...Scramble...

Disclaimer : The stuff below is not suitable for a healthy mind. And I don't give a fuck about the traditions or writing skills. Labyrinthine.

Hello friends and foes and the ones whom I don't know. My mind is screwed. It can't comprehend the distribution of things. Some vessels are dead empty and noisy, and some are so full of divinity that they mute even your being. Disgust and awe. The fluctuations are beyond its grasp. Stability seems so strange. It is afraid of holding on. Confusion. Fuck. Beauty. How can it be? Where's the balance? Not then. Now maybe? Ask maybe? Decisions. Fuck. Fuck Fuck. Sometimes it is just stuck. Stuck on the beauty of other beings. Other captivating minds. Concept of their existence. Reality can be far too amazing and perplexing than fiction. That conduit of the soul. That moment. Can't you freeze it forever? Or better, can't you delete it? To be or not to be? Sleep? Dream? Time is not linear. It has lost the index. Where's the order? Should there be? You won't understand. Or maybe you would. The scramble makes some sense, but scrambled are its senses too. Restrains? Hah.. you must be crazy. Free it was, free it is. The point is there, but can you hear?

...That's how you feel sometimes...

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...Blank...

And then you are blank. "I shouldn't have had that coffee", that's the closest you get to "I shouldn't have had that last drink." Trying to look how they shine for you? No they don't. Ooh this guy produced Turning Point #respect. Book. Book? Books. Uhh.. not again. I know. And, there we go again. Gray-scale. Write your own code. Do I give a fuck about what you think? I am amazed. Number 2. Up. Up. Up. Yeah, I laughed. What was the joke? Cry baby cry. Vroooom. Time? I'm Hungry. Starving. Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. India? The Number 2. Shit stalker. Feather? Nice idea. Final cut. Where are you? Off. On. Matlab? Seriously? Aah...commitment. Bullshit. Music. Blank.______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


2CELLOS : Thunderstruck.

When that son of a Cello strikes for thunder.

...छाता...

To,
Harsh Katyayan

Dear Katu,

          जब घर से निकले थे
          छाता था एक हाथ में
          धूप हो या हो बारिश
         बचाता था हर हालात में।
न था एहसास होने का
न कमी उसकी खलती थी
पर पड़ती जब ज़रूरत
तलाश उसकी चलती थी।
          तब थी आदत उसको
          हमेशा हाथ में उठाने की
          अब है धूप में जलने
          और बारिशों में नहाने की।
भूल जाने से पहले
जब वो छाता याद आता है
किसी ज़रूरतमंद को उसे
देने को दिल ये चाहता है।

But, unfortunately I've lost it. So, I'm sorry if you get drenched while digging up Harappan artifacts.

Do write back.

Later.

Shivpal.

P.S. : I do have a raincoat though. But I think it won't fit you.