Archive for November, 2012

The consequences of blogging are profound. Deep. Meaningful. Subliminal. They affect our daily behaviour; our nightly behaviour. And all the time in between. We as animals are very social humans. There is a need, deep within our loins. On the satisfaction of those needs, we find that we have some additional needs. That of propagating our propaganda through thoughts. Everything needs to be said, expressed, explained and voiced. It’s all a matter of voice, if you really go to see. The blogosphere has become our voice. It’s a place to be our self and enlighten the dark world with our wise words.

And so we talk. We talk about our thoughts, our daily activities, our social obligations, our relationships, our lack thereof, our needs and obviously of our pets. Everything we see, touch, eat, shit needs to be recorded on our personal-public diary. Because if it can be thought, why not written for the world to read.

And then the world becomes an agenda. Everything becomes the start of a new post. Your entire thought process becomes attuned to the search of a new post. The new post. Ah, the new post. Every facet of your existence can be a new post. And then the avalanche of questions begin.

“Is it good enough to share?”
“Would my followers like it?”
“How should I rewrite it to make it more relevant?”
“I wonder if my stats will show any change?”
“Should I share it on facebook to get more hits?”
“Should I write a book?”
“Should I write a post on writing a book?”

It’s a vicious circle. Questioning everything in the quest of a new post. The never-ending river, that will dredge your sanity. The world is there to experience. We end up creating experiences with an agenda. I’m sure it’s not the case with everyone. But deep down within our subconscious, it is. We forget the reason this also started. To let our voice be sounded out. But along the way, we let our voice change due to the sound. A classic case of ever-changing influences. A case of medium over matter.

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Fade out.

Posted: November 9, 2012 in Uncategorized

It’s dark. With spots of less darkness.

It’s still dark.

The dark shapes surround me. Light reflects off the shadows of the wild. A light here. A light there. The struggle to not be consumed. It’s a ray of hope. To become, within these overpowering forms, a lighthouse to nature. They are reflections of reflections. A trick of the dark. A companion to the silent waters that flow under your crossing. Those that try to capture and contain the light. It’s the subconscious of your beacon. The hazy, unknown, tempting lights of the midnight flow.

But it’s night. It’s dark. An abyss in the making.

And then we turn. The light of the night shines bright. The cratered glow that bristles on your neck. The white that softens the dark; that makes it welcoming. It shies away here and there. Vanishing behind those monstrous shapes, it reappears indistinct. The dark allows it to walk untouched, as always. It pierces the harshness of a black night. One that brings different hues of the black alive. It lets a slow mist linger over the clear gurgle that comes to our ears. It speaks aloud, “Why the hurry? Take your time. Explore when you return! And to guarantee your return, I gift you this view.”

I stop. I need to stop. It’s dark. It always is. Shadows dance; toy and play with my bearings. The warm reflections invite me into their depths. The shudder inducing shapes bend to my view. The silence of the noise leaps at me. And the midnight sun compels me to follow this route back.

Someday.

Soon.

Day 8 without a shower:

Day 1 through 7 has gone by in a daze. The smell is creeping up. It’s not strong enough to overpower the senses of passing tourists, but it has come to purge the area around my nose.

Deodorants mask the monstrosity that has become my physical being. But like all man-made things, it also fades away. All that is left for me is to follow the daze, to try forgetting the smell born out of laze.

The forests beckon me – “Come to us, the further you go from ‘cleanliness’, the more you feel clean”. It’s a call from the wild – Be wild. The smell will go. It’s cold; it always goes. It just dissipates. Just like all our worries. One more pull of that magical flute, and all your worldly associations are dulled out. It has become your rite of passage to the land of the uncultivated, the free, the wanderers, the helpless life-addicts. And there’s always a welcoming party.

When the elements sparkle orange, it’s a party. When the lungs squirm in agony and exhilaration, it’s a party. When eyes glaze over and thoughts play havoc, it’s a party. When the haze of cloudy vapour masks every smell, its a party. A party of liberating proportions. One just for my senses. With me as host, guest and entertainment.