A Painting On A Canvass

Like in a painting, but only sketched in blue, the sky is laid upon a seemingly dark canvass. The length of the canvass is actually a matter of debate. And also the shape. If it's limitless in length, it's not round in shape. If it's round in shape, it's not limitless in length. But the canvass is not always dark. When the sky is blue, it's very palpable to assume it to be dark. And when the sky is dark, the canvass must be colorless. The latter color is not very palpable. Because, it won't be too alien to consider that the dark sky does not portray any color at all. Instead, it can very well be that the dark sky is actually showing the canvass directly. In that case, the canvass must be a painting itself. So is the artist mad? Why would the artist paint upon an already painted canvass? And why does the canvass has to be a painting itself? A dark painting? Maybe the artist does not have an option. He has just got only one canvass to work on. Or...there might not be any artist at all. The canvass, might just be a canvass. And not at all a painting. It maybe that the canvass is like those things which changes its appearance, depending on the angle in which light falls on it. Yeah, that kinda solves the riddle. A canvass with two faces, both on the one side. Or...maybe there is indeed a canvass, upon which two paintings are done - one dark, one blue. And the paintings have been done in the same way as are those color-changing things. But then, what's the color of that canvass? Damn it. The riddle is not solved yet. More thought must be dipped into the pool of thinking. A lot more than as previously thought would be necessary.

Madness

Madness can be considered something like relative reality. While the outer world find the mad people mad, but to the mad people they might not find themselves mad at all. It’s not like when a person is looking into a mirror and thinking that the image might be staring back at him. But it’s rather like a writer who chooses to write like a mad person, and is thus considered mad by everyone else. While acting like a mad person, a not-mad person may become mad. But I am not saying that those who are considered mad by everyone else are not mad in real; they only act like so. Well if they really had done so, I would say they are the best actors in the world (the Earth and rest of the Universe). However, let’s come to the point: 

madness = relative reality 

How does the equation work? Let’s find out, shall we? While some group says that there are two realities - Relative Reality & Absolute Reality, the Buddhists say that the Absolute Reality is “nothing” id est what we see is what we believe to be true but actually there is nothing. But I don’t care about any of that. That’s too deep for me to dig with neurons and keypads. Instead, I’m going to introduce a new doctrine. Ha ha! Never mind that. Anyways, what I am saying is there is only relative reality. That is the reality we think is true. For example, suppose you are told that mushrooms are used as umbrellas by frogs. Since they look like umbrellas, you may find it very easy to believe that. So, whenever you would see a mushroom you can easily picture a frog sitting under it. That is, you believe that to be true, and that you do without any persistence. But it is not harming the world that what you know is just made-up. Frogs don’t use mushrooms as umbrellas. Those who know that know mushrooms are just umbrella-like fungi. So, here we find two realities: a) frogs use mushrooms as umbrellas b) mushrooms are nobody’s umbrella. These two realities are relative because each one when tested was found to be true. It is mainly because we already had a picture in our minds – mushroom as umbrellas & mushroom as mushrooms. Now if mushrooms are really used as umbrellas by frogs, the other group, who know that they are not, are not wrong; instead they just know a relative reality. The actual reality is only known by the frog, who either uses mushrooms as umbrellas or not. Hell with the frogs. No, not hell. Hell is already hellish. Hell with frogs will be too much hellish. Let’s spare the hell-dwellers, and Hel herself. Anywho, let’s get to the point, again. So, when we call somebody mad it is because a) we are taught that if somebody behaves in a particular way, he/she is mad b) we have set up a standard, and if anybody acts out of it he/she is mad c) we don’t really know, but we think that he/she is mad d) he/she is plainly mad. This is just one side of the coin. Let’s flip it.

*flips coin* 

*it falls somewhere & can’t be found anymore* 

*possibly the coin flipped but is now showing the first side still, but we can’t possibly know as it is lost; so let’s assume it has flipped and is now showing its other side* 

The other side of the coin shows what’s happening inside the head of the seemingly mad-person. The mad person is now possibly thinking that the world around him has gone mad. That people are behaving in certain ways in which only mad people behave. That people are not behaving by the standard he/she has set up. Or is it possible that the mad people (the ones we say are mad) can see and perceive realities in dimensions we are unaware of? Can they communicate to the worlds lying under the visible veil of the world we live in? Are the mad people really mad? Or they behave like that in order to guise their super human capabilities? Well, some move around naked. I don’t know how that guise works. I don’t know what more to say. Let’s end it here.

*gets up and goes to find the coin*

Masters

        Writing is an art. It is the art of shaping our thoughts into words. People practice this art all over this planet, and they do it everyday. But then why are some forms of this art regarded so special? What separates them from, for instance, this very piece of writing? People, who bring forth such epic works, know how to trap the charisma of their colorful thoughts into the hearts of dark letters. Thus their works become invincible, immune to the erosion offered by time and tide. Nevertheless, they are just ordinary people like ourselves. The only thing that separates us from them, is their heightened sense of the world around them. There remains no reservation that they are among the class of superhuman beings. For, they conquer our mind and soul with words that they painted out from their palate of consciousness. They offer beautification to the mundane sceneries of our day-to-day life. That is to say, they are the true masters of the art of writing.

Solar Soliloquy

        The Sun is one of our oldest friends. Form the very beginning, the Sun has been giving energy to our mother, Earth. In fact, Earth was formed from the Sun. So, in a way the Sun is our grandfather. In our solar system, the Sun is the oldest among the heavenly bodies. In various cultures, one Sun has been given many names. The Ancient Egyptians called the Sun Ra, who again had different names, as per the time of the day. The Ancient Greeks had two deities in this regard. One was a titan named Helios (from which we got the name Helium), who was later overthrown by the god Apollo (the old Romans called him the same, though scholars argue there was primarily a different Roman deity for the Sun). And according to the Vedic Mythology, the Sun was called Surya Deva. In all these cases, the sun god is said to be riding a chariot. Probably, Ra was exceptional, because he a rode a ship. However, all of them were male deities. Possibly only the Ancient Germans had a female deity for the Sun – Sól. Even she was said to be riding a chariot. Maybe chariots were a big hit in the old days. Although, deities are generally immortal, our grandfather Sun is not so. His days are limited. The age of the Sun is estimated to be around 9 billion years. And according to calculation, the Sun has already lived half his life. That is, the Sun is already 4.5 billion (approx.) years old. Thus in the next 4.5 billion years, the Sun will undergo dramatic changes, which would commence the end of our Solar System i.e. the end of our mother Earth, unless we kill her first. 

Clock Chronicles

        Clock is simply an instrument for measuring time. Although time is somewhat endless, we humans have figured out a way to trap it inside a box, sometimes circular ones. Time began with the birth of the universe. Time was there even before the first interactions among amino acids. But humans devised an instrument in order to keep a track of time some only 5000 years ago. Examples include the Stonehenge, Sundials, water-clocks, sand hourglasses etc. Some people believe the Stonehenge was built by the aliens. Though it is a matter of wonder, why aliens, being already a race far advanced than us, would stack up a bunch of 50 ton rocks for reasons still unknown. However, the mechanical clocks that we use today were designed in the 17^th century, possibly by Galileo Galilei. In those days pendulum was used to run a clock. Today we have clocks that exist simply as a liquid-crystal display. Clocks have actually put the ever-flowing time into a cage. And the cage is designed with numbers from 1 to 12. But time is not limited among these numbers. Even if all the clocks in the world stop ticking, time will still keep flowing. There is a phrase that goes like this “until the end of time”. That is to say, maybe time will be over someday, even if there would be no clock to announce it.

Someone listened, but did not see…

        The hour-hand of the clock was resting on the digit 3. Crickets were buzzing outside. And they appeared to be buzzing from every direction. But the hooting of the owls was coming from only one direction. And that was the direction of the forest. From the forest, other sounds were also heard. The sounds included those of the wolves. The spine-freezing howls of the wolves. The moon was full to the brim with moonlight. And that moonlight evaded the tranquility of the darkness that was primarily wrapped around the forest. As a result, the ivory sharp fangs of the wolves could be seen from distance away. But they were not visible from the high tower of the castle. Thus the eyes looking outside the window could not see any of the owls or wolves. Not even the crickets. Though they were possibly hiding somewhere behind the orange curtains that clung heavy and draped the window like a shawl. But the ears could listen to the buzz of the crickets, the hoots of the owls and the howls of the wolves.

Dragonfly

Lo!

Will you be my dragonfly?

I can see the faded Northern lights,

they mean no meaning to me,

I read Jules Verne to go around and see,

But the love I seek,

runs apace in the wake of the creek,

I wish the defeat of all won fights.

When my soul will go dry

of the remnants of the burning sands,

the swords lost their blade,

the unyielding laugh devoid of its glade,

but the stitches in rhyme is all I have,

lemme ask you beforehand,

will you be my dragonfly?

I wait for the sun to snow,

to melt down every scarecrow,

my glances die between the lanes,

it is remorse, I so proclaims,

but still I doesn't know why to comply,

in that case,

will you be my dragonfly?

It is you, I now relate,

I wish, to you I could escalate.

I remember the springs,

a strike for no bell that rings,

but I know you know,

I know not only the vow,

but when the distant stars

will trance as neighbors,

will you come, will you end,

what we began as a task,

You know it is you on whom I rely,

Love, I further ask,

Will you be my dragonfly?

When the clock will chime my time,

I will see if I can rhyme my rhyme,

I always try, perhaps cry too,

but I've a handful of torn pages,

which haunt me. "BooO!"

I should've learned how to exemplify,

the bushes that grow like thither,

thus I need to seek whether

will you be my dragonfly?

I have got a kidney, oHh no, but two,

a pair of lungs, as well,

all seem a meaningless gale,

old brain is left to do with the dos,

I tells that life is good,

I ask I, if it’s really I’s real mood,

I tells to live,

I know I wishes to be dead,

but the beauty of the end,

as time was in Babylon to spend,

but I needs to survive,

since I knows no way to revive

the dead soul,

a toll for all the gold.

I believe in surrealism,

I believe life's an opposite prism,

when darkness will show its glow,

it is then I will know,

the dragonfly will be you,

whatever excuse you might sew,

all my truth is a sheer lie,

kept true, so to be the best sly,

but the doubt is that,

you'lln't be on my side by,

the throne is empty,

nobody never hath,

as I see, I still can't deny,

as I ask you last,

will you be my dragonfly?