no line and no linearity at all. Yeah, we were there as unrecognized, waited to defined one day as shape as lineal and by name. We were waiting for the day when infinite dense will explode by chaotic disorder, because density never resisted long in its dense state. Explosion denotes a lot in life. It denotes the breakdown of singular state, denote the magical appearance from an invisible dense where shape cannot resist, where time doesn’t exist and linear tendency of things can never multiplied as multilinear or dimensional.
Life is the gift of unspeakable silence. Everything stated there as singular dots with 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 circle and reshaped by the interchange of all dots I tried to imagine here.
Yeah, the beginning of life is an imaginable blob in the blotting paper. We were existed once in an infinitely thick blotting paper as a condensed blob. It was crackle down and scattered by myriad dots in the shapeless blotting paper to create the multi-colored variation of dots, and that perhaps dubbed by life we celebrate here now. 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 lines to create the life and the real-look 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 millions blobs. They are the building block of this variation that we praised as existence, define as existent, named as things, marked as beings and evaluated as the essence of all existential validity. However, dotted blob be the reason of lifeline, be the beginning point of its later variations, its dynamic evolution and adaptation, diversified relation and relativism and its multicolored conflicts, but all this multiplication can be treated as mere elusive, because the dotted lifeline is not static on its state. It cannot prevent its decadence, cannot resist long in its line-combination and breaks by single dots to prove the maxims that, nothing stands here as permanent.
We are living in a world where everything appears fine-tuned by shape, design and gardening. Fine-tune means a lot here. That means everything retouched and redesigned here according discipline and order. Everything designed here to serve the necessity of life in timely fashion. Struggle is necessary to valid the adaptability, envious cruelty needed to establish the altruistic benevolence, injustice be necessary to lands the 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 dots-line of life. War is essential to realize the beauty of peace. Epidemic is inevitable if we wanted to realize the value of this dotted life. Billions of horizontal and vertical dots make these stuffs here, but these are not fine-tuned to enjoy the immortality here. Instead of, dots are dialectic and always tried to supersede other. Vertical line of power and aggression tries to subdue the horizontal line of equality and justice. Desire of dominance always undertakes occupy the 90° angle to dominate everything, and all evil action seem urgent here to prevent the decadence of self-gratification.
Life is geometrical here and fine-tuned dots of this life are futile to resist the ultimate decadence, where linearity waits to be vanished in singularity. The ultimate destiny of this multicoated life yet unknown, as unknown the beginning moment was, when everything stated in thick density as invisible salience. Yes, everything was in a tacit chaos and that is the singularity we imagine defining our appearance in this dotted reality. However, what be the destiny? Where the multicoated blobs go after casualty? Where they vanished after decadence? Question yet unsolved but quest and imagination be continuing here from the very beginning.
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 metric of poetic blobs, mathematical dots, geometric cubes and whiff of an elusive maze, where things appear to vanish, God’s knows where! Maybe they vanished in somewhere as invisible, unrecognizable to assembled again 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’s 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 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 wanted 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 my imagination and aspiration. I added some dots from his blog-pages, so that you readers can trail and imagine the visual dots according your insight and sounds.
Poetry makes 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!…