Violent Symphony

For some music is a congruous creation, in tandem, at peace, calming and soulful. When I hear the trumpets, violins, drums, symphonically arranged, their violence is amplified, the combat to exist greatly exaggerated, each attempting to drown the other in wave after wave of near cacophonous melody, like dreams crashing down on me, insignificant in their wake. The violence of it all just as reassuring as the serenely drowning marionettes in the violently over-flowing bathtub, imparting a sense of power that isn't ones to hold, to wield. But we make it ours, making it instantly ugly, unworthy, simply by becoming subdued under the grotesque, surfacing the violence created by the sound of crashing drums.

Cuppa Joe

I awake, an odd and unwelcome calmness upon myself. I am not myself today. I shall fear neither the rising sun, nor the waning moon. Yet, I find myself damp, wrapped up in a cold sweat, a remnant of the previous night, a remnant of my personal hell. I smile at myself, mostly outside myself. I can hear my heart beat. It just skipped one as I realize how loudly it beats.

Waking up feels like an ordeal. As I lever myself up, I feel a pain in my wrist. Short yet acute, its oddity arises from its absence within my consciousness. I feel like a ton of lead and yet it isn’t my sweat soaked clothes that weigh me down.

It is time for my cup of Joe. It is a constant reminder of human need for artificial politeness. I see her each day behind the register; my brain registers that primal impulse that gets the adrenaline pumping, my heart racing. It is common knowledge to the two of us of our mutual disdain. Yet our weak minds, bound by society and our need to exist within its walls, to be judged by it, force us to affect a smile of factitious genteelness. I order my cup of coffee, precisely the same way I did the day before, and the day before that… perhaps in part as a symptom of my compulsivity. And I see myself from without once more. I scoff at the disconnect between my demeanor and my actions. I politely answer, “Yes, Please”, when asked if I’d like milk with my coffee, while my mind fills with the fantasy, my fingers around her throat, wringing it lifeless.

Non-conformist emo!?

If you are a non-conformist emo, do you slit your wrists when you are happy?

Reality of Evil

This is a continuation of the earlier post. Even though I have titled it, it is part of the same chapter, Tonight I lay awake. With Tonight I lay awake and Reality of Evil I fear we have concluded the prelude, and perhaps already overstayed our welcome. The abstractness and mystery of Tonight I lay awake will be hard to maintain. Eventually, a plot must unveil, and with that I fear we will lose ourselves in the settled dust.

For now, here is Reality of Evil. I hope that those that read it will be so kind as to heed to my solicitations for any and all criticisms.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My weakness is also my strength; that which makes me vulnerable shields me from the munitions of ill-intent. I find myself stronger when the tide ebbs. I await those moments; I live for those moments of strength. They make me feel inviolable, make my anguish insignificant, almost tolerable. For what has a man to fear when he fears every moment of existence; When every waking moment is a ticking bomb to a never-ending nightmare that creeps, when every nightmarish slumber a portent of the evil of reality, of the reality of evil.

These thoughts will not be with me tonight. I shall find no solace or the plain blandness that I hope for. I will torment myself as much as I would be tormented, for I deserve the torment of my soul.

Tonight I Lay Awake

Some things torment us more than they should. Every waking moment is spent reliving our darkest fears, our deepest insecurities. Every moment we sleep, in search of solace, seeking respite from our waking nightmares; we are tormented by memories, recreations and manifestations.

Tonight will be such a night. I can feel it. I sense it in the air. Every strand of hair standing on edge in apprehension of what is to come, unspoken, yet silently present. Today, I will spend my waking hours fearful of the night. Come daylight, I shall wake, fearful of the cycle.

But in that, I take comfort - and pride. I return to an unyielding barrage of mental agony, with little more than the hope of a lowering tide, and the courage to ride out the crests.

St. Skeletor's Day

Valentine’s Day, quite simply put, has to be the most audacious celebration of hypocrisy. I have never understood how something that had nothing to do with the feeling of “Love” got converted into a mass of media hype, with card manufacturers cashing in. Whatever the origins of the holiday, it is quite obviously the most ridiculous incarnation of a day!

But what makes it even more ridiculous is something I read recently. I guess the singles and anti-valentine emotions were perceived as a hindrance to the rule of Hallmark. Isn’t it great we can all celebrate “Love” now? No singles left out.

But is it just me, or do these anti-depressants seem like a business plan? Buy yourself a card? Get stuffed? Sure, come to our restaurants, binge eat, go home, buy some Haagen Dazs or Ben & Jerry’s, or Amul (or whichever brand you are used to) and stuff your face some more. That’s a good way to guarantee some clientele that ISN’T buying cards. And then there is of course the increased clientele to the various gyms and fitness centres.

There are benefits of Valentine’s day for someone like me though, happily married, with absolutely no interest in celebrating a consumerist holiday; I get to leave work early. I spend the rest of the day watching old movies, The Bridge on The River Kwai, All Quiet on the Western Front and The Great Escape.

But at the end of the day, I would rather get a holiday for something that at least (on the surface) breeds no hypocrisy, and doesn’t attempt to take itself too seriously.

To end with a quote:

Valentine's Day abbreviated spells VD. Read between the lines.
- The Depressed Doormat

Nowhere left to run...

Walking in shadows,

Across dead brown meadows,

Lone on a hebetic path

nowhere left to run...