,,,

"A better view of personhood should understand many kinds of particulars
—one’s politics, work, religion, family, love, sexuality, friendships, altruism,
experiences, wisdom, moral commitments, character and personal
attributes—as integral to the self. To understand any of these as monetizable
or as completely detachable from the person . . . is to do violence to
our deepest understanding of what it is to be human"

please label this as bullshit

Words of mediocre leather should never be made public-
Because somewhere between the accustomed thoughts and intimate faces, you lose the notion that words leave you vulnerable.
vulnerable to the judgement of public.


Who is this public we talk about?
uh-not there,

back:
I have an exam tomorrow. I didn't study, at all.
so,  scared.
and i've been hungary. :|


 

Large Hadron Rap

In order to fall in love..

...with Tyler Durden,
it takes two quotes.

"Warning: If you are reading this then this warning is for you. Every word you read of this useless fine print is another second off your life. Don't you have other things to do? Is your life so empty that you honestly can't think of a better way to spend these moments? Or are you so impressed with authority that you give respect and credence to all that claim it? Do you read everything you're supposed to read? Do you think every thing you're supposed to think? Buy what you're told to want? Get out of your apartment. Meet a member of the opposite sex. Stop the excessive shopping and masturbation. Quit your job. Start a fight. Prove you're alive. If you don't claim your humanity you will become a statistic. You have been warned"

Man, I see in fight club the strongest and smartest men who've ever lived. I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need. We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war... our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off.

TearyPuddles, my love.

I feel mellow in the true-est sense of the word.

Ripe. Happy. Filled to the brim.

Happiness overflowing, inexplicable joy. Serene.

And Green. Lighter variations of green, especially that of the dew-y trees contrasted with light-brown bark-that's my colour; that's how i feel, today.

It's a cute. cute. awesome-day....everybreath comes in as sweet packets of joy, i'm happy, i'm about happy being alive. I'm happy about every thing.

Everything that exists/ever existed.

About the moving/changing lithosphere, about the very fact that the tectonic-plates exist. And they are moving-moving. I'm happy about the idea of perpetual-change.

I'm happy about every insect who ever crawled on the earth, every herb that bathed in the sun, i'm happy about the perpetually-evolving biosphere, the oceans, the groundwater, the rain, the water-cycle.

Oh, i love earth.

This very moment, i can shun all my worries about the lovely-planet being destroyed..i just can't help, but revel, revel in the awesom-ness that this is.

Onebigfat NatureGasm.

I'm happy about the idea of love, of god, of religion, of blind-faith. I don't care about the negative impacts, of anything. Rightnow, let me revel in the beauty.

I'm happy about the idea of poetry, of words, of texture.

I'm happy about the idea of food, of cooking-oil, of salad, of herbs, of masalas.

It ...hurts, yes, it hurts very much

He is staring at the prayer-mat, staring-staring, opeth groans loud-loud metal, ambivalence: a mad-mad thing. Drawing circles on the pristine fabric, untouched for ages. Staring. Still. Blank.

'Break of the morning, coldness lingers on..'

'...Luring, you are luring me into the night...'

Uncertain, tracing infinity with his finger tips, turning-twisting the fabric. Agitated. Bleak.

'Slight twist, shivering corpse

Ornated with water, fills the cracks

Clasped in limbs by tradition,

This is all you need'

He leaves the mat -now, folding it a little at the top-right corner, as a gesture that he'll return-sooner or later-he will. Poisoning-soul. Stark-determination.

Recalling how he used to imitate his mother, the values she conferred, the very values he twisted -deformed-contorted, gave them away to the trash can, but they kept haunting him...

Shit.

I throw my akeshit jai-namaz, my prayer rug, on the floor and i get on my knees, lower my forehead to the ground, my tears soaking through the sheet. I bow to the west. Then i remember i haven't prayed for over fifteen years. I have long forgotten the words. But it doesn't matter, i will utter those few words i still remember: La illaha il Allah, Muhammad u rasul ullah.

No, this wunt happen with me, NO WAY. NO.

Awkward.

I wish i had the ability to turnoff my empathic-skills.

I know i cant judge myself, objectively, but i think that i have exceptional ability to empathize with people/things/dyslexic muffins...you get the pikchur?

But that literally drives me insane, at times i can tell what the other person is thinking/feeling. Aaand then i judge myself from their eyes. Which goes awkward. And i act like some autistic whore.

City of God

-An excerpt from E.L. Doctorow's novel City of God-


So the theory has it that the universe expanded exponentially from a point, a singular space/time point, a moment/thing, some original particulate event or quantum substantive happenstance, to an extent that the word explosion is inadequate, though the theory is known as the Big Bang. What we are supposed to keep in mind, in our mind, is that the universe didn't burst out into pre-existent available space, it was the space that blew out, taking everything with it in a great expansive flowering, a silent flash into being in a second or two of the entire outrushing universe of gas and matter and darkness-light, a cosmic floop of nothing into the volume and chronology of spacetime. Okay?

And universal history since has seen a kind of evolution of star matter, of elemental dust, nebulae, burning, glowing, pulsing, everything flying away from everything else for the last fifteen or so billion years. But what does it mean that the original singularity, or the singular originality, which included in its submicroscopic being all space, all time, that was to voluminously suddenly and monumentally erupt into concepts that we can understand, or learn-what does it mean to say that ... the universe did not blast into being through space but that space, itself a property of the universe, is what blasted out along with everything in it?


What does it mean to say that space is what expanded, stretched, flowered? Into what? The universe expanding even now its galaxies of burning suns, dying stars, metallic monuments of stone, clouds of cosmic dust, must be filling ... something. If it is expanding it has perimeters, at present far beyond any ability of ours to measure. What do things look like just at the instant's action at the edge of the universe? What is just beyond that rushing, overwhelming parametric edge before it is overwhelmed? What is being overcome, filled, enlivened, lit?


Or is there no edge, no border, but an infinite series of universes expanding into one another, all at the same time? So that the expanding expands futilely into itself, an infinitely convoluting dark matter of ghastly insensate endlessness, with no properties, no volume, no transformative elemental energies of light or force or pulsing quanta, all these being inventions of our own consciousness, and our consciousness, lacking volume and physical quality in itself, a project as finally mindless, cold, and inhuman as the universe of our illusion.


I would like to find an astronomer to talk to. I think how people numbed themselves to survive the camps. So do astronomers deaden themselves to the starry universe? I mean, seeing the universe as a job? (Not to exonerate the rest of us, who are given these painful intimations of the universal vastness and then go about our lives as if it is no more than an exhibit at the Museum of Natural History.)


Does the average astronomer doing his daily work understand that beyond the celestial phenomena given to his study, the calculations of his radiometry, to say nothing of the obligated awe of his professional life, lies a truth so monumentally horrifying-this ultimate context of our striving, this conclusion of our historical intellects so hideous to contemplate-that even one's turn to God cannot alleviate the misery of such profound, disastrous, hopeless infinitude? That's my question.


In fact if God is involved in this matter, these elemental facts, these apparent concepts, He is so fearsome as to be beyond any human entreaty for our solace, or comfort, or the redemption that would come of our being brought into His secret.

AWESOME

répondez s'il vous plaît

Funny how I'm always telling other people to be more expressive.

Verdict.

And I want A's. They are pretty. They assure me I am intelligent because I possess the ability to write down useless facts about nothing much really and then analyze those facts and link them back to the question.

.

It isn't that you don't care; to the contrary, you care so much that you want to be absolutely certain about your choice

PLATHgasm

I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print the way you
crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig tree.

- [SylviaPlath]

She is ambivalent, she is neurotic, she is learning to break-free-from-typical-gender roles, she is SylviaPlath.

I read thebelljar a few weeks ago and it intensified my love for the nobel-poet. Yeeehaaa

Yum,

Beetles taste like apples, wasps like pine nuts, and worms like fried bacon

Predicament

"There's no right or wrong, there's only one philosophy that rules the world -success."

Words along these very lines, albeit more painful, are injected in my grey matter every maafucking hour.

ArmyPeeps

"It's impossible to be a soldier and a complete human being."

So where does that leave us?

"In seperate bedrooms."

Verdict

Varium et mutabile semiper femina

"In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently i admire and love you."

Im used to it..

No one is used to pain, no one can ever be, stfu

Unexplained

Aaaand sometimes you gotta get a life..

She is a motherfucker

yeah.

My conditioner smells almond..

.. Almonds, yeah riiight. Almonds are hawwwt. When the glooom is shed. I remember that heavy downpour. Febuary. I remember the thunder. I remember getting wet. I remember the hot shower afterwards.Infact, i dont remember any of it. I only remember that i asked god for a favour. Rejected favour ? cant be so sure. But i know that i dont remember the hot shower after ice cold rain, i dont remember subtle changes in temperature, how i felt torn afterwards. I do remember being really self fish. unheard of Deffered Gratifications.

Rats

My surroundings have been drained of colour. Rats. I dont want to eat the much fought over biryani. Even the much awaited downpour instills despondency. I fail to understand this gloom. Love? hate? insecurity?

No idea

In every major city in the Western World, some things are always the same. The same African men are always selling knockoffs of the same designer handbags and sunglasses, and the same Guatemalan musicians are always playing "I'd rather be a sparrow than a snail" on their bamboo windpipes. But some things are only in Rome. Like the sandwich counter- man so comfortably calling me "beautiful" every time we speak. You want this panino grilled or cold, bella? Or the couples making out all over the place, like there is some contest for it, twisting into each other on benches, stroking each other's hair and crotches, nuzzling and grinding ceaselessly . . . And then there are the fountains. Pliny the Elder wrote once: "If anyone will consider the abundance of Rome's public supply of water, for baths, cisterns, ditches, houses, gardens, villas; and take into account the distance over which it travels, the arches reared, the moun- tains pierced, the valleys spanned--he will admit that there never was anything more mar- velous in the whole world. " A few centuries later, I already have a few contenders for my favorite fountain in Rome. One is in the Villa Borghese. In the center

Eat , Pray, Love

Addiction is the hallmark of every infatuation-based love story. It all begins when the object of your adoration bestows upon you a heady, hallucinogen- ic dose of something you never even dared to admit that you wanted--an emotional speed- ball, perhaps, of thunderous love and roiling excitement. Soon you start craving that intense attention, with the hungry obsession of any junkie. When the drug is withheld, you promptly turn sick, crazy and depleted (not to mention resentful of the dealer who encouraged this ad- diction in the first place but who now refuses to pony up the good stuff anymore--despite the fact that you know he has it hidden somewhere, goddamn it, because he used to give it to you for free)