Tuesday, 12 November 2013

Rumi: The Eternal Wisdom

What do you think will happen?
Say, 'I am You'

The word, or the name Rumi in Arabic, literally translates into 'Roman' as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Balkhī lived at his time in what used to be Anatolia, subject to and part of the great Byzantine Empire. The word Mevlâna often attached as part to his name means "having to do with the master". He was a poet, a philosopher, and a Sufi mystic.

There is no question of a doubt that Rumi belonged, and still belongs, to the whole of humanity, and not to any religion, faith or nationality, as he himself wrote. It is indeed the greatest of all feelings, a much elated and divine one, to take the privilege to announce in words that one does not belong to any known boundaries marked by humanity itself. It is also the very heightened knowledge of one's understanding, one that touches to the very core of humanity's existence, the very essence of one's being, as part of humanity itself, in the first place.

Here is an example, from the book Rumi, Fountain of Fire, by Nader Khalili.

Ghazal: 838 
What Do You Think Will Happen?

If you can't go to sleep,
my dear soul,
for tonight,
what do you think will happen?

If you pass your night
and merge it with dawn
for the sake of heart,
what do you think will happen?

If the entire world
is covered with the blossoms
you have labored to plant,
what do you think will happen?

If the elixir of life
that has been hidden in the dark
fills the deserts and towns,
what do you think will happen?

If because of
your generosity and love
a few humans find their lives,
what do you think will happen?

If you pour an entire jar
filled with joyous wine
on the heads of those already drunk,
what do you think will happen?

Go my friend
bestow your love
even on your enemies...
If you touch their hearts
what do you think will happen?

Obviously, there are two different levels from where the answers might come to these questions. On the lower level, if all of those things were to happen, nothing special or noteworthy will come out as a result. Nothing will happen. Time will move on; Life will continue. But on a higher level, everything will happen all at once; the transformations will be immense and extraordinary, beautiful and divine. I become humble, I flood my surroundings with all the love until I empty my heart, until I weep, both body and soul, until I melt, until I become the ocean... There will be both longing and belonging, both earthly and divine, both humane and godly... AND THERE WILL NOT ONLY BE ME WHO WILL MOULT AND CHANGE; SOMEONE ELSE OR MANY OTHERS WILL ALSO UNDERGO SIMILAR TRANSFORMATIONS.

[As an explanation, if i were to be sleepless for one night, then i might be playing ten thousand ideas inside my head; i might be writing a beautiful poem; a humane story; or sharing the night with someone under the stars... the possibilities are endless... And there is not only one question in this poem, there are many... of immense meaning and importance. There is an IMMENSITY in its implications.]

Truly, these questions are for the seeker at heart: the address made to the soul is a divine address made to the seeker, to the whole of humanity itself. These are the questions one must ask, to oneself, and then also be the wanderer in search of the answers, and find them.

[I want to know how God created this world. I am not interested in this or that phenomenon, in the spectrum of this or that element. I want to know His thoughts; the rest are details. -Albert Einstein]

To compose and to write what can be no other than the greatest of all truths, I believe one needs to have gone through an enormous metamorphosis in life itself; one that has foreseen the greatest of upheavals. One has to rise above reason, above belief, above logic, and cross all physical barriers to see and sense things that are eternal. 

I love one of Rumi's poems beyond all others, not because I love poetry and compose one or two at times but because of the enormity of the truth it carries across humanity's ages. Perhaps it possesses the ability to touch my heart also because of its eternal wisdom, or because I have had some great upheavals in my own life, I do not know. Whatever the reason I find myself in this poem, I am perhaps attempting to be a fool by looking at it from a perspective I should not have ever dared to envision... It would be a folly to look at something eternal that way, but so be it with this Rumi's poem titled "Say, 'I am you'."

I am dust particles in sunlight,
I am the round sun.

(What are each of us essentially? Chemicals, compounds, molecules, atoms, elements? Dust... just as the sun is made of... from the smallest, the particle of dust, to the largest, the star as the sun...)

To the bits of dust I say, 'Stay'.
To the sun, 'Keep moving'.

(I, even though dust in essence, wish to live longer, hence stay longer; wish to have more, wish to possess the best, the most... but what do I wish for the sun, the only source of energy to all life-forces on earth? To keep moving, to go away... Yet, what else can I do for it? It has to move on, it is treading along a cosmic path I can only wonder at...)

I am the morning mist,
and the breath of evening.

I am the wind at the top of a grove,
and the surf on the cliff.

(I am human imagination... I am the air laden with freedom... I love to wander... I love to explore, to play, to be aloft of things at times... but I am also life itself...)

Mast, rudder, helmsman, and keel,
I am also the coral reef they founder on. 
I am a tree with a trained parrot in its branches.

Silence, thought, and voice.

The musical air coming through a flute,
a spark of stone, a flickering in metal.

Both candle and the moths crazy around it.
Rose, and the nightingale lost in the fragrance.

I am all orders of being, the circling galaxy,
the evolutionary intelligence, 
the lift,
and the falling away.

What is, and what isn't...

Rumi: Page on Wikipedia

Rumi's poems belong to humanity and are not copyright protected to a great extent except, perhaps, some translations.

One can find many books on Rumi at http://www.allbooksfind.net/book-shelf-r/rumi-books-free-download/ 

Books on Sufism and books by Rumi can be found here as well:

Rumi's poems in translation can also be read here:

My Favourite "Rumi" on YouTube

1. Poem of the Atoms

2. Say I am You

Do a "google" search on Rumi, for more.

(All text except the poem by the author; with partial opinions and analysis in brackets. 'What Do You Think Will Happen' translated from Persian by Nader Khalili. 'Say I Am You' translated--or rather, transliterated--by Coleman Barks. The end of the poem has been omitted here where Rumi asks the reader to tell him he is Rumi, or to see Rumi within himself while introducing [while giving an introduction]. Image copyright of their respective owners, if any. Videos of Rumi's poems on this blog are linked and are not mine.)

Wednesday, 23 October 2013


'S*** you, man!' he expressed his feelings.
'No need to,' I told him, 'I already have been.'
'F***!' he swore.

A long time ago, a boy stood on a chair, looped his vest on to the bamboo rafter of the ceiling in his room, and tied it around his neck. Then he kicked the chair and hung there for a brief second. The sweat-eaten cotton of his vest gave way and he fell hard on the floor below, narrowly escaping the edges of the fallen wooden chair.

But he got a rather painful bum that made him weep without opening his mouth. When he got through it after a while, he cursed rather bitterly. There was no rope he could use.

The pain lasted the following couple of days.

Then a day came when he drank out of a toilet cistern. 'Shit!' he cursed after letting his stomach cool down a bit. He had no money to buy water in the concrete jungle, and there was no friend.

The next day, he had no money to pay for the books even though the exams were just around the corner. He could not prepare himself to have them taken. He said quit. Then he cursed again.

Then the next day, he went to mix concrete with a shovel. The landlord made him dig a big seven feet deep hole in the ground after the work hours were already over. No extra payments. He got drenched in the end, and when he got out of the hell-hole his legs felt shaky, and his back ached. He cursed himself this time, and did not say a word.

After that, he got a series of electric shocks so much so that he now could sense it in his fingers even though it was not there. He got thrown from a standing drum while chipping the walls and fitting wires, catching one of his fingers between the metal rim and his own weight. The finger went numb that evening. Then it swelled like a sausage. The hand felt like fire the next morning. Then he got a fever that evening, and needed to swallow the bitter-tasting paracetamol tablets.

It did not stop!

The nail turned blue, still feeling like a red hot ember and then after about three days the pain subsided a little. Then the nail went dead.

'Damn! He cursed just the same.

The nail took three months to fall off like a dead leaf in winter.

Then the devil came; once, twice, many times over. And there was no money to buy the medicine that could have lead it to another path. He nearly went mad.

It was just about the time when one of his friends committed suicide, hanging by a shoe-lace from a window railing.

'F***!' He cursed that evening.

But it stopped by itself, appearing only once or twice a year; but when it came it came with blood all the same. Bright red streaks that hurt, and the sight of it frightened him a lot.

Then one day, it felt like it was too much. He had read a book before, but this time it meant for real. He swallowed ten tablets with water, there being no money to buy a drink that would have made it easier.

That evening his head started to buzz like a hive of bees. His ears went crazy like hell, buzzing things all the time into his head.

Night buzzed, and the sleep buzzed. Morning buzzed, afternoon buzzed, and the evening buzzed, too. His heart pounded and slowed a little, but did not stop. 'Shit!' He cursed from time to time, in his hazy sleeps as well as his foggy mornings and afternoons.

The buzzing took away hunger and he did not feel like eating a thing. It continued for more than a week. And then it left only a horrible experience behind.

 'Shit! Shit!' He continued cursing.

The buzzing would just as appear and disappear from time to time over the rest of his life. And he would keep cursing.

'I don't believe you,' he said.
'You don't need to,' I told him. 'What happened, just happened.'
'Damn!' he retorted his disbelief again in the end.

Friday, 11 October 2013

Midnight's Allegory

[This blog-post is completely personal and has been taken from my own experience. It does not in any way indicate to any relationship with any person, living or dead, except that it is completely an allegory used to express my own personal experiences. Friends from my ever-growing circle have also appreciated my poetic compositions rather sincerely and I have been unable to refrain from giving them a taste from a completely different corner of my heart. Part of an on-going work of poetic expressions/compositions, I hope I shall be able to bring this piece together with others out in a book-like format, probably on amazon/kindle as it is my only platform/option of choice. Yes, heartache has been a rather genuine and wonderful fertilizer for creative outlets in my life's experience. My support for all of you stands in that wild river of bitterness you have experienced. See, whether mine is in confluence...]

***   ***   ***

Talk about bliss, a burden you have always felt like.
O wild weed, of life, what pleasure are you?
Thrice I had hung on the edge; thrice you shied away.
O friend among friends, what measure are you?

A Guest of Love, you can’t be shunned away; you can’t be sold!
O dark net of miracles, what treasure are you?
Felt like fire from hell, you have, felt like a poisoned arrow.
Far, far deep you have cut; what razor are you?

Of joy you haven’t carved a line: so blank a book, what eraser are you?
The meadow that might have been isn’t any green today; what grazer are you?

No turning back, no running away! What game of chance, what wager are you?

*** *** ***

You can read another allegory, of beauty and of love this time, at

 ***   ***   ***

[This composition was actually done during the midnight hours of the 9th of October, 2013. I could not sleep that night. There was a visit from the Devil for the second time in the last 3 months, and I just remained tossing and turning in my bed. It was too much to bear. I sketched these lines and the morning I got out of bed, I was drenched in sweat as if I had taken a shower! It really felt painful, and horrible... As this is a part of my life's experiences, the work is copyright protected. Midnight's Allegory is actually a series of on-going compositions by the author. © 2013, Subarna Prasad Acharya. Reviews need to be accompanied by references to the author.]

Sunday, 6 October 2013

A Look Inside Daughter of a Watermill

[brief analysis of a portion together with an excerpt] 

I found out that I had eaten the forbidden but it cannot be undone now. I am growing older day by day and the events, the occurrences, about and around me foretell that I do not have much to live. Not that I am that old though, or am suffering from a disease or malady of the general sense, but perhaps because having eaten the forbidden. And that may be the worst one can ever suffer; far more and far worse than a life-threatening disease... Ask why, the culture in which I was born and brought up does not believe otherwise.
Because of that one act, the forbidden has assimilated into my system, inside out, outside in. Part of me now, and my tale, I have dedicated a poem to the whole thing in repentance and for forgiveness, with a firm belief that perhaps I would be spared all the torments sooner or even, as an option of kindness, my sufferings would get lessened. But it still continues.
Read More Here
I am unable to get a proper sleep, my days are being haunted. I am finding myself dead every night, every snippet of sleep stealing into me. I am leaning more and more towards the divine and raise the inner arms of my soul in supplication for mercy, and for forgiveness. Perhaps a little merit I garner from the process would make me deserving to ask for a little reduction when the final verdict is delivered to me….. (Note: The pronoun "I" used here is not indicative of person, but rather it signifies a character. It is used to describe the experiences of the character concerned. The story in concern may not necessarily be in first-person narrative.)

***   ***   ***
Sabitri noticed him paying the boy as she walked along the pavement carrying morning meal for him. As the boy darted across the street, he turned, noticed her, and smiled. She felt awkward: he was her husband of years. Why should he smile at her, at this age, as if he was a young man and she a teenager? No doubt, he’s changed again after that eclipse over his brow. ‘(You’ve) Come smiling. What so strange has happened today?’ He flattered her with an unbelievable smile. Yes, unbelievable, of the man muted only yesterday.
‘You know, I saw an insect moult today,’ she replied, ‘and saw it shed a skin.’
‘Is that a good enough reason to smile along? Well, perhaps it is. After all it’s living its life, and life’s a rather precious thing. Don’t mind.’ He sat down on the small mat, his shoes taken off at some distance, towards his back. ‘So you’ve seen an insect moult, aye?’
‘I also noticed a seedling,’ she added, not answering his question of surprise or that of curiosity if that was one. Her husband sometimes asked too many questions like an innocent child as if he knew nothing. And she liked him more for that. He was learned also, and possibly wise too, but not with cunning as was natural to most men. He was her artless husband and she sometimes loved to play with his simplicity even if she hardly knew to read or write her own name.
‘What seedling?’ he asked, startled. ‘I mean, in this cold of winter?’
‘Probably an orange pip has germinated, or a lime seed, in the flower pot. It’s so small, it’s difficult to know which one it is.’
‘It’s orange. I know it’s orange. I’d thrown all the seeds from an orange into that pot last time. Which pot was it?’
How can he be so sure it’s orange. Sabitri questioned to herself. The pots are moved from this side to that side, placed and replaced and exchanged. It all depends upon his moods, the full moon, the no moon... ‘It’s on this side of the doorway—’
‘Which side?’ he quickly asked.
‘This side, ké, this side. The one in which there was aloe before.’
‘Leave it, leave it. Maybe it’s lime, or orange...’ his cheerfulness vanished now that he could not be sure and certain, but it returned once again. ‘So you saw a seedling on the pot? Hhhmmmmm!’ The aloe had already been re-potted in another because the previous pot had looked rather small for its size and now there were few empty pots as well. Empty of any specific plant, that is, and anything could germinate and grow in them. But neither orange nor lime. The pot would be too small for either of them when they grew. Had they germinated in open soil, they would keep growing, produce branches, flower, and fruit. A gift of heaven... Aye, wait! Adhikari had a flash. He hurriedly finished eating and left the empty box for his wife to take back home. ‘Beginning to feel a bit hungry these afternoons,’ he reminded her.
‘In winter it’s always so; one feels more hungry because of the cold.’ She reminded him of  the fact.
‘Could you make some rotis and prepare potatoes? Something like the sort?’ he asked.
Sabitri sensed he was up at something again, nodded in affirmation, and left with the empty lunchbox. He couldn’t be dating a damsel at this grey age of his, could he?
Read More Here
Were it a mango... he continued thinking, a banana or a papaya seedling. Anyway, a seed has germinated, sprouted out, pierced the earth and emerged itself into the air, the sky, the light of the heavens. It doesn’t matter what plant or tree it gives rise to, or has the potential. Were it in soil—not in the pot, that is—it would grow, spread branches, produce buds, flower, fruit. And it would cast a shade. Adhikari quickly grabbed a sheet and scribbled lines in it. After finishing, he went through the lines again and again in amazement and chuckled gleefully. Some came so smooth and so easily while others turned you into a different man altogether before they were readable. In ten minutes, for example, this seed-germination-life poem was finished without much effort. In comparison, the buffalo poem had taken three days completely, and disturbed his nights’ sleeps as well. Ah, poetry; poetry! He went through the lines again and satisfied, folded it and shoved it into his pocket; there were now two in it. Adhikari smiled within himself, his gladness visible on his face that has appeared to be brighter. He knew well that there was no end, no finis, to a composition or a creativity of words; the revisions through time could become endless but for the time being two had been done well and they could be filed or trans-written onto his third poetry note-book and read from time to time, to feast himself, to relax his eyes and mind, and for possible improvements. The loose pages and sheets of paper that were now in his pocket could, after they were copied over with dates, then be burnt or shredded, disposed of one way or the other. Adhikari brightened up and became cheerful; he was happy now, at least for the time being.

***   ***   ***

(This material, as always, is provided free on the internet. But as always, it is copyrighted.) 

Monday, 2 September 2013

My Survival Knife

I love carrying a knife with me, in my pocket or my bag, even when I'm home. Whenever I am out of home, I always carry a knife along not just because it can be of use, sure it has always been, but because it just feels like I have a trustworthy companion there, always within my reach, and always with me.

no-brand_for references only
But what is there in a knife which makes me feel so secure and comfortable carrying one around? Why do I carry a knife in the first place?

For me throughout the years, a knife has been a constant source of companionship and security. It has always been a great tool that is rather trustworthy. Without it I just feel insecure. I have never used the blade of a knife to injure or kill in the first place, never as a weapon -- I simply hate violence -- but then I have also gone through countless occasions in which a knife had been simply indispensable. Here is a small list of things, among many others, I have employed my knife to achieve:

1. Peel and chop fruits and vegetables
2. Cut through ropes and twines
3. Make walking sticks in the mountains out of bamboo and branches
4. Peel insulation from wires in remote areas
5. Drill holes through and make depressions in various types of wood
6. Skin, dress and clean a whole goat once in the remote mountains
7. Peel bark from trees for cordage
8. Split wood
9. Carve
10. Cut and tear through plastic sheets, clothing materials, fabrics, nylon straps, etc.  

And here is what I seek in a good quality survival knife:

1. A good sharp cutting edge
2. A certain thickness that provides me with assurance while working with wood and plant materials
3. A reasonable tip-point that can be reasonably employed as a spear-tip if need be
4. A certain toughness that even if it falls from a reasonable height on a rock by accident it should not break into pieces like glass.

5. A certain hardness that when I put the knife to chop or hack at branches, or even bones, the blade should not go dull.
6.  A certain flexibility in the blade material as well as the design of the blade: it should be able to hack, chop, slice, peel as well as being able to flex somewhat under pressure than break completely.
7. A full tang that extends to the very butt end of the handle
8. A reasonable grip and a solid hefty feel
9. A solid pommel (butt-end of the handle)
10. A reasonably sized eye (or a lanyard hole)at the butt end of the handle to tie a cord for extra safety so that even if the knife slips from my hand, I still have a line to which the knife clings (losing a knife in the field is not an option). The same rule applies while carrying the knife in a sheath or belt.
11. It should be easy to sharpen and re-sharpen with rocks available freely in nature and yet it should hold its cutting edge for reasonable limits of usage and time
12. It should be easy to maintain and at least, to some extent, have rust-proofing

khukuri_with_scabbardIn my home country, options are really limited as the market is not freely competitive. Branded knives are really not available apart from the world-famous folding/pocket Swiss Army knives. They are neatly foldable, easy to carry, have multi-tools attached and the authorities feel relaxed with them. However, they are really not meant for heavy-duty tasks demanded by survival situations in the field where people almost invariably carry a Khukuri knife on them. However, for a person who is not a traditional villager carrying a khukuri is not practical as a khukuri is basically designed for extra heavy-duty work such as chopping and cleaving firewood, and butchering all sort of animals, large or small. Moreover, a khukuri is rather cumbersome to carry on a city person, weighs very heavy, and its handle does not feel very ergonomic in one's hand. It is legendary, hefty, world famous because of the British Gurkha soldiers and Indian Army, and at the same time, not so easy or comfortable to carry on one's person on a daily basis. It is designed as a farming and household utility tool, mainly to hack, chop and slash. Smaller ones are available, but as they are the mirror images of the big brothers, they are difficult to use as knives comfortably. 

So what do I do?

I make a small, customized knife. And who made it for me? I did it myself.

What with? A piece of scrap metal bought from a junk-collector, an old Chinese-made angle grinder that did not simply forget to die quickly like its siblings and continues to run despite being badly broken at many places, a couple of grinding wheels together with sanding wheels that fit into that angle-grinder and sandpapers, a stainless steel ruler, and a lot of drawings with pencil on paper. A piece of wood taken from a carpenter's was used for the handle. A pair of aluminium rivets to fix the wooden handle to the knife. Not to mention, days of labour with intermittent breaks filled with tiredness.  Oh, and a couple of circular discs that got eaten away during the process. Couple of carbon, too, but being a DIY guy I simply fashion carbon contacts from used and spent battery rods (spent size C batteries).

Is it serviceable? It is not rust proof as it is home-made with cheap materials but it is rather hard and tough and can be sharpened easily with a Grindwell Norton 6" standard two-grade sanding stone that is manufactured in India (while at home), or with a suitable stone available everywhere along the trail. Imitation copies are widespread in the market but no other stones are available in any other size and it cannot be carried in a pocket (It fits in a pocket but is rather heavy).

A night without a knife under my pillow is just simply another rather sleepless night, even at home.

I don't know why.

If you can buy a good knife that meets your requirements, then by all means do so. If you cannot find what you need in the market, then make one for yourself. Here is a link to an article that contains basic but good knife-making instructions. Check it out for yourself:

(The first image in this post is taken from an expired US registered patent of 1959. Patent No. 186021. The second image is taken from artofmanliness website at http://www.artofmanliness.com/trunk/687/gorkha-soldier-saves-girl-from-rape-and-takes-on-40-train-robbers-with-only-a-khukuri/  retrieved September 11, 2013. Image copyright of its respective owner/s.)

Wednesday, 24 July 2013

The Unhappiness Pill

Bitterness Within our Hearts: The Inner Journey We All Need to Undertake

(This item, like all others, was originally copyrighted. So, please quote the author and other details in your reviews.)

Who is unhappy?

If I was to ponder upon the question I would be an idiot, a fool. People are not always happy with things and turn of events as they are. The right way to put that question then would have been: Who is not unhappy? Either way, every human being on earth is unhappy for one reason or another: it's a much bitter pill we all have to swallow. Given that there are more than 7 billion people that inhabit the blue planet we call our home, there are just as many varied reasons why people are unhappy. I list some of my major findings below.

(Please note that owing to human nature and also to the similarities they share, many of the following appear related, from one to the other down the list. Mistakes are mine, of course.)

01. Loss (opposite to Profit) / Debt
02. Sorrow (hundreds of causes)
03. Pain/injury/torture (physical or mental)
04. Poverty (opposite to Opulence)
05. Humility/scorn/contempt/derision/mockery
06. Oppression/subordination/non-compliance
07. Slavery (hundreds of forms)
08. Exploitation (hundreds of manners)
09. Deception/accusation/cunning/knavery/guile
10. Stigmatisation (hundreds of forms)
11. Conflict/dissonance/discord/dissent/disagreement/war
12. Exclusion/social avoidance/rudeness/discourtesy
13. Unemployment
14. Depression/hopelessness/desperation/cheerlessness
15. Defeat
16. Rejection/confutation/negation
17. Dejection
18. Disability
19. Misfortune
20. Disadvantage/difficulty/adversity
21. Disaster (natural)
22. Separation (by death or otherwise)
23. Obstruction/hindrance/opposition/disturbance/deterrence/dissuasion
24. Illiteracy
25. Blindness/darkness
26. Inability
27. Suffering/injury/affliction/psychological trauma
28. Infirmity/weakness/disease
29. Injustice
30. Insanity
31. Insomnia
32. Uncertainty
33. Ageing
34. Indecision/vacillation
35. Enmity (low chances of reconciliation)
36. Irritations (trivialities: rain, heat, cold, snow, etc.)
37. Hunger/famine
38. Emptiness/despair/desolation
39. Sexual urge (unsatisfied)/celibacy
40. Threat (to life or otherwise) / robbery
41. Failure
42. The present (situational awareness)
43. Unfulfilled and unsatisfied wishes/desires/dreams/hopes
44. Stagnation (lack of progress/change)
45. Helplessness (you foresee events but are unable to change the course of their flow, for example)
46. Lack of answers (to many questions like why, who, when, where, how, what, etc.)
47. Lack of self respect (the condition and look of one's face, body, limbs, organs, etc. or the experiences one has undergone)
48. Problems (without solutions. There are many in real life that cannot be solved.)
49. Forgery/counterfeiting/spuriousness/faking/falsity
50. Fear/fright/cowardice
51. Chaos/disorder/irregularity/turbulence
52. Death
53. Imperfection/incompleteness/deficiency
54. Others (being a refugee, for example)

Do you think you have something else that can be added to this list? Please post as comments if you have anything to say or add to. Thanking you, as always...

Saturday, 11 May 2013


the world is beautiful,
stunningly beautiful
like a rainbow
on a butterfly's back
heavily loaded
against green, blue, grey
all orange and indigo...
what ride! what joy!!

or is it ugly,
cruel, burdensome, horrifying...?
one drop that mutilates --
red, all red --
all significance of innocence.
dead of the night -- silence;
poverty, fate, compulsion...
all overpowering
the truth of my experience,
the essence of my being, my very existence.

the i victimized, the i full of endurance
does not like arguments of colour:

the world is not beautiful.

(23rd April, 2013. Tue, Ktm.)