1399

Never have I witnessed something so white yet so haunting and prepossessing at the same moment. Is there any music genre that would depict the three-dimensional story of a feeling.  Like a folk story being narrated by the moon and the stars listening to it while the sky plays the piano. A Chopin’s B-flat minor Sonata, and fireflies dancing to it, like a synopsis of a film is about to stretch onto climax and smooths out the edges on its way to unfolding. A comet passes by on its elliptical orbit like a fireball with its out-of-control emotions for sun’s gravity, the celtic sensations of the melody didn’t let the poor one to hold it back. In the meantime, an artist on comfy September night listening to cello is painting the scene in chiaroscuro.

Looking for his beloved, he wanders onto empty hallways with no sign of where she might be, a maze of snowy white ambiance and earth toned floor, glistening as it has just been laid for his steps to be taken on.  Finding words to describe his feelings of anxiousness, even the vocabulary wheel fails to provide words so his heart begins to dance in instantaneous movements, exalted and yearning. A sensitive soul, driven to accomplish nothing but goodness for every human being. Here standing idle on the closed corridor observing the light frolic between the windows making patterns on the floor. Hypnotic may it seem the glance at the symmetry of horizontal shadows rolls him up into reverie to the streets with abundant sunlight. A boy all dressed up in white, eyes squint-his innocent smile diminishes cacophony of street hustle. All he could focus on the sparkle on boy’s warm flesh as he slowly runs and sways along with his yellow kite which has a black tail and two polka dots above the cross bar.

“Downstairs”, his fanciful musing was disrupted by the words of a stranger who carefully read the lines on his face and directed him to his destination. The penrose stairs leading to abandoned room with toys lying aimlessly on the floor, making his way carefully to a pitch-black room where a light flashes out from the door undercut of another room. Music is a writer’s heartbeat said A.D. Posey, the heartbeat of a lover is where he finds his beloved. Overwhelmed, a jolt sent down his spine, his stomach fluttered; he could feel the rumbling sensation of his body in his ears. Knocking at the door opens up to the place where his beloved welcomed him, a 10 by 15 room with whitewashed walls, white door, white architrave, silver details perhaps the floor was slightly of different color he noticed. Felt like a small drop of heaven descendant on earth. Pure, sublime and serene, the peace struck him as he collapses into her arms and he smells petrichor in his lungs sending him into the fervent days of his childhood.

A course of true love never did run smooth, the mellow tune was still buzzing on the radio. Suddenly he looks outside the window, the silver moonlight reminds him of the folk tale, the stars that speckled and glittered in the skies above were the sequences laced on his beloved’s dress. The silence as if all the havoc has been sucked out from earth’s crust leaving tranquility for souls to breathe. Alas! Dream. The unfinished painting with vivid strokes and half empty white canvas, the last glance he had before he was conjured by the flashbacks of the dream he returns to the room. Everything went from black to white, a certain glitch and there he was all engulfed in purity. Murmured the sound of heartbeats, the best kind of sound his ears could witness. As all the mayhem just seemed to dissolve, his mind in complete sync to his heart tells him there will come days that will follow the legacy of today. The oneness filled his veins and as he loses himself to heavens above, a relief art flared before his eyes; curiosity fills his mind as he notices a black acrylic plate with numbers in white stated as 1399.


1399 : An excerpt from Dream Journal

Soundtrack:

Love, Power and Pain

Is it a ghost belonging to the fog? Or a multiverse conundrum? An equation with positive and negative integers? What is it? Do I ask so many questions? Or I’m just curious as life is precarious. Why is that you are so unable to solve this multitude, magmatic and damn intrusive problem with only one cipher that emerges to the ground when every dime it holds, folds then falls like dominos on the floor. Don’t invite more misery, just stop here. I can’t tell you much just that:

Love doesn’t destroy you, it can never. But you are destroyed by the hatred you hold so religiously towards love. Have you ever listened to the thunder, the rumbling sound? It is not fear you feel in every nook of your enclosed coward being, it’s the howl of wolf with his untamed energies, the fierce power-full love. I will not be neat you know, I’ll be ugly because that’s how the truth is. And that’s what I learned from this dim-grit fucking poet who calls himself J.Raymond. Truth is the pill that everyone wants but can’t seem to swallow. So is love, everyone wants to have it but can’t really seem to hold it for so long. It can’t be possessed, kept or tamed, because silly it’s not yours to keep, it never was. Like the ebb and flow of the world, there is pain and pleasure in love. Why do you think these idiosyncratic people with supernatural powers to weave words around our hearts yell about love and pain. Where there is love, there is bound to be heartache. Why do you think Elif Shafak wrote 350 pages no less on rules of love. Love is a paradox, pain is inevitable and power is an addiction.

Listening to what love-the mighty one holds, I fumbled. ” The clatter in my ears, evanescence and the creases on the layers of my heart. Could it be worse? I speak to the human looking valiantly at me, the devastation is so immense that it has formed cracks on my being. I lost the essence of who I was, you say its love’s untamed energies but it has created a groove in my brain that I can no longer dig out. My heart is not elastic, and I am no hero.”

Some moments seem devised purely by the cosmos above. Can you decode? Would you let life be merciful on you?

Answered the feared one: It’s like walking on air, damn its beautiful but it has no ground. Love sends me to a perilous stroll down memory lane. No matter how hard I try to fill those cracks with pure love now how much I try to heal it, the creases won’t go the cracks won’t fill.

Unequivocally, what left behind is the battle between pain and power, the two halves of love. Blowing hot and cold waves on the scars submerged in the skin. Ironically, all our lives we keep stumbling upon the pieces of love, power and pain, forever trying to put them together to make our self whole, forever trying to complete the picture of what we call life.

 


Love, Power and Pain: A monologue

Soundtrack:

Ego of Sun, Love of Moon

Part of the times I waver like a flickering light on a monsoon evening
Hearing the silent breeze whilst a hum begins to penetrate embers of my soul.
Here I stand on the balcony sipping a hazelnut caramel coffee,
In concordance to my inner being, the saint and the sinner me,
Bridged between the extremes, singing black and white with glee.
I stand here steady as the stars in woods, while these bones begin to talk.
Befuddled by the smoke in my lungs, closely they speak
Ego of Sun, Love of Moon.

With a vision of a gentle coast, a raindrop on my cheek.
Over the horizon the sun shone the mist dissipate,
As I hear them stretching out on a timeline with an unknown ending.
Beating one’s own drum; crushed by the ego and healed by the love,
Blinded by the luminosity, encrusted by the dove,
Trembled by the world, taken shelter under the cove.
Befuddled by the smoke in my lungs, closely they speak
Ego of Sun, Love of Moon.

Little like the hours cast away, I hold still the chaos bestowed by the day
Clenched in the sand of shore, the moon shows the affections it holds.
Says how the bright light obscure the delicate me,
Love extremes itself nothing in between.
Enlightening the dark as I take steps of faith, while the bird flee,
Sun-the devil’s advocate and the innocent me.
Befuddled by the smoke in my lungs, closely they speak
Ego of Sun, Love of Moon.

Lost between night and day, here comes a ray of sun taking a glance at me
Says mother has to shake the boy out of his reverie
And once again the gravity plays the game of mistaken reality
The empty cup and the coffee stains, here they speak to the closing eyes
In the battalion of thy, the trembling soul dies,
But love connects and ego contracts, and the darkness thy carry lies,
Because for a hint of love, the human you; till death cries,
Befuddled by the smoke in my lungs, closely they speak
Ego of Sun, Love of Moon.


Concept: Omer Khalid Butt

Subject is subjugated…

Somewhere I read: ” A head full of stars and a handful of questions.”

Pretty pensive huh? We do things like it’s the only stuff meant to do, like errands, like chores, like lazy lousy jobs, why we still do it? What is the purpose anyway? Pain, love, joy accompany life till the last breath we take in. For loving with the fierce heart and hating with almost the same energy induced. What is the purpose anyway?

What is the purpose anyway?!!!!

Maybe we should look for the subject. May be by peeking into the subject of the emotion we can find solace, a way to calm the seismic catastrophe before it reaches to its enormous proportions. Before it rumbles and cracks open the embedded chaos, invite the subject over a cup of tea. Be its agony taking a toll on your conscience or be its a nuisance maneuvering ulterior motifs. Be its fear that cankers the strength or be its frustration that weaves failure rendering us valueless. With all the galaxies of yours invite the subject and have a conversation, face the subject with affection, face it like you have faced the storms with all the will, with all the love and with all the energy to get down to every question that needs to be answered. Be at peace and do not agitate as long as you have the subject as your guest. It’s when it doesn’t meet you, when it’s hidden under the scars, when it is harnessed by someone else and it’s when it leaves the emotion undone. Set free the subject from being under the yoke of dilemma that has led you to a conquest from every degree. Because most of the times we are blinded by the fact that subject doesn’t exist in the first place. It’s just the way it is. Recognition is the first step towards subject.

So now I ask again: “What is the purpose anyway?”


 

Q & A: Part 1

 

Depth over Distance

How do you measure? The shale of emotions lying on the corners of your heart.

Tell me how do you measure the wrath of Minotaur in you?

In this god damn forsaken world, tell me how do you measure the drop of the vessel ?

The vehemence eroding from the skin beneath your skin. How many layers do you carry, for how much it has surpassed and traveled to the surface? Can you see it through the ripples; may be a glance or the vision has been blurred by the soot of obscene combustion of worldly affairs.

Look because it is crucial that you know.  Measure the distance from what you are and what you have become now. Measure from who you are and who you want to become. And when you measure remember to acknowledge the magnitude of depth. For it is intensity which is the hub where you meet yourself. The core! And also, because knowing the answer is the ultimate truth in itself. The deliverance!

 

 

 

Time Lapse

When today seems like a million years ago,

Like time stopped just for you,

Like you didn’t move even an inch,

Like seasons passed but autumn never left your heart,

Unlike the kid who learned to walk your knees jammed,

Unlike the girl who learned to speak aloud your lips never parted,

Unlike the wind who changed its course your gale never settled,

Of moon, stars and the equinoxes,

Of nights, days and the evenings,

Of shores, horizon and the meteors.

You live by the daylight, die by the moonlight.

I implore you to open, the incandescent human.

Time didn’t stop instead your hourglass broke, Look at your fist there’s still the residue.

Let it go. Let go.

And pass through it like a discernible breeze,

This time, move on, float and spread you arms.

For there are many miles to go before dusk.

For there are million years to go by.