Saturday, January 19, 2008

Did he kiss her with kisses of his mouth ? :)

A stupid question just popped up my head and now I can't sleep.

Did Solomon marry Sheba?
Widely held Islamic belief is that he did, but Quran doesn't have an exact reference.
And ofcourse, my favourite part of Bible, The Song of Solomon, has various references about the supposed love between them.
Anyone who happens to read this blog, please have your say and I am interested in the account of all three religions, i.e Judaism, Christianity and Islam.

Having said that, I'll try to sleep again now :(

Saturday, January 5, 2008

Something I am working on, still Incomplete

He who set about to write a treatise on sadness, slowly and unseeingly has lurked beneath the darkness of his incapacity to come up with a perfect word for his inability to be sad.
The repertoire of limitlessness gives birth to a classless distaste, a sheer ennui for all minutiae of reality and a million reflections of it. One or any piece of such rotten existence sums up thoughtless vagaries of arrogance, and vanity fears, and succumbs to meaninglessness of faith or the absence of it.

Follow we must because the flowing paths of pilgrims make an eternal outcast of me, an upstream escape be cut short by the ensuing stampede that crushes all outcasts and pilgrims alike and I have yet only lived voices. I am yet described by paradoxes and questions: I am not yet my description.

A curious innocent child with shining eyes, who used to sit in the deep spatial blankness in moonlit verandahs at night, to wonder, to explicate the infinite patterns in stars has long been disfigured by images blight.
On the unsure face of his simulacrum lies resting a bestiality and ravenous desire to scavenge on dolor, to understand for once what it would mean to be truly sad.

Away! Orphan child o mine! Away! I stultify with numbness, you.

Ah! The visions of paradise and fear of hell!

We thought then, thence and thereafter, Satan shall lead us not astral through greed and desire. I know puritans would scoff at me, for losing the sense of time, of eternity of heaven and hell. They would laugh, a convulsion their laughter is, the laughter of theists, which sends me shivers down me spine. But I keep losing it. It is barely important. When we move in a circle with the speed of the sense of history, we see how imaginative and charming but deceptive and elusive idea eternity is. But Oh! These are regrets speaking. Regrets, these are beautiful egrets that fly w towards the bland translucent moon instead of the splash dash of sunset at sunset. Always felt there was something about our voices, whispers that is independent of us: but then again, what inverted times these are. Seems I’ve been going in circles.

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

A tale of sacrifice—a heap of crap

I’ve always had an idiosyncratic sense of humour: more often mourning or exuding sadness of other people bring about fits of laughter in me. Interestingly, though I attribute such appeal to mockery and sarcasm to my own indefatigable hubris, I find narcissism and delusions of grandeur (mostly in sadness and in pain) of other people extremely comical.

Reading a tale of shattered love is always fun ( a device which according to my analysis remains by far the most popular modus operandi in blogging world, winning the race with closeted atheists and homosexuals), but recently I’ve read a piece which made me laugh even after days of reading—a classic example of rationality raped.

Our protagonist is heart-broken of course. And yes he has been mourning the lost love for ages. Of course, what is a life without a sense of loss and heartache, even if that’s an imagined one? But now in his search for grandeur, his delusions have taken a new turn. Not only he has a broken heart, an agonizing pathetic history of whining, he has assumed a new role--the most forgiving dumped lover with imagined omnipotence over the life of his unrequited love, as according to him in his fit of love or hatred, he can destroy all she has: D Now it’s actually the lowest level of stupidity, though masquerading as maturity in an impressive narrative, that I’ve come across in a while.

I don’t understand how come a act of utter desperation, not much different from a 5 year old girl who breaks her favourite doll to keep it to herself, rather than to give it to her 4 year old sister, be deemed glorious by the author, much less by a reader? And this utter animalistic desperation and selfishness is called either love or hatred, and then followed by a gigantic leap in megalomania by an assertion that not doing so is a sacrifice in love :D

Third rate affairs pretty much end in the same way, the jealous former lover exposing the old love letters, again an act which is idiotic as well as pathetic, how come not being a cry-baby for once translates into sacrifice in the name of ‘love’ is beyond me. The funny part is that the author actually is so deluded that he believes in his own crap and has added one memorabilia in his trophy closet. With Pain, Sadness, Lost love, there now rests Sacrifice, a collection of themes for his epic life, which to me appears only a pile of delusion that smells funny.
Can’t help laughing.

It’s been a conscious effort on my part to conceal the identity of said author, but in case anyone finds out (including that author), this post wasn’t meant to be a disgrace. Just that, it was becoming too hard to laugh silently. I do admire his narrative, it is just his delusions and subject that I find funny.