Awhile ago, I had been at a party. I’d listened to someone talk about Kate Moss for ten minutes straight. I left the room, found my flatmate and asked why anyone was interested in anything at all. We’d come up with no answers.

All this started a month ago, and all that started long before. I will not bore you with trite aphorisms about how I survived, or how wondrous life has become since. At some point my mind broke. This is a collection of memories about my attempted suicide and the absurdity of the entire experience.

Wednesday, 26th of April, 2017, midnight.

Couldn’t sleep. Surfed the internet. Fell into ASMR sub-culture.[1] Meta-satire, transitioning to post-irony, before pseudo-spiritual out-of-body transcendence. I thought, *this is the most ****** experience I’ve had in half a decade, while a woman spun spheres of blobby jelly around my head and whispered elephant mourning rituals into my ears.

Tuesday, 27th of April, 2017, afternoon.

Woke up mid-day. Looked at all the objects in my room, unable to understand why any of them mattered. Milled around the flat. Went online to order helium so I could make an exit bag.[2] Cheapest source was The Warehouse, though the helium came with thirty bright multi-coloured party balloons. I kept imagining one of my flatmates walking in later that day, seeing my crumpled body surrounded by these floppy bits of rubber and a note saying this life is absurd and I want out of it. There was no online purchasing option, however, and I couldn’t be bothered walking into town. I began reading suicide notes. One was from a kid who’d slowly taken pills as he watched TV, culminating in a coma. That sounds pleasant, I thought, whilst at the same time knowing that it takes up to three days to die from painkillers and that the process is anything but painless or final. I opened my drawer, found a bunch of paracetamol and began washing them down with water, whilst listening to the soundtrack of End of Evangelion.[3]

I’m not sure why, but I began crying violently. I knew I’d have to leave the flat before my flatmates came home. I hastily scrawled a note that said, donate my body, give my money to senpai, give my possessions to someone I don’t know, it smells like burning, it was good knowing you all, before walking out the door with Komm Süsser Tod playing in the background.[4, 5] I’d already written my personal and political reasons for suicide in the pieces méconnaissance[6] and **** Yourself,[7] so felt there was no reason for anything more substantial.

I wandered the back roads of my neighbourhood. My body shook. I felt somnolent, half-dazed. I wanted a quiet place to sit, sleep and writhe in agony while my organs slowly failed. My legs kept stumbling, however, and my head was beginning to feel funny. I found a dead-end street and sat on one of those artificially maintained rectangles of grass. There was a black cat lying in the middle of the road, just bobbing its head at me. I zoned out for a bit and when I came to a giant orange cat was to my left, gazing intently into my teary face. I tried to refocus on my crotch. I couldn’t help but notice a white cat across the road, pretending not to be seen. It had a dubious look on its face, a countenance of guilt. What the hell was going on? A delivery person looped round the street. People returned home from work. Garage doors opened, cars drove down driveways. Here I was, slowly dying, surrounded by spooky ******* cats and the bustle of ordinary existence.

“Uh, hey. You look, uh, like something isn’t . . . do you need, uh, help?” a woman asked, crossing the street with a pram to reach me. I groaned.

“It’s just that, you know, ordinarily, um, I mean normally, people don’t sit on the sidewalk,” she continued, glancing down with the half-confused look of a concerned citizen who is trying to enter a situation outside of their usual experience. I mumbled something indistinct and went back to staring at my crotch.

“You know, I can, er . . . I can . . . I can’t really help,” she ended, awkwardly. “I have a daughter to look after, but . . . if you’re still here when she’s asleep . . . I’m the red fence.” She darted off without another word.

Had she wanted me off the sidewalk because it was abnormal to sit there, or had she seen the abnormality as a sign of something deeper? Either way, she’d used abnormality as a signifier of negative change. Deviancy as something to be corrected, realigned with some norm that co-exists with happiness and citizenship. I was being a bad citizen.

I thought, I miss those cats. At least they had judged me in silence. Wait, what the hell am I thinking? This is clearly a case of deviancy associated with negative feelings. Well, negative feelings, but not necessarily negative change. Suicide is only negative if one views life as intrinsically worthwhile—

I could hear pram lady in the distance. She was talking to someone who’d just come back from work. They thanked pram lady and began moving towards me. Arghggh, just let me die, I thought.

She introduced herself as a nurse. From her tone and approach, it was clear she’d handled many cases like me. I’ve never hated counselling techniques. They seemed to at least trouble neoliberal rhetoric. There is little mention of overcoming, or striving, or perfecting oneself into a being of pure success. Rather, counselling seemed to be about listening and piercing together the other’s perspective. Counsellors tended not to interject words of comfort. They’d tell you mental illness was lifelong and couldn’t be fixed. They’re the closest society has to positive pessimists. Of course, they’d still want you to get better. Better, as in, not attempting suicide.

I talked with nurse lady for an hour about how life is simply passing. Passing through oneself, passing through others, passing through spaces, thoughts and emotions. About how the majority of life seems to be lived in a beyond we’ll never reach. Potential futures, moments of relief, phantasies we create to escape the dull present. About how I’d been finding my media and politics degree really rewarding, but some part of my head broke and I lost all ability to focus and care. About how the more I learnt about the world, the less capable I felt of changing it, and that change was a narcissistic day dream, anyway.

She replied “We’re all cogs. But what’s wrong with being a cog? Even a cog can make changes,” and I thought, but never one’s own.

She gave me a ride to the emergency clinic because I was too apathetic and guilt-ridden to decline. Why are people so nice over things that don’t matter? Chicks are ground into chicken nuggets alive.[8] The meat-industry produces 50% of the world’s carbon emissions.[9] But someone sits on the side of the road in a bourgeois neighbourhood and suddenly you have cats and nurses worried sick over your ****** up head. I should have worn a hobo coat and sat in town.

Tuesday, 27th of April, 2017, evening.

I had forgotten how painful waiting rooms were. It was stupidly ironic. I’d entered this apathetic suicidal stupor because I’d wanted to escape the monotony of existence, yet here I was, sitting in a waiting room, counting the stains on the ceiling, while the reception TV streamed a hospital drama.

“Get his *** in there!”

“Time is the real killer.”

“It wasn’t the cancer that was terminal, it was you.”

Zoom in on doctor face man.

Everybody hugging.

Emergency waiting rooms are a lot like life. You don’t choose to be there. An accident simply occurs and then you’re stuck, watching a show about *** cancer and family bonding. Sometimes someone coughs and you become aware of your own body again. You remember that you exist outside of media, waiting in this sterile space on a painfully too small plastic chair. You deliberately avoid the glances of everyone else in the room because you don’t want to reduce their existence to an injury, a pulsing wound, a lack, nor let them reduce you the same. The accident that got you here left you with a blank spot in your head, but the nurses reassure you that you’ll be up soon, to whatever it is you’re here for. And so, with nothing else to do, you turn back to the TV and forget you exist.

I thought, I should have taken more pills and gone into the woods.

The ER was a Kafkaeque realm of piercing lights, sleepy interns and too narrow privacy curtains.[10] Every time a nurse would try to close one, they’d pull it too far to one side, opening the other side up. Like the self, no bed was fully enclosed. There were always gaps, spaces of viewing, windows into trauma, and like the objet petit a, there was always the potential of meeting another’s gaze, one just like yours, only, out of your control.

I lay amidst a drone of machinery, footsteps and chatter. I stared at ceiling stains. Every hour or so a different nurse would approach me, repeat the same ten questions as the one before, then end commenting awkwardly on my tattoos. I kept thinking, what is going on? Have I finally died and become integrated into some eternally recurring limbo hell where, in a state of complete apathy and deterioration, some devil approaches me every hour to ask, why did you take those pills?

Do I have to repeat my answer for the rest of my life?

I gazed at the stain to my right. That was back in ‘92 when the piping above burst on a particularly wintry day. I shifted my gaze. And that happened in ‘99 when an intern tripped holding a giant cup of coffee. Afterwards, everyone began calling her Trippy. She eventually became a surgeon and had four adorable bourgeois kids. Tippy Tip Tap Toop.

The nurses began covering my body with little pieces of paper and plastic, to which only one third were connected to an ECG monitor.[11] Every ten minutes or so the monitor would begin honking violently, to which (initially) no one would respond to. After an hour or so a nurse wandered over with a worried expression, poked the machine a little, then asked if I was experiencing any chest pains. Before I could answer, he was intercepted by another nurse and told not to worry. His expression never cleared up, but he went back to staring blankly into a computer terminal on the other end of the room.

There were two security guards awkwardly trying not to meet anyone’s gazes. They were out of place and they knew it. No matter what space they occupied, a nurse would have to move past them to reach some medical doodle or document. One nurse jokingly said, “It’s ER. If you’re not moving you’re in the way,” to which the guards chortled, shuffled a metre or so sideways, before returning to standing still.

I checked my phone.

“Got veges.”

“If you successfully **** yourself, you’ll officially be the biggest right-wing neoliberal piece of ****.”[12]

“Your Text Unlimited Combo renewed on 28 Apr at 10:41. Nice!”

I went back to staring at the ceiling.

Six hours later, one of the nurses came over and said “Huh, turns out there’s nothing in your blood. Nothing . . . at all.” Another pulled out my drip and disconnected me from the ECG monitor. “Well, you’re free to leave.”

Tuesday, 27th of April, 2017, midnight.

I wandered over to the Emergency Psychiatric Services. The doctor there was interested in setting up future supports for my ****** up mind. He mentioned anti-depressants and I told him that in the past they hadn’t really worked, that it seemed more related to my general political outlook, that this purposeless restlessness has been with me most of my life, and that no drug or counselling could cure the lack innate to existence which is exacerbated by our current political and cultural institutions.

He replied “Are you one of those anti-druggers? You know there’s been a lot of backlash against psychiatry, it’s really the cultural Zeitgeist of our times, but it’s all led by misinformation, scaremongering.”

I hesitated, before replying “I’m not anti-drugs, I just don’t think you can change my general hatred of existence.”

“Okay, okay, I’m not trying to argue with your outlook, but you’re simply stuck in this doom and gloom phase—”

Whoa, wait a ******* minute. You’re not trying to argue with my outlook, while completely discounting my outlook as simply a passing emotional state? This guy is a ******* *******, I thought, ragging on about anti-druggers while pretending not to undermine a political and social position I’d spent years researching and building up. I stopped paying attention to him. Yes, a lot of my problems are internal, but I’m more than a disembodied brain, biologically computing chemical data.

At the end of his rant, he said something like “You’re a good kid,” and I thought, ******* too.

Friday, 28th of April, 2017, morning.

The next day I met a different doctor. I gave him a brief summary of my privileged life culminating in a ****** metaphor about three metaphysical pillars which lift me into the tempestuous winds of existential dread and nihilistic apathy. One, my social anxiety. Two, my absurd existence. Three, my political outlook. One, anxiety: I cannot relate to small talk. The gaze of the other is a gaze of expectations. Because I cannot know these expectations, I will never live up to them. Communication is by nature, lacking. Two, absurdity: Existence is a meaningless repetition of arbitrary structures we ourselves construct, then forget. Reflexivity is about uncovering this so that we may escape structures we do not like. We inevitably fall into new structures, prejudices and artifices. Nothing is authentic, nothing is innocent and nothing is your self. Three, politics: I am trapped in a neoliberal capitalist monstrosity that creates enough produce to feed the entire world, but does not do so due to the market’s instrumental need for profit. The system, in other words, rewards capitalists who are ruthless. Any capitalist trying to bring about change, will necessarily have to become ruthless to reach a position of power, and therefore will fail to bring about change.

The doctor nodded. He thought deeply, tried to piece it all together, then finally said “Yes, society is quite terrifying. This is something we cannot control. There are things out there that will harm you and the political situation of our time is troubling.”

I was astounded. This was one of the first doctors who’d actually taken what I’d said and given it consideration. Sure we hadn’t gotten into a length discussion of socialism, feminism or veganism, but they also hadn’t simply collapsed my political thoughts into my depressive state.

“But you know, there are still niches of meaning in this world. Though the greater structures are overbearing, people can still find purpose enacting smaller changes, connecting in ephemeral ways.”

What was I hearing? Was this a postmodern doctor?[13] Was science reconnecting with the humanities?

“We may even connect your third pillar, that of the political, with your second pillar and see that the political situation of our time is absurd. This is unfortunate, but as for your first pillar, this is definitely something we can help you with. In fact, it’s quite a simple process, helping one deal with social anxiety, and to me, it sounds like this anxiety has greatly affected your life for the past few years.”

The doctor then asked for my gender and sexuality, to which after I hesitated a little, he said, it didn’t really matter seeing as it was all constructed, anyway. For being unable to feel much at all, I was ecstatic. I thought, how could this doctor be working in the same building as the previous one I’d met? We went into anti-depressant plans. He told me that their effects were unpredictable. They may lift my mood, they may do nothing at all, they may even make me feel worse. Nobody really knew what molecular pathways serotonin activated, but it sometimes pulled people out of circular ways of thinking. And dopamine, well, taken in too high a dose, could make you psychotic.

Sign me the **** up, I thought, gazing at my new medical hero. These are the kinds of non-assurances that match my experience of life. Trust and expectations lead only to disappointment. Give me pure insurmountable doubt.

Friday, 28th of April, 2017, afternoon.

“The drugs won’t be too long,” the pharmacist said before disappearing into the back room. I milled around th

Fragile egg-shell mind on dawn’s highway bleeding the segue between times traversed only in momentary dreams or in enduring excursions

We drag our droll and quaint 60s baggage like the luggage of a safari made of concrete girding a cavernous expanse of unheralded ground

With our ears oriented to the floor, we leap out of body never to deplore….never to ignore….never to miss the blue bus of our drafted imaginations, so carefully culled from brash elitism

I trounce the intervening time between being friendless and an ironic end, and an irenic comrade becoming the dearest amazed but always aplomb friend

We simper in our glorious traversal, and though bedraggled through an ornamented cavern we linger just long enough to be celebrated

Then a blues riff emanates from a vapid bar, and finally someone heralds my exhumed memory still rusty with the pavement of encased concrete on an empty or full tomb

So I wander in my mind to that roughshod Paris glassy tincture a romanticized gild of proper sensibility crafted in the tongues of lizards emulating the tongues of serpentine Anglicans

As the power of love transcends the love of power, both are afforded serendipitously upon the stately occasion of a fitful revolt where heads literally rolled and deaths still unfurl from the slippage of a violent malevolent eternity, crafting a new creative way to expedite the smite of preventable scourge

So, I see your picaresque side and your wide-eyed love for a listless ship anointed of a crystal blip just detectable long enough on RADAR to become the statistic to crack the slim WHIP

No wigs are needed at this formality, no figs grow from trees forty-five years buried and almost a full month unsung

Pitiable cretins of an invented insanity, they scoff at my ravenous and portentous heart for its excess and for aligning with an upstart verging on only a specious insanity

Why in all humanity could a month be mustered with every defense of history and yet for it to be so widely flouted as a risible exercise in futility

The irony that the artistic glamor of a past vogue becoming a revival that is often toked only to one song but never to the memorial of great cavernous and commodious imaginations, staggers with dismay where otherwise the mayday would be a disaster but still a great day

Then I look at a triggered-fingered omen of a death so ominous yet so brazenly confronted as the ambassadors of time provide plaudits to a fearless martyrdom

Why such a sad spate, why such a stringent but malevolent fate a malediction on a family whose crest is not crestfallen like rolling waves but ornamented with gravity impounding its own weight

A fugacious tomb, an eternal flame, a swan song announcing an independent authority on a prescient demise mashed and deprived

A single shot rippling through the broadened space between clasped eternity and a histrionic disgrace as a psychological confederate pays lip service to a reiterative applause

A cousin hardly American in a defected record of incendiary plumes of a hoarse hatred of waxen discs and flying discs alike,  climbs out of a bonfire mounted purely out of vindictive spite

Then upon a great white buffalo a wrapped package of Californian love before California ever alighted like something beyond an avaricious dove, saw a rocky park and a hearth of illuminated darkness the singular spark

Captain Morgan knows the jackknife applause of a botched deal morphing into a disbelieved spiel. A shibboleth of enormous mystical weight crashing down from an ethereal abode and heaven heavily saddened cannot hardly appeal

Then a loving spoonful of crystal blue persuasion led me to Ethel’s regimented keepsake and for once in my life nobility and I became a grateful waif. But temerity laughed, splintered spacecraft, and the wooden paws of a bearish applause led to resurgent clarity

Blinking stars shattered by knighted and raw applause punctured the liberated might of a sentient hortatory savior grasped by the internecine wrench of a waxen time

An indie track slides by unnoticed in an aleatory time, and the threadbare whine of centuries of lament becomes a dastardly barn set ablaze with the fury of ancients and the scurry of faineant patents

Perfidy slides in recess, and in gentle forbearance the winged angel lingers like a halo on conifer and spring above a remedial ring

I dial frisky celerity tingling the dangling claws of a raven’s screed and in plunder of all history’s pilfer secrets I eagerly weave a tapestry Indiana Jones himself would be proud to watch

Not the riotous ruin of a mystery tour of verdure crippled by genocide but overcome by the revived life of raised rain razing the moments of indelible pain

But the culmination of a proffered time taken at its word for its every careened bird, for its every brazen gird. The manger of proctored stars calls us home tonight and home forever. Life in quaked timorous stumbles suddenly no longer so fitfully absurd.

The quixotic plundered of pirates and emperors in direct emulation of some crooned pastiche of whittled integrity, surges above any encased blurb and any vain testament to a pyramid rigid in destiny and ragged in desultory and sturdy sincerity

Multiplying the ineffable by the division of arable divorced from edible is too creative to be eaten as pabulum when sparks curdle flickered moonlight crimson and that become golden only to the last laugh of ennobled ragamuffins

Frankly the desert of melliferous gorillas abetting the lark of a heavily vetted camarilla engaged in the sinecure of a rigged wall on a main street to block the tall from the lame bleat. Stocks grazed, costs engaged on a littoral beach at the end of a Bossy promenade

This prayer is a cutthroat collapse of a merry spare, a ribbed ****** waiting to plunge into the antithesis of female despair, but sincere in its restraint that vixens courted in love aren’t courted in litigation of a wagered dare

Ambulances chase Deloreans through the desolate moon-stricken skies of a time agape with fleets of phantasmagoria on a Cliffside too wise to ever mince words or excise cries

Skulking the red-teared caverns of entombed films and lampooned tinctures on a passion vetted only for certain and utter deracinated disguise, I wallop with winged men in a single soul Armed to the Teeth with inveterate tithes to eternal internments of poached and endangered gazettes

As growth older in wizened skin bets on epithets rather than epitaphs for rinsed peace and triumphant clefts we leap above in orbit of only the bellowing nether of blown tolls and untold souls aggregating the esoteric grasp of Alexandrian tomes

The denumeration of certainty is a carousel of wonder, a splurge of time ripped asunder with majesties of paparazzi scuttled impacts a throttled iniquity of regalia’s indicted blunder frenchified but still clean with inestimable sheens

With twenty-five dollars, a dime an assist and a nickeled reiteration of currency already so personable it is divine and sublime in crazed desist I watch the embroiled natives clash in denatured violence with the warriors of a crossed repast hearkening to an old land much of ire but too much of grandstand to ultimately last

Itching for a holy field husk of peerless ties listed as rumpus and beer, a two-packed smoked by bludgeoned blokes careless in irascible sputters of a muffled doom, a Vegan becomes the author of too many sacrosanct homilies becoming defiled witchcraft brooms dead on arrival too many lionized tombs

In plaudits and the scause of an amplified “what if?” of an olfactory nightmare of petrified fog of effluvium bogged in Wade and in heat it is always clogged, sinewy libations of toasted preemptive revenge become a powerballed hog

A castle in the sky founded on Franklin but scourged of wineskins brimming with a distilled time, a swift repartee becomes the whispered ladder of saints blather becoming not rather other than a Dan Rather spatter

A door breeched by a broached inconvenience of amphigory beyond common reach, I clamber excess and whisk the lingered love into destiny beyond any word other than a beseeched preach of nothing tired but everything inspired of noble love with abundance often to teach

Fireworks of turned tides of fallow tithes to aliens beyond any conceivable bribe the bushwhacker writhes but survives Stayin' Alive without even a hint of garbled jive a 27th floor glass elevator is quite a resplendent ride

Wellsprings knowing radical rolled tides of errant dice also themselves guilty of confessional tithes to the monolith of avarice at the nooked cranny of an evaporated time we whine as the police sting the album rained with songs too lugubrious to sing but in their elegy every lonely heart has a propinquity phone of souled resonance ring

Iterative mastery of a mathematics of love, loss decay and the dross of a dental Occidental floss, the sweep of screened queues become questions of inestimable importance to foreign dues on A Horse With No Name but so consumed with fumes

A fright occultist Thriller prowls in a waylaying daylight, masquerading an innocent confection for a rescued triage of a dawn stabbed with knives in our last dying days of trembled plight

He resurrects only the wraiths of detest, squinted at by the putrefaction of summoned cardiac arrest and littered with bullets that somehow can penetrate even impregnable bullet proof vests the wrapped carcass of the mummified husk of ready despair offers itself a ghoulish and raspy prayer

Synchronized in a low roaring swathe of rollercoasters too immersive to ride, the terpsichorean obscurantism of deliberately shattered fragments becoming blurbs dismissed with hijacked deride the carnival of a summer sun becomes the ocean of limitless love becoming endless fun

We forget the drawl of the droll old tales that haunt like specters in the closet and beneath the bedridden valetudinarian of an effrontery of shackled fright, we sprawl the innumerable caverns of prophetic insight afforded by the pantheon of history enter stage left, depart stage right

And with their insight I write and write, I grasp the tusk of democracy and wage an insurrection against the doubt of plodding limitations in otherwise immaculate sight

*** and tyrannosaurus rex, of litigable offenses leading to pardonable arrests, the gated entryway of a poetic splurge leads to the demiurge of a demotic enlightenment and suddenly the frank becomes the frazzled retirement and that haunting hounding bunny transmogrified by a shattered eye averts the car crash that careens ponderous engines out of limitless twilight blue skies.

Diamond lightning in pristine skies escorts the telegraphic totems of riddled modems from distant forbearance to nescient ultimatum and suddenly all venerable personages converge on a teeming scene of a union unified by a universal dream. To become everything and yet nothing and out of light and darkness to become a beatific beam

n.*  hy•po•thal•a•mus -ˈthal-ə-məs\
: the part of the brain that controls fight or flight responses

September 23rd
The first time our eyes met
Travelling across the room
Not knowing that those were the same eyes
That could **** me with a smile

December 28th
I found out that you wrote
And ****, that was hot
Your words that got me hooked
Were the same ones that cut my strings

February 14th
We were nothing close to lovers
Not even bestfriends
But I somehow felt less lonely
Talking to you everyday

April 8th
The beginning of heat
And I think I barely noticed
Because the thought of you
Makes blood rush to my cheek

June 19th
The start of school
And the start of the drift
Or maybe it was just stress?
I hung on to our conversations

July 31st
You talked about this new girl
And how she was pretty
And funny
And everything I wasn’t

August 17th
We haven’t talked in 2 weeks
Not like you noticed much
All you cared about was her
I'm starting to miss you
Alot

September 27th
I was in Biology
I studied the hypothalamus
And how it controlled
The fight or flight response of our body

September 27th
I was studying the hypothalamus
And learned that the body has a natural instinct
To detect danger or warning
Thus activating the hypothalamus

September 27th
I was studying the hypothalamus
And **** who gave you the right to walk in my mind
I was studying the hypothalamus for God’s sake how does this even relate to you?
I saw you in everything
A notebook – Cos you write
Coffee – because you loved it
The Fault In Our Stars – because you hated it
Pictures of New York – because it was your dream
My playlist – because you made it
My jacket – because it smells like you
My little sister – because she looks for you
My mother – because she still makes your favorite dinner whenever you visit
The flowers on our porch – because you planted them
Hot Pockets – because you despised them
But **** never did I expect to see you in a hypothalamus

September 27th
People don’t come with warning signs attached to their necks
And even if our body has a natural instinct to detect danger
People like you, know just the right things to say or do to trick my body into thinking you're good for me
You know my passcode, how to get through my walls
So all this time I’ve been wondering
Where was my hypothalamus, if I even had one
Why didn’t it warn me
To flee your arms before I got entangled in your words,
Before I sunk in the quicksand of your charm
Why wasn’t I warned, to fight or flight, before I got hurt this bad?
Why wasn’t I warned of the danger that was you.

Dear Poet Friends, over the last few years I have seen some of our poets make passing remarks about Van Gog, thereby displaying their interest about this talented painter, who had died unrecognised!  Vincent gained full recognition posthumously, for which his brother Theo’s wife was greatly responsible. Hope you like this short and concise true story in verse. Best wishes, - Raj

   A TRIBUTE TO VINCENT VAN GOG’S
                      SUNFLOWERS
                        B­y Raj Nandy
  
”One may have a blazing hearth in one’s soul
  and yet no one ever come to sit by it. Passerby
  see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and
  continue on the way.” – Vincent Van Gogh(1853-1890)

A BRIEF BIOGRAPHY :
Though during his brief life-span of 37 years he had
remained almost wholly unknown;
His artistic talents began to exhibit itself during his
early years, -
To become a colossus amongst post-impressionist
painters in his later years!
The son of a Dutch clergyman, he had worked in
various capacities, -
In his uncle’s art gallery, in a bookstore, and pursued
theological studies in Amsterdam University.
Also followed by a short stint in Belgium’s coal-mining
district as a lay missionary!
At the age of 27 years took to painting with financial
help from elder brother Theo,
Who encouraged and helped him for the next ten years
or so.
This was the most creative period of Vincent’s life,
Followed by an attack of dementia when he cut his
own ear lobe risking his life!
On 27th July 1890, he shot himself, bringing his
great artistic career to a tragic end!

SERIES OF ELEVEN SUNFLOWER PAINTINGS:
Vincent commenced his famous sunflower series
to decorate his house in Arles, France,
While anticipating his friend Paul Gaugin’s visit in
advance.
His first four canvases had paintings of cut sun -
flowers in bunches of twos and fours;
Painted in Paris during Aug-Sep 1887, which the
world still adores.
But his later Arles series of seven still life canvases
are better known to us;
And this series of paintings had made Vincent
internationally famous!
The most valued of these seven is a vase containing
a bunch of 15 sunflowers, -
Now displayed at the Art Museum in the city of Tokyo;
A Japanese firm had paid 40 million dollars at an
auction for this masterpiece to show!

                    A SHORT CONCLUSION
Vincent brought his passion for sunflowers from his
homeland in Holland.
Which became synonymous with him like those ‘water
lilies’ with his contemporary painter Claude Monet.
Vincent painted the various stages of the flowers in bloom;
From its budding stage till it wilted and swooned!
Chrome yellow and yellow ochre made them look fresh;
And arid brown and somber shades showed its wilted stage!
Thus his paintings covered all angles of spectrum of life
itself;
In turn reaching a deeper understanding of how all living
things are tied together and made !
His explosive energy was displayed through his vibrant
shades of yellow.
Using red for passion, and green for conflict to show.
Grey shades were used for life’s inevitable surrender,
with blue symbolising infinity;
Thus this Dutch Impressionist painter harnessed a
moment of time in eternity!

Foot Notes:-
Dr Jan Hulsker, a foremost scholar on Van Gogh, had said that this Sunflower series of paintings brought Vincent eternal acclaim & fame! During his short life span he made 700 paintings, 1600 drawings, 9 lithographs & one etching. His ‘Potatoe Eaters’, ‘Red Vineyard’, ‘Starry Night’, - are all famous paintings. Paul Gaugin, & Claude Monet, were his other ‘Impressionist’ contemporaries. Impressionism  emphasised changing qualities of light & colour, visible brush strokes, open composition,  creating an impression of a moment of time! Derives its name from Claude Monet’s harbour painting titled “Impressions & Sunrise”. This art form became popular in 1880s and 1890s.
*ALL COPY RIGHTS RESERVED BY RAJ NANDY

..


Save from the hidden nests of birds,
it was the only one there...isolated,
like an isle...crested on the leveled
top of a gorge...its way down or up
was through a hand-carved series of
steps on its *****...at its front was a
curved gorge......one would think,
it was trying to cross over

the cottage was small, weather-beaten,
desolate......its wooden walls seemed to
have shrunk...its faded colors proclaimed
its age...its having survived past storms....
from its window, the stream was seen,
and heard, flowing on and on between
these two precipitous valleys.

light came from the sun...and moon,
music was provided by the murmurs of
the forceful wind, the continuous flow of
water on the stream, the stirring of the leaves,
the crackling of branches and twigs, the birds'
singing in the spring...the pounding of heavy
rains on its roof...and countless other hymns
of nature......the dweller had heard them all...

beneath a lonely moon glow,
when nights were cold,
there hovered low 'pon its aged roof,
rounds of layered fog...like a series of
steps....like a stairway to the sky...
fog slyly crept, and wilfully shrouded
the cottage.....it vanished from view,
the two gorges and the stream, hushed,
in the dark loneliness of that secluded
spot......their vulnerabilities, trapped
inside....misshapen silhouettes...

in light and in dark,
the whistles of nearing and departing
boats....were wailing, haunting calls,
piercing the peaceful calm of the valleys, or,
maybe, the stilled complacence of the cottage,
or...of the one living in that lonely cottage,
...lost, or gone astray, now weary and worn,
willing to be found...longing to be reunited
.......with the light and warmth of love...

the cottage, the gorges, and the stream
would be loneliest,
without the cottage dweller...


Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 27th, 2018

The First-Born Blues
Sara L Russell 22nd August 2014 20:59 revised 27th Aug 2014, 13:58

So I bite down on bitter words
and I eat my humble pie
for those who will not understand me
Until the day I die.
self-pity's for the birds,
where the golden egos fly;
if you will not understand me
should I bother to ask why?

So you know I'm always me
and I never will be her
and you know she's gone forever
things can't be the way they were
I survived, unworthily
though you think I should concur
that death struck out unfairly
- should have taken me, not her.

So I wear my comfort cross
and I carry my cross of woe -
each a spiritual placebo
from the God I used to know;
and an eerie sense of loss
follows everywhere I go
for this poor downtrodden ego
that you always overthrow.

When you know who you are and find out who you are not, how can you bother sleeping at night? When it holds us down and it’s done dreaming of the enslavement of billions because it has come to life inside our minds. The days’ endings are coming and seem worse with each passing slide of childhood memories and tearful age. Who you know is so tired. Each and every of the billions’ voices is stifled.

“I know my heart and I love my family. They give me joy though I watch them suffer every day. Of racial profiling, religious hate and sexism. I pray the young will be spared my fate. So I pretend not to see and enjoy all my moments with them because all I can clutch, keep my control of is now, is this very moment. Now is all I can see. No influence on my future comes from me.”


© October 27th, 2013

Who can mark exactly when
the Malaysian plane
stopped being important
to consumers of news?

And if I disappeared in
the South China Sea,
how long would they care
or televise me?

September 5th 2018, Dear Diary i'll say as I start a fresh page
Tap tap goes my finger on my desk
Flick flack goes the pen cap as i tap tap tap
What can I say im lost in thought
How can i feel about everything im just awfully distraught
September 18th 2018, Dear Diary same dance different day
I just want to feel a certain way
Is there any way i can break free?
Of this normal routine
The people here they seem sincere
Only to hurt me in the same exact ways.
September 27th 2018, Dear Diary now im just yelling at the page
Another hard day
Just too much of the same
Someone look my way for even a second
Just for today.
October 5th 2018, Dear Diary it's all just a blur
My head says one thing my heart another
My hands are starting to stutter
My mind is sound but my heart is a flutter
What do i do my life is confusion
Right now I just don't see a solution
October 12th 2018, Dear Diary a new developement on my stage
Theres just a sparkle in the rain
Someone different starting to look my way
I don't know what to say
Just lead with maybe and see if they go away
I just can't do it not right now not with who I am and what my life is about
October 19th 2018, Dear Diary same old same old
An occasional glance in my direction
But I go home to the same mess and imperfection
But you know I just can't let them go
The past is the present and it has kept hold
October 26th 2018, Dear Diary now im just lost
What was there before can be again
But won't history just repeat itself in the end?
The yelling the fighting the screaming the crying
All to just go back to the forgiving and forgetting
But even as this new road seems enticing
How can I bring someone in when my life is this frightening
November 2nd 2018, Dear Diary what do I do
My tears stain this flawless page
My writing choppy and dismayed
To him im nothing but im also everything
But to me hes something but I need there to be nothing
Then theres still this feeling with the new soul I've been discovering
Could there actually be something?
No absolutely not this is something I'm done discussing.
November 8th 2018, Dear Diary this time hes done it
I've had enough I just want to run
Get me away from this evil that be
I don't care who he was but right now all I see
Is this demon that's chasing me
Grab my friends we have to flee
Get me to somewhere where I can be free
Drink till the lines blur and my head stops making the decisions for me
November 3rd 2018 Dear Diary I really think that he loves me
But still I'm me this torn sheet of paper
This indistinct human this imperfect creature
I can't walk down that path not again
I'm filled with fear
"What if he's just like the others"
It was just a fluke just forgive and forget
You know that you belong in this trench
He's not that bad let me just go back to bed
November 11th, 2018, Dear Diary Just keep your head up and look straight forward
Still confused of everything thats behind
I don't want him to hurt
But I don't want him to see
That there are all these dark sides to me
People change
But then again they don't
If I don't take the leap i'll never feel the fall
I guess that's not so bad after all....
November 18th, 2018, Dear Diary, You've always been here
Through confusion and mess
Never been jealous
Never given me a second guess
Who am I filling these pages about
Am I ever going to let all this out?
Just one big split decision
I just don't ever want there to be a collission.
March 14th 2033, Dear Diary, It's been a while since ive written
I broke free of my prison
All it took was just one person
And a few years of them holding my burden.

It was December 27th,
Nineteen and fifty one
The day the Christmas  snowball war
Had officially begun
It started in the schoolyard
It was supposed to just be fun
But, by the time the whole thing ended
No one knew just who had won

The grade five class were ready
All lying there in wait
As the kids from home form seven
Approached the schoolyard gate
With a yell the whole thing started
They were served up on a plate
the kids from home form seven
would not forget this date

The air filled with projectiles
Launched from wet gloves by the score
As the victims ran for cover
They were hit by four score more
They were bruised and hurt and battered
As they ran for the school door
Now, the kids from the grade five class
Lay waiting there for more

Two teachers came to stop them
Get them back into the school
but, the kids just launched more snowballs
Using scarves now as a tool
They would catapult their snowballs
which was really, really cool
And the teachers ran for cover
In the safety of the school

They'd built a wall near four feet high
To protect them on both sides
It channeled all who entered
The walls acted as guides
At most their little walkway
Was only eight feet wide
and their victims ran for cover
For the school, a place to hide

It was dark when the attack happened
The form seven kids came back
They'd left the school from the front door
And had now planned their attack
Their first snowball hit it's target
With a loud resounding crack
It was clear that old form seven
Was truly fighting back

The teachers had a huddle
Met inside and chose to fight
They would wait until the battle
Had gone on into night
They would sneak out of the building
With the absence of the light
And attack the grade five children
And show them how to fight

The air was full of snowballs
Bodies, gloves, scarves abound
there were children hitting adults
And there were children on the ground
They'd been at it for six hours
When they heard the alarm bell sound
It was time to get inside for bed
Before the prefects came around

The snowball fight at Wellesley
Public School in fifty one
Is the one that they remember
Out of all of those they've done
In all one hundred people
Were involved in all the fun
For next year they are building
A snowball launching gun!!!

9/18/09

The Boy With the Birthmark on His Right Lower Calf

1/7/10 8:36 pm
The first boy that left me was my first love, he was the first boy who ever called me beautiful and he made me feel that way for about 3 and a half months until the distance became to much to bare, but we kept in touch for about 5 years so I guess you can say it never really ended because the pull of our hearts still happen to burn for each other every now and again, he is one for the books because he's never walked away from me he's stood by me through countless arguments, but I think we will always be connected. He taught me what it's like to fall in love unfortunately he didn't teach me how to stop falling face first onto cold hard gravel because now that he has someone new, I'm completely off the rails. I hope he comes back and saves me soon. He is the only boy I can't ever seem to get enough of, he is like a drug, the minute he touches me my veins fill with a substance of desire and my heart speeds up to about ten beats a minute and all this proceeds to happen within mire seconds of reconnecting I can't even begin to describe how it's been these past 5 years still being able to get that same rush around that boy--and only that boy. He is a drug I would gladly overdose on.

6/20/13

The Boy With the Cold Heart & the Four Glass Eyes

9/3/13 10:45 pm
The second boy that left me was no where near as beautiful as the first but he was one for deep talks and insecure walks. He told me what he hated about himself and how self-conscious he really was, that before he became "Mr. Player" he was a loser who always felt alone. His body was not beautiful he was destruction at its finest, his skin stretched and felt like scratching cold silver, in all respects he was quite a disgusting filth though at the time I found him to be made out of gold but I was dead wrong for he was the worse kind of killer-- a true sociopath if you ask me but I mean what do I know I'm a ****** right? Although the only thing he wanted was to toy with me and trick me into trusting the devil, granted I should have never gotten involved with him in the first place, because he truly tore me to shreds and he was still a baby so maybe that's why things ended badly between us, because even though I was naive then, he's still quite immature, I wish I could say he's changed but he hasn't.

12/6/13

The Boy Who Made Me Feel Alive Again

12/27/13 1:08 pm
The third boy that left me, well unlike the second boy he didn't do damage he actually did magic by gently outlining the curvature of my spine and liking the thoughts inside my head before we ever even came face to face, he knew me through words and kissed me like he held a secret between his lips. He didn't like books but he liked my thoughts on paper and he listened quite intently, so I guess that was enough. I noted little details when we walked home in the dark, like the fact that he lit up whenever I spoke and he always looked me dead in the eye, however neither of us had been murdered. Or the way he sounded when he told me about his life, or even the fact that he'd risk injury from oncoming traffic because of his fearless physique, maybe he was just trying to impress me but these are a few things that were beautiful  about this boy. But yet again, happiness in the form of Father Time only stands at my doorstep for a month or so because on the 27th on the coldest month of the year he walked out without even a proper goodbye.

*(vm)

Dear Mrs. Nagley

Oh my dearest mother-in-law,
Did Brandon my king write you?
I am in my utmost state of agitation,
I don’t know what to do, I’m going “non compos mentis”.


Did he left a letter for me before he go?
He said he’ll be in my arms for less than a week,
Oh my goodness it’s been more than 2 weeks!
Oh, this throe is burying me alive in my grave.


Mother-in-law, Oh, mother-in-law,
I am in extreme dejection,
Oh where is my soulmate, my king, my all?
Where is he, please tell me where is he.


Please assure me nothing bad happened,
Oh this eyes shed bucket of tears,
They’re swollen and I am so weary,
Please mother-in-law, tell me what’s going on.

Sincerely your daughter-in-law
Earl Jane Nagley
September 27th, 1876



(Mrs. Nagley's response letter)

Dearest daughter in law Jane........

He left over two week's ago, didst he not correspond?
Mineself either hath no way to knoweth;
I'm worried mineself, me and his father,
We hast not heard one word from ourn son, dearest daughter.

Do not fret Jane, maby mine son's cruise ship is late
If he doth get there, telleth him to write his mum;
I'm crying now from this stress, there art no word's to calm,
Me and his father heard a storm was coming in, I'm anxious.

We need to hath faith mine son wilt maketh it.
Maby the captain's running late, maby the ocean's shaking;
Mine baby is strong, as I prayest he mayest hold on to the thunderous lightning that's hitting the dawn, I want mine son.

Im on mine knee's now, begging God to bringeth him to thee
If he dost not maketh it to thee Jane, mine daughter and sweet;
I wouldst not knoweth what to do without thy king, mine son!
I'm beseeching Yahweh's mercy, mayest god protect his ship run.

Your Mother in law, Juna Nagley............
October 9th, 1876


ONE WEEK LATER MRS. NAGLEY WRITES ONE LAST LETTER TO HER DAUGHTER IN LAW JANE NAGLEY ON THE NEWS OF BRANDON........


Dearest daughter in law Jane.........

Me and mine husband hath received news on mine son, and thine king, I'm heartbroken to telleth thee, but the ship succumbed to the storm's ferocious sting; I prayed and begged to god, yet mine son no longer couldst cling, he passed at twenty-seven. The front half of the vessel broke into many pieces, the lightning struck the sail as tis all the men were flung west and east: Mine baby found some wood to grasp onto, though shark's were around, as ******* they made there move. He was taken by the man-eater's and sunk into the deep blue. O' how saddened I am, O' how I miss mine son, this ****'s mine soul and break's me in ways more than one...... Here is the letter mine son left when they found him floating by the blood of his vest.
Sincerely mom ...
October 16, 1876

( Brandon's letter to his wife Jane Nagley)

Dear amour', I canst not write thee much, mine limbs art bleeding out from the shark bites and cuts. Mine ship went down, as tis this is God's will, please if thou shalt get this letter please knoweth thou art mine queen, mine body shalt be renewed in the presence of the Lord's feet; thou art not losing me, remember? No goodbye's, if I'm to goeth now and if I'm to die, smileth for me lass, drieth thine eye's; I'll meeteth thee in the third celestial, i'll meet thee there.... By the pearly gate's. On cloud nine.

Thy king and soulmate, always and forever

Brandon Cory nagley........
September 23rd, 1876........




©Brandon nagley \Earl Jane Nagley duo
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Hari-reyna incorporated

Ask not what the Universe can do for you.

Ask what you can do to aid the Universe ?
~.An Acrostic exercise ~October 27th 2018.

Ask not what the Universe can do for you.
Sometimes they are under relentless demand
Kings and beggars and entrepreneurs pray

Never mind ,what they can offer the Universe
On a daily basis pray for their own deliverance
To make ends meet, eat a crust , or a cure

We poets here on our favourite web-site know
Having been seeking the true way forward
Ask not what the Universe can do fo you.
Though this is the expected way to pray

The first thought in our head should ever be
Hey ! What can I do to aid the Universe.
Earth and the environment but a small part

Universe stretches deep deep into the cosmos
Now where do you think heaven rests in this ?
I believe it is here and surrounds us completely
Virtually every loved one that has passed on
Every thought process that you possess
Reacts in your minds eye as memory
So perpetuating the life span of a loved one.
Expand your own meditation to include them.

Clearly giving an aid to the Universal spirit.
Asks not what the Universe can do for you.
Never complain about being forsaken by God.

Do as you would be done by and **** it up.
Only pausing to calculate the best way to rise

From the sad position you find that you’re in
On giving something back to the Universe
Riches will flow back to you a thousand fold

Yes but not necessarily in a financial way
Or in an appropriation of jewels or art
Universal gifts seldom trade in those chattels

Ask what you can do to aid the Universe
Simply think about it in a pure and selfless way
Knowledge gained during your own life’s span

Wake up and smell the coffee if you can
Having negotiated the slings and arrows
Ask what you can do to aid the Universe
To me its a simple question n a simple answer

You can positively manifest your own pathway
On that road you have many crossroads
Universe has trained the minds of past lives

Coincidentally you carry the minds past loves
Ask what you can do to aid the Universe
Now bring back to mind all souls of meaning

Dedicate the sights and the fragrance of life
On a kind of conference call to the departed

Tell me if you think what I say is too far fetched
Only I know that it works ,well it does for me.

Ask what you can do to aid the Universe
I posed that question many many years ago
During the time that I prayed then to God

The crisis erupted between Russia an the US
Hydrogen and nuclear bombs were threatened
Europe ,a state of emergency unprecedented

Undaunted I joined the Civil defence, in ‘62
Now looking back , I realise my pathway’s set
In not expecting the Universe to be helping
Venus in retrograde and other cosmic moves
Effects of the moon phases all considered.
Reality is you hold the precious key to success
So next time you pray , you’d better pray good.
Entreating God to advise his plans for your day

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An Acrostic poem written by Philip. 27/10/18.

There was an aged man of Ghana,
Who was told his cows were attacked by Nagana
"Dare He temper with my herd!
To hell, I'll send that *******!"
Thus replied that ill-tempered man of Ghana*.


#Limerick
Kikodinho Alexandros
Jumeira, Dubai
27th November 2016

Limerick
Anonymous 56
~~~~~~~~~~~

There was an old man from Darjeeling
Who boarded a bus bound for Ealing.
He saw on the door,
“ Please don’t spit on the floor’
So he stood up and spat on the ceiling.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Posted November 27th 2018.

Don’t look down at your feet
You’re standing near the edge of a cliff
With your hands bound and your mouth shut.

There are rocks under your feet and weeds near your ankles
And something in your eyes is unsettling
You can’t smell fear, you can feel it.

Your heartbeat is unsteady
Your knees are weak and your chest is fragile
There’s no way you can fly.

The executioner’s hood is over your head
Your legs are numb and drooping
You’re about to fall
D
O
W
N
.

27th May 2016

Kalippaattam
------------

              ---Renjith Prahlad
                        (27th AUGUST 2011-12:30AM)



Vimookamaayoru sundara swapnam ente kannukale yaanthrikamaaya ee lokathilninnakatti
bhaavanayile mohanabhoomiyileku yathrayaakkunnu..Ennal Ivide kanunnathu yaadharhyathil
aroopiyaaya ente mohangalude kadanjedutha swaroopangale..ivide kelkkunnathu
yadhaarthyathil uumakalaya prathyaashakalude imbamaarnna prathidhwanikal..
Ivide enne sparshikkunnathu yaadharthyathil maravicha ormakalude jeevanulla viralukal..
Ivide njan anubhavikkunnathu yaadhaarthyathil oru pazhjadamaaya ente, chetananiranja
chalanagal..allayo Swapname ethakshayapaathrathil ninnedukkunnu nee ithratholam
jyothithullikale,ente raathrikalil prakaasham choriyuvaanaayi..Pakshe, oru maathrayude
maathrayolam polum illallo ninte aayussinte dairkhyathinu...Kizhakkile chakavarthiyude
udayam asthamippikkunnathu vimookamaaya aa sundara swapnathinullile sooryane ..
Kizhakkile chakavarthiyude sobha vazhithelikkunnathu swapnathil maathram
swathanthranaya ee kuthirayude adimathwathilekkulla thirichupookkine...


Njan oru kuthirayaanu..jeevashavamaayoru kalippattam..Enikku chaadaam,odaam,
shabdamundaakam..pakshe ellam oru thaakkolinte kanakkinanussarichu..,oru kurunnu
baalante manassinanussarichu..avane rasippikkuvan kazhinjal..avante viralukale
anussarikkan kazhinjal enikku kure neeram chalikkam..kalankamariyaathorukuttiyude
adimayaayi eere naal jeevanillathe jeevikkam..ente suhruthukkale...shashvathamaayoru
maranathe polum aagrahikkan avakaashamillatha ente ee janmam shapikkappettathalle...
Niraveettan aavathillatha Aashaakalum mohangalum ente manassil kumilukalaai pirann
anthimam parasparam thattichithari athmahathya cheyyunnathu shaapameetathinalalle..
avarozhukkiya chorathullikal polum adimakalaakunnathu shapikkappetta ente
manassinullile irunda shoonyathayilalle..Nikoodatha koodukoottiya vanangaliloode
paanju pokuvaan..Marangaleyum pakshikaleyum pinnilaaki kodumkaattinte gathiyepolum
athijeevichu oru kuthirayude lokathekku raapaarkkan..sharamazha peyyunna yudhabhoomiyileekku raajyatinaayi poruthunna sippaikalude naduvileekku, raajaakkanmareyum padathalavanmaareyum purathiruthi avasaana shwasathe sharangal thulachukeerumvare dheeramaayi poraadi maranamadayan oru kuthira aagrahichaal athil thettilla,pakshe oru kalippattam aaya kuthira aagrahichaal
athahankaaramaakunnathengane..Kalippatamenkilum kuthirayalle njanum..Enikku mathram
enthe aagrahangalkku neere kuda nivarthendivarunnathu...Enikkuchuttum maathram enthe
kudakkyu keezhe athimohangal nizhalikkunnathu..

Ennal, Kudaykku keezhile ANDHAKAARAM oru divasam enikku thannu, Irulil janichuveenu
shwethajwaalayayi valarunna swapnangalee..Kalippattamaaya njan annumuthal andhakaarathe
snehichu thudangi....kaaranam Swapnathil njan kalippattamalla..jeevanulla kuthirayaanu..
Njan adimathvatinte theerangalilalla, swaathanthriyathinte ananthasamudrathilaanu..
Vimokamaaya aa sundara swapnam vechuneettiya sowbhagyangale enikku nishedikakkan
kazhinjilla, yaadhaarthyathilekku oru madangipookkinu ente manassu madichu..
swapnavaathilukal orikkalum adayalle ennaashichu..pakshe ente mohangalkkethirayi
swapnasooryan swapnachakravaalathileekasthamichu thudangi..swapnavaathilukal adyaan
thudangi.swapnagale swanthamaakkunna swapnangal kanda njan, ente madagivaravinaay
kaathirikkunna yadharthyathe avaganichu..swapnalokathe sweekarichu..Vilangukal
pottichodunna kuttavaaliye pole njan odirakshappettu..Yaadharthyathinorikkalum
ethippedaan kazhiyaathathra doorangalilekku njan yathrayaay..pakshe, Aashakalum
Mohanglum niraveettiya santhoshathinte velicham amithavegam polinju..Kalippatamaay
jeevichirunna lokathorikalum anubhavappettittillathoru thalarcha ente shareerathe
aswasthamaakki..Marubhoomiyile mantharikal orittu mazhaykkayi kezunnathu pole ente
thondayum oru thullidaahajalathinay karanju..divasangal kadannu poyi..swapnathiloodeyum
narakathe praapikkam ennu njan manassilaakki...Vikruthmaayoru aantharikathe maraykkunna
ente swapnamohangalude kadanjedutha swaroopangalekkal ethrayo dhanyamaanu, roopamillatha
ente yaadarthyamohangal ennu njan manassilaakki..Vilaapaswarangal maathram paadunna ente
swapnamohangalude prathidhwanikalekkal ethrayodhanyamaanu, uumakalaya ente
prathyaashakal, ennu njan manassilaaki.Enne jeevanode njerukkunna ente swapnamohangalude
viralukalekkal ethrayo dhanyamaanu, maravicha ente yaadarthya ormakal ennu njan
manassilakki,Ennil ninnum chethana oottunna ente chethana niranja chalanangalekkal
ethrayo dhanyamaanu,oru kurunnu baalante chundilpirakunna punchiriyude maathru
janmam, oru paazhjadamaaya kalippaattathinte janmam...ennu njan manassilaakki...

         -----------------------------------------------------------------­

Vaathilukal pinnum thurannu.."Madangivaru kalippattame"..Kurunnu baalante chundil veendum
oru niranja punchiri pirannu...

                           -----Renjith Prahlad

January 16th: I am running in circles.
January 17th: Reality is just a figment of one's vivid imagination.
January 18th: The exit of the co2 from my lungs, to my mouth, and then the atmosphere. Expand and contract my brain. Expanding is new found knowledge and contracting is the loss of knowledge. Thus, my intelegence is relative to the amount of gasses in my brain.
January 19th: Secretly, you control me.
January 20th: Over the next two hours, you slowly drift back to reality. The once sea bound boat is approaching land and, with each passing wave, you are coming closer to sobriety.
January 21st: What is this love you speak of?  
January 22nd: A numbing sensation has paralyzed my arms. I can feel a million little creatures with in me. While they crawl beneath my skin, they leave their path of serenity. The ecstasy, that races to my heart. To touch my blood with a soft kiss and slowly warm my frozen body.
January 23rd: We will be forever hoping, forever wishing, and forever praying to find love. A feeling our primitive minds will never understand. In this age love will never be found because the passion that created us, has left this world.  
January 24th: Sometimes I feel like:
I am exiled by my own people, searching for another lost soul in this desecrated world. The only remnants I have of people are the skeletons of wanderers from long ago. Each lonely corpse I see I become more and more afraid. In fear, I run through this land of broken dreams. I am running in circles. I am lost. Back to where I began my quest I realize this land is hell and I am alone. In time I will soon become another lost soul. My desire to leave this place motivates me to keep walking. This keeps me sane. In the distance I see a figure shinning through my haze of hopelessness. Is this a hallucination? Or am I not alone in this world?
January 25th: Sights are sounds and sounds are sights.
January 26th: I am falling to apart trying to fix your broken heart.
January 27th: **** and be ******.
January 27th: The warmth of a fire can warm the coldest of hearts.
January 28th: In the rain, I carry no disguises.
January 29th - January 31st: I am relapsing

January 4th, 2013.
Her heart beats steadily, like the thumping rhythm of a drum. It always comforts me, when she lays her chest against mine and the steady thump thump fills my mind.
She has a super power, a way of telling when I'm distressed or angry or sad. She is my sun, in a world of rain. She's a special flower.

July 18, 2013.
I have seen subtle changes in my rose. She is not the radiant, ball of sunshine she used to be. Her eyes are sad, and her skin pale. I know she is keeping things from me, but I can not tell what they are. I won't force her to say anything, she will tell me when the time is right.

September 27th, 2014.
She sent me a letter.
Something was wrong.
I immediately rushed over to her home, worried sick about her. The letter was not like her. I didn't bother knocking, my anxiety overpowering any of my common sense.
I burst into her door, and stopped dead in my tracks. She hung from the ceiling, dangling by a rope around her neck. She appeared as she could've been asleep, if not for the unnatural way her neck was bent. The rosy glow from her cheeks was gone, and all I saw was the way her eyes stared, eerily into the darkness.
I don't remember anything else, but hearing the thump as my knees hit the floor, and the thump of my head.

??????
I do not know the date, the time, or even the year. I have not eaten in three days. My grief has swallowed me, making me feel like a tiny krill in the vast ocean.
My mind constantly hounds me about her death. I should've known something was wrong. Why didn't I know something was wrong?
With each thump thump of my heart, I sunk into a deeper and deeper depression. She deserves to be here. I don't.

??????
This is my last entry.
I am so, so glad that I can finally escape this misery of a life.
It sounds like music to my ears.
The click of the gun.
And the last thump thump of my empty heart.