The imagined 3-D Model of the #Big Bang.
MODEL OF THE UNIVERSE
I am just realizing that I’ve had a hole in my heart for a very long time. It didn’t fill up with the time that has passed, like I had thought earlier it would, and now i know it never will until I fill it myself. Stuff it with all the discarded waste in the world, from sawdust, rusk, vegetable peels, wasted bones from the butcher’s shop, dead bodies from wars, and all this will never have made any sense to me, how i’ll know, it will never be enough, and I will need to always press in more and more, if need be, barbarically jump on the filling and jump until everything is well in place until there is no more place for anymore stuffing, then pour cement over it. This hole i speak of, angry and obstinate, hungers for more, eats everything thrown in it, like a drainage basin, always empty. Sub holes, now, that i need to worry about. But can I? Don’t i already know where the holes all lead to? I need to die. Then the sea will finally fall quiet. And the howling beasts’ cries will begin to fade….
We just laughed and we laughed.
Until we were bored of typing 😀 smileys,
and we started to fight.
Things started going down the drain
and my brain too started walking drunk,
you know going left and right.
I know this is bad poetry.
But haha, I hope,
at least if you would’ve seen it,
it would’ve made you laugh.
I am laughing, too.
But you have me blocked.
Things really shut down
between all those laughter riots
and our amateur jamming sessions,
Why then, don’t I still have the heart
to erase those .wmv’s we recorded?
Maybe because, like day after night
and night after day,
after you left,
my beautiful mind has gone just haywire.
Stuck there, and my day still dawns at dusk.
So extreme, they were,
our insane sciencey discussions,
the earth stopped upon its axis,
that glazed winter froze,
the minute you were gone,
and life is like a glass ball,
filled with gel and glitters,inside which
the Princess now dances alone
amongst twirling magnificent snow flakes.
All night long.
This is something I’m doing merely of instinct, probably half in derelict hope to be proved wrong, in order to retain my belief in love, which still in a few ways is my only chance at redemption. I don’t know, I’m lost like a stolen sword, valueless and perilous in the hands of the vulnerable peasant, who might hurt himself with it in his ignorance. But I definitely had to write about it. It’s been so long since I wrote last, and caught in the whirlwind of business and my indulgence in my manic ecstatic flights unto a heaven shining and clean and dizzying leaps into hell, dull and desolate, I haven’t even cared to write to smother my soul, and unburden her from my weights.
I’ve been reading a lot of Freud (Sigmund Freud) and watching movies containing abstractly oriented sexual content (mostly incest and lesbianism) in relation to D.H. Lawrence’s twentieth century colliery novel, Sons and Lovers; and then I got to read Virginia Woolf in Mrs Dalloway, which give a rather quiet image of the twentieth century British upper class society with its chinks and show, where the reader who falls in the same category as me gathers her inspiration to speak out right from what moment they may be living, to speak their thoughts, because it is the flow, ‘The Stream of Consciousness’ to be exact, which builds up to the story of the future, to narrate, which may also be a tale of the past recollected through thought from the moment.
It’s horrible to be studying all this together, in the span of less than three years (as if writing ‘3’ in letters would make it any longer than it actually was) and I feel the insanity rattling loose inside of me. I am not like the others who are just studying for the degree, who can’t wait to begin writing criticism themselves with the authority they wish from more and more qualification they want from educators like these, having learnt nothing real in fact, or those who want to look artsy enough to be wedded with large gold dumplings and crates of joyful liquor into classy society of non residential kings and in exotic palace destinations. In these three years, all the things they made us read, in order to pass out of this torture, is not something I can unread, since it would require time turning magic, which sadly I do not possess. Like they would push the disastrous semester fiasco into old registers to forget, I can’t get out of it anyway.
I was looking for hope in the wrong place. I don’t know, now standing at the end of college, carrying the weight of the implications left hanging in the work of all the mighty writers and poets I’ve just read, or in the fear of fatigue, left untouched. I thought I was ready to read, but I found, in the most brutal way that I am not.
I found an old notebook, where I begun taking notes from the very recent (and creepy) novel, A Chronicle of a Death Foretold by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and in my dark mood, I ended up scribbling all their names on a page from it. I didn’t like how almost subconsciously I penned down their names, I hated how I let them all become a part of my life. I hated myself for loving so much, and obsessing with all the little things, and holding onto their essence as a presence in my life, even so long after they had severed all their ties with me. I hated me in the moment.
I tore the page, folded it in quarter, and then with some trouble stuffed it into my cup of ashen waste. Here’s what I did – I lit it, and watched the flame die many times, but I kept burning it, until it was done for. I don’t know what pleasure I got out of it, and what made me decide to write it…but here, I definitely like it by now, I’ve been writing about it for quite sometime now, and it isn’t a choice from my past that I don’t regret. Not just yet.
3.50 am | 11 Oct, 2013
I don’t see any point in what I am doing right now… So there is no point in anything anyone else does in an attempt to be happy. Some people work, some people play. When they all know happiness is always momentary and rare is the case that lovers die together. I don’t know where my endeavor would be categorized. It’s been a few days or so it feels. Some seventy days it’s been, like a whirlwind. I have felt time like a companion, strolling along with me, running, stumbling, leaping and loitering aimlessly while I sought to pursue my happiness that he makes me anyway. It’s wrong, I know. Hoping and waiting, but I do anyway. With everyday he makes me fall for him a little while falling out of it a little. The throbbing heart just waits to see him again. The pulsating little light behind his form when I see him, sets my heart at unrest. My nerves are on fire, and deep inside me there is this all consuming desire, just to put myself out there at his mercy. I hate myself for it. I’ve had this before, and I don’t want history repeating. I don’t want to become another Meera, waiting for Krshna to be hers. My mornings became my nights and midnight my dawn, and yet desires are never ending. The wait is always there. So much is at stake, just so much, and yet he is unaware of it.