My Too (Many) Cents

I could not turn and live with animals.  I see a dog sleeping on the ground, the weight of his body pushing into the gravel on the road. A warm monsoon breeze floats on the air, and a replete smile dons his face as he continues to sleep in a foetal like position. I envy the dog, and the freedom with which it is snuggled into life's bossom.  As I walk back I see a tree. The leaves sing to me the wooshing hymn of a banshee and the tree floats over it, bathed in the yellow glow of a streetlight. The breeze disconnects it from the world and its sensations and gives it an ethereal floaty feeling. And yet there is something constrained in both of us that I see bursting at the seams. In my reflective self absorption I remember a metaphor. I want to experiment with what emotions it brings out in me as I ascribe it to myself.  I limp back to my hostel room, after a day of "practice" and fall to the bed. The weight of my body presses into the pillow too, but there is a cortisol fil...

 hi life, I don't think we've met before. I am. None of those qualifications that I add to the phrase after that. I'm just me, a bundle of memories tasting your lapping waves against the shores of my mind for the first time in a bit.  I'm a sexy musician with a deep taste in words and conversation. I'm a hacky engineer jugaading my way through the decadent depths of the sewage of late stage capitalism. I am the fire of a stage that bathes a performer in the flame of the audience's expectations. I am a writer with a scalpel scraping the inside of my skull.  But I am also none of those things. I am the deep void conjuring truths into existence. and I have recently felt the world shifting beneath my feet. As it shifts further and further, faster and faster I look to ascribe meaning to it - the call to an adventure a young man faces, a hero's journey, my dharma to others and society and many other thoughts pinched into my skin by the others. But you know them. A...

A cold hard smack.  And I landed right on the ground. I grumbled and turned to look upwards into the expanse of the night.  Or what I could see of it trapped within a concrete cage.  There was a rememberance of a dream that was quite forgotten. It irritated me because I could not quite remember.  so I went back into the world. slumbering through what she had woken me up to.  A bundle of money sat in a jar.  It glowed profusely with an aura of others' illusion. Of blood, sweat and tears. An autocratic monarch that had ruled their lives.  And yet when they came to it, it still ignited in them that subtle smirk of power.  The kind that makes even the most sensitive embrace, rape.  There is simply no alternative to this they had said.  man's gotta make his bread.  And in my cortisol filled reverie through the thronging heart of samsara.  I was inclined to agree.  But she reached out to me again. On a monsoon night.  The t...

 An aphorism is the most pretentious form of writing. Except for every other form.  There is a certain rhythm to the internal tone with which a paragraph is written. A sense of song and improvisation as these words leave the tip of my metaphorical tongue.  Today, I don't really know what I want to write. I do have a why, a spark of inspiration driven forth by some conversations to brew into a thunderstorm that demands articulation.  But I don't really care about being incisive with my writing.  To probe into the depths of humanity's deepest slumbers.  Rather, I have been inspired to be -  ignorance today. To play with resistance.  The iceberg of my thoughts has long since been submerged into a water of the deepest spiritual garble.  Metaphors that are extremely powerful, that come straight from the void.  But. But. I don't like them.  When I speak them through the voice of a reigning monarch instead of a Digonesian rebel who has gi...