What next?

I write now because I am tired but want to feel like I am doing something of value. I am doing this to make myself feel that I’m ‘not wasting myself’ in doing nothing. I am tired because of the continuous failures I’m having at trying to get the code for my homework right.

I do not want to feel incapable and in moments of failure I want to make a desperate sense of the same. I will be persisting in my folly if I continue to write. Would I rather close my eyes and allow the unease to be for as long as it wishes? Maybe then I can go back to my homework and finish it. I am not the guy that can say to himself, “I will not quit, no matter what”. That sort of volition, I have not seen a lot in myself.

I begin to feel a sense of triumph as I finish this written piece. A triumph that I’ve somehow churned out an insight out of this little misery. Triumph has replaced the unease that was here mere seconds ago.

But what will come next?


And why this urge for abstraction?


Who are we? (2)

     Existence is just is. You are also this existence, but with eyes to see, ears to hear and brain to receive the subtle part of existence which may be called ‘thoughts’. The gravel on the ground is also existence, an unmoving, un-breathing existence that shows no apparent response to its environment.

Existence is. ‘Things happen’ in this large existence. Things are perceived to happen because there is something that perceives it. If you are that which is experiencing things, you are then the perceiver.

You are not simply a perceiver like a radio receiver which merely receives from the outside. You are lodged within an apparatus that does very complex things such as assume an identity, create meaning, sacrifice, experience fear, self-destroy, renounce and carry out myriad other beautiful actions.

Remember still, you are the perceiver. Another word for perceiver would be consciousness. You are consciousness. Consciousness is an unbiased, impartial word. You too, as consciousness are unbiased and pure; but you are so pure and transparent in quality that you would not be able to judge or think or act or ‘perform’ any function by yourself as just consciousness.

Does the white of paper perform any function? The quality of just being white is a basis that allows the possibility of painting or writing. You as consciousness too, allow the possibility of action and reaction and all sense experience.

Who are we?

Us human beings are really here to meet our own ends, nothing else, not any others’. Even in being apparently generous or ‘selfless’ there is an inherent gain that we each seek. Sometimes the pleasure of the act itself is the gain. We might also be enjoying a validation for which we are mostly unconscious of at that moment. It often is our insecurity in life, anxieties of the future and doubts on our capabilities. In ‘love’, we enjoy a solace, a very successful forgetfulness of the sense of time. All apprehension, longing, desire and pain come from the sense of time we experience in our minds. This sense that something begins, grows, proceeds, withers and ultimately disappears; this idea of ‘passing’ carries us with it till we disappear from this earth, unless we happen to see this situation of ours and try to understand how and why this is so.
People seem ‘good’ or ‘bad’ based on how well these gains are transacted with each other. Even in unconditional love, the joy of it is known only to the lover, unless the loved one also unconditionally loves this lover and experiences a separate and unique joy of that unconditional love.
This is in no intention to perform sacrilege to what we hold dear – this act of giving oneself to a great meaning. Meaning is nevertheless created by us for us. An advanced consciousness requires something abstract for its healthy ‘sense of living’…

The flame of lust

My lust has never left me, I do not know if it can ever go, permanently. Lust is like this pure flame on a newly lit matchstick. In our human condition, it burns everlastingly. It catches upon the nearest flammable desire that passes its silent but heated vicinity – and lights it up to a big blazing orgasmic fire. A dangerous mixture of hormones, exasperating, screaming – in a chaotic storm of triggered emotions. A simple desire in its final stages takes this invincible form, lasting a good half of a minute to the exclusion of everything else in consciousness, and then the ballooned form bursts into tatters and deflates, subsequently expiring from all strength.

The innocent flame of lust, I call it.
It truly is.


Innervated, my soul is screaming with a rage I have never felt. The expression so unbounded and free and irrational and full of the juice of life. Like a beast of no inhibition I blaze through the calm and numbing streets of this world that lack life vigor and imagination. The dullness of existence, so pale and not at all extravagant.
I satiate in my own speciality, in the fireworks of ego and power. But I fail and collapse on the nothingness that this all is. back to where I began, a place from where I can never escape. A place in which I am condemned to be. Like a rise and fall I fight again and again, fall again and again.
Endlessly suffering from myself, from a fever of meaning, I scream my lungs out to nothingness, and it responds with an eerie silence and signifies my inconsequence.
Who do I want ? This burns in me – that endless relentless little flame that will consume anything and everything in its way. The source of all life, this one. The ever smiling, moral-less flame of consciousness.