Updated: Nov 23, 2019

I am an old man now. I don’t care about what money is given to me to show up here and be a part of this circus. I am here because I am one of the last of those who truly represented my people. I used to kill people. Rivals, enemies or anyone who would irk me. I could chop their head off with one clean strike. I was feared. Can’t you see it written all over my face?

Then men in trousers and skins fairer than the fairest women came along and gave me opium. Oh it was such a bliss. I could be in another world, away from all those I have killed and those I have killed for. It was like a nectar which was given to me for all the acts of bravery I had performed. Floating in the endless sea of ecstasy, I would leave my body behind.

Then one day, I could not come back. I am stuck outside my own skin. I can see it move and go about but I cannot get in. But thats not all. I can feel its pain. And when the opium starts to drain away from my body, I can feel the pain it is in. In that pain, it tries to pull me back in. It tries to put me back in control. But it is too painful for me to go back. I cannot do it. I would rather abandon my body completely and be here than go back.

And so I am stuck outside, looking at you through the eyes which used to be mine and I have no remorse. I am an old man in an old body and with the years it will perish one day. I wouldn’t be able to see, hear, smell or feel anything. But how different is it from now!

Do you think I would have been happier inside, aware of my constant deterioration, and the fall of the society I was once a part of? Everything dies, but the soul. The soul is hard to kill and harder to find. Believe me. In past years, living outside this body, I have seen the souls of all those whom I killed and dismembered circling around me. They have a lot to say, but I am hard of hearing. All I want is my opium.

Updated: Nov 23, 2019


All the patterns emerge from noise.

Identifying a pattern, from the infinite that exist, as an experience makes that one different.

Till the last bit of the noise, the patterns exist. Within them lie the infinite possibilities of harmonising and adding complexities.

In the night sky full of stars, we identify constellations and other patterns of interest, rest is all beautiful noise.

Noise cannot be ignored, for everything is a part of it. It is the whole. Noise need not be understood completely, but the more it is, the more there is to cherish.

Like everything else, understanding of self, is part of it. Another pattern which has been identified.

Self, however, becomes the bottleneck. Limiting. Constricting. Strangling. It’s growth reduces comprehension, while increasing the illusion of understanding. To let it go is to jump back in the unfiltered, unstructured noise.

There every pattern is possible.

The concept of self, when used as a bridge, between understanding and creating patterns, instead of a bottleneck, allows it to be of good use. For it is I who is writing these sentences, but they have always been there, as a part of the noise.

Why cringe when a child cries in an airplane, wishing someone could toss it out? Would the mother have a similar reaction?

It is not noise. It is a pattern identified to be disliked.

In itself the wail is powerful. Penetrating each passengers ear, drilling into their thoughts.

Affecting every action there on.

It is unadulterated.

Babies get away easy.

The society is gravely dismissive towards unadulterated behaviour amongst adults.

Can someone scream loudly in the middle of a street and receive glances merely similar to the ones a child would and not worse?

It is a part of the noise. What is missed in experience of that scream due to obstruction by the patterns around, is the whole story. That scream is meant for the willing or unwilling audience around. Their action or lack of, upon hearing the scream, are of no concern. They would unfold the way they have to. In the end they would all be a part of the noise.


It is everywhere.

Embedded within the noise, around the noise, between every two identifiable instances of noise, is silence.

Stretching to infinity.

Without it, the noise cannot be realised, only attempted to be understood.


Updated: Mar 16, 2020

The leaves turn to gold and black.

The fire burns the sky to ashes.

Everything moves in harmony.

Chaos is in the mind.

Lose your mind.

It will find you.

Longer it takes to find you,

the longer you have,

to play the game without rules.

With the onset of darkness,

look for the light,

without your eyes.

In that light you will find a darkness

It will make you kneel with tears spilling over the edges. And unravel your faceless face.

Embrace this dark,

like a lover lost and

let the light radiate through the eyes.

The mind will find you, for it is afraid of the dark.


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