… letters to self…
The mental make up… the camera of the mind views the road ahead … it’s dark, dusty and filled with full of holes… shit holes… The shitty movie “Mela” running on TV isn’t helping it either… One does wish the camera of the mind could be turned else.
It doesn’t. It can’t. Life is the camera man over which you have no control. That asshole is gonna take it where ever he or she wants to. The title song of Mela just ended… with another song… was this movie made while the crew was smoking gaanja?
You are never there. Never will be. It’s an illusion. I am this. I am that. I am happy. All gone. Snap of a finger. You align yourself with the mirage of strengths. Ones that never exist. Realization of the illusion dawns only when you foot lands in one of those fucking shit holes.
This is fiction. I wish I could write the next chapter. You wish you could. But won’t. Or don’t even think about it. Why?
The mirage binds you. Holds you. Everything is happy happy. Everything is so flowers and chocolates. You are another shit head waiting for the head to rest on the chopping block. Nah. You can’t move now. It’s too late.
I remember the numerous times I was asked as a kid over what I wanted to do when I grow up. The answers usually were Pilot, Engineer (family pressure), Doctor (family pressure), Doctor (grandma pressure), Lawyer (Mom’s aunt pressure), Film maker (slap plenty, no pressure)…
Every career in this mother fucking corporate environment is built to make one degenerate. Survival. You spent your fucking childhood and youth just to learn to survive. Survive beta … just remain an inch away from having your ass kicked to fucking death… that is Survival… and if you can do that you’ve earned your fucking degree…
The repeat goes back to play Maula mere maula… Aankhen teri… on the computer while some shitty scene I don’t care about plays on the television…
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Dil dhoondta hain… phir wohi fursat ke raat din…
Every drop dripping from her silken threads on your face… are an illusion… look at the bills on the side table next to your bed… it isn’t gonna ever leave that place… the silken threads of her hair, her drops, her eyes, her smile… will.
Out on the streets it is raw bloodied meat. Cut open. Hooked through those rusted iron pieces. Hanging off the street stores. Where is the romance?
Dil dhoondta hain… phir wohi fursat ke raat din… jiska zikr ab kitabon mein bhi nahin milta…
Saw the Final Solution. Thinking about the carnage and the Nazism - that unofficially finds a permanent place at my home… Maula mere maula… rakhna choopaloon tujhko… saaya bhi main tera na doon… zoolfein teri itni ghanee… dekhke enko yeh sochta hoon… saaye mein inke jiyoo… Maula mere maula……
Carnage… women dragged out of their homes and raped by a mob in the name of Hinduism… Maula mere maula… the politician who like a true hero hid the Muslims in his house, walked out to sacrifice his life… the mob dragging him on the streets… Maula mere maula… mere maula… a few pieces of his bones were the only remains one could find… Aaanken tere itni haseen… ke inka aashiq main ban gaya hoon… mujhko basale inme tu…… 16 people of a family were cut down… by mobs … a child was thrown in the fire cause he was not a Hindu… Mujshe yeh hur ghadi yeh lab kahen… teri hi ho guftagu… bateen teri itni haseen… main yaad inko jab karta hoon… phoolon si aaye khubshoo… Maula mere maula…
It’s an illusion… the happiness… the blanket… the security… and when you cut me up… give me a few seconds to rewind my life and play it in front of my eyes before you cut my throat and let the blood flow out… for the last time… Maula mere maula
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December 27th, 2006 at 11:47 am
dude! that was trippy…you seem to be in an introspective mood. what was it that triggered it off?
December 27th, 2006 at 6:46 pm
- FB, A strong dose of Dr. Patel’s medication, a hot toddi, 7 days of sickness, 7 days of boredom and frustration, 7 days of having no blond in my bed… ~X(
December 27th, 2006 at 11:09 pm
Geez!! that sounds terrible…especially the blond part ;)
hope your feeling better now…get well soon