Encounters with Reality

i am alone, somehow at the balance of memories and dreams, some encounters with reality practically, a room for me, a laptop, movie, food, coffee, cigarettes and loneliness to get kick out of everything.... fucking nice life! missing a mate or complete loneliness!!

Space and time. It is just game of these two, and we are toys. Looking at the evening sky, poet wants to embrace all those colors and live all, while a philosopher feels to understand what each color and a sky behind them mean. every story has a small content of 'not life' things. if it doesn't have any, it will be a life, plain, simple and uninteresting. an artist tries to hide and minimize these spots and tries to make story worth living. in every story there is something that is in us too, and yet, no story can fully resemble you, it can resemble no one. that is fate of us and an art. it inspires life and is inspired from life, but it is not substitute of life. simple way to avoid sadness is controling happiness. they are just the same.

I find dual in myself. A poet and a philosopher. Both will survive on mercy of this world, and yet, both want to make meaning out of necessary absurdity. Poet wants is random and beautiful. Philosopher needs it consistent and meaningful. Poem seeks pleasures of senses. Philosophy searches questions of existence. sometimes they live as twin children, sometimes enemies. what philosopher understands poem refuses to obey. what poem desires, philospher doesn't allow.

Everything seems uncertain and ambiguous. I might be using two words for the same flux form I see around. But precision of words is not my thrust; I am trying to be precise about meaning of environment around me. is it environment around me, consisting of past, present and future of people, is itself ambiguous or it is my nature reflected on environment? I feel the effect is in space and time around me. The age of absurdity, the age of uncertainty, the age of disintegration of values is taking its toll on me. Let me explain all these three phases, one by one. They are not mine, but now I feel them exactly as their originator would have thought. Meaning has been discussed too much. With growth of media, both in reach and depth, it was expected that human expression will find new avenues, it will find new patterns, and it will find new expressions. But the ease of reaching out made urge of expressions shallow and shallow. The honesty of artist becomes debatable, when it seems that

There were two options before. either lie and keep you happy in the web of interconnected lies. But as it is said it is difficult to lie consistently as memory is short. I chose the truth, and that made me puzzled. the best way to sense your existence within me is distance. Being close, I get lost in pleasure of your external existence, and then it is not lived entirely. Life is designed as ambiguities. I need decision put on me to move ahead. Hence, I wait to listen to life.

as soon as my words appear, they start drifting away from whatever truth they had at their birth-point. and, if I don't use them, I cannot reach to where I am leading. what is this?

What we think of each other after 25 years from this moment? Do we still have hope of understanding each other as we have today? Will our dreams be contaminated by bonks and arts that we interact with, as it is today? Alternatively, we will have found ourselves and hence we accept that distance is the best connection between us. I see, myriad possibilities that can shape the relation between twp persons and yet, there is always point made of some unique outcome. Is it there dear, is it there at all? It is raining and no one is there in periphery of my vision. River is flowing, cluster of lights on the other end and a bridge that makes fiction of other end a part of reality of my end. You know, one friend of mine says, big problem in life is that there is no background music to reality. I never feel that I live any reality. The only taste of reality is failure to describe it. However, then nobody will believe me. Reality is personal property, yet we want to share it, as if it is high

The sound of last rain, the smell of last rain, the melancholy tune of last rain is in the air. There was no hint of this at morning, the sky was bright, the sun was fine, the humidity was terrible to make everyone run away from roads, roads clear as they are on holiday and then from nowhere song of last rain started playing on this stage, sunshine disappeared, the air became more fluent, the wind started playing whirlpools, old leaves left their trees and begun traveling into world which will be soon their death den. I sense it is going to rain, the last rain of this season, the season which started by rain in the night, season which was marked by a dance performance of rain at one wild night and then a whole turmoil of meaning and chaos, way and turnarounds, setbacks and leads, and now, it is last rain of this season. It is never going to rain like this, not at least in near future, future that my eyes can behold now.... I am in the rain now. The last rain putting it all in the