Cosmonaut

Disconnected

2009-04-19T14:22:00.003+06:00

"I love you."

"Do you?" she asked, idly stirring her coffee, still staring intently at the T.V.

"Yes," he said dispassionately. "More than anything."

He stifled a yawn and casually picked a fingernail. He then proceeded to gaze absentmindedly around the room. Since this is just about the most exciting thing Jack will do, a description of the room is warranted.

it was tastefully modern, which is to say it was soulless - the exact replica of a model living room in a catalogue. A black leather couch sagged lazily into the floor. A simple coffee table in light wood rested on the darker wood floor. Tiny recess lights lit strategic parts of the room, while the flat-screen T.V. bathed the room in a paler glow. In the corner, a tall, sleek vase containing a taller, sleeker ornamental lily, like a delicate dancing figurine - solitary, silent and sterilized. Spartan and stylish, angular and precise, characterless and blunt, it was a room with no mystery, a room one could not possibly be captivated by or lose oneself in.

Jack-the-living-room-personified quite suddenly and unexpectedly began feeling strange. He began to suspect that something was off, something was not right. It was a half formed idea niggling at the back of his mind, some slight yet noticable dissatisfaction. For a moment he thought the lighting in the room was at fault, or that some piece of carefully aranged furniture was facing the wrong wall. But the faint yet feverish buzzing of an elusive and profound observation still lingered in his ears. He frowned.

For the first time Jack was close to becoming conscious of the long stifled cries or his own diminished and life-starved soul.

But a promise is a promise, therefore no, Jack will not be making fascinating remarks on the futility and emptiness of his life. He will be missing this chance to have an epiphany today, because as it turns out, he has a rather important dentist's appointment at four.

Dentist's at four. The memory effectively drove the shadow of a meaningful thought from his mind, a bit like a hand waving away a mildly annoying fly.

He took a crack at his relationship again.

"Kiss me."

"In a minute."

A pause.

"That's horrible."

"Really? It's not that bad. I've always enjoyed it. Haven't you?"

"Hmm?" She looked at him. "What are you talking about?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about these murders. A whole family in one night. Five people. Three of them children. Their bodies were mutilated. They just showed pictures. It was awful."

"Yes, I can imagine."

He couldn't.

Another short silence. A cartoon danced on screen advertising cereal.

"Well? It's been a minute," said Jack.

An inquiring glance.

"You said you'd kiss me. After a minute."

"Oh," she smiled.

She kissed him. The news came back on.

Silence. The buzzing again. He was uncomfortable. He looked at her. He wasn't comforted.

"I think wwe should break up."

She turned towards him, eyebrows raised.

"I thought you said you loved me."

"Probably imagined it," he shrugged. "And anyway, did you ever care?"

She looked at him for a few seconds with hollow intensity, mildly troubled.

"Of course. I've always cared."

She turned back to the T.V., frowning slightly.

Jack gave a satisfied nod. Neither, really, had he.

2009-01-20T22:33:00.000+05:00

If the world is cruel, it's the world's fault.

When My World Stands Still

2008-09-07T11:15:00.000+06:00

As I sit here simply wondering,
What, where, when, and mostly why?
With the blank light of the screen,
And my fingers on the keys.
I listen to a song in loop,
I stare into a corner.
I let the cursor stop and blink,
The music rise and fall.
I let my heart drown in the sound,
I let the dark room disappear.

I let the emptiness descend,
For then, my world stands still.

I do not bother with a rhyme,
For I am not inspired.
I do not bother to sit and think,
For time is thought in motion.
And since time is out to lunch,
I have nothing to feed my soul.

I wonder if this helps?

When the clock forgets to tick,
When people forget to breathe,
When our hearts just fail to beat,
When everything simply sinks,
Into despair, a kind of listlessness,
A kind of torpor of the being.
And the being is the Earth,
And the Earth is sluggish, heavy.
And you wear existence like a cloak,
Slipping from your shoulders.
Only it's departure is a different weight entirely.

This is when, for me, the world stands still.

I am not awake,
Nor am I asleep,
The cloak slips down, down...
It waits, it holds it's breath.
And when I try to slip out completely,
It plays with me, and holds on fast,

And then, quite as suddenly,
It throws itself back on.

The spell is broken, the wakening rude,
The world's heart beats around me.
The clock ticks on,
And life moves forward,
Now the world awaits me.

I feel cold.

Raindrops

2008-07-10T22:33:00.006+06:00

Raindrops falling from the sky,
Are split apart in death,
They always shatter on the ground
Yet they go up and fall again.

A raindrop is a raindrop,
Multiplied by two.
Do you think those raindrops,
Are in love, both one and two?

How sad and brief is love's embrace,
How sudden is their parting.
And fitting for their state and life,
In the end, they burst into tears.

How many raindrops do you see?
How many can you count?
How many of those can you catch and keep,
Within an outstretched palm?

How simple is the raindrop's life!
It simply has to fall.
How pitiful its simplicity!
For it must always fall.

Some say a raindrop is a tear,
Shed by an aging sky.
Some say a raindrop is a token,
Of a cloud's silent good-bye.

But still some say that rain is just
A symptom. Nothing more.
Of clouds that find the air too cold,
And so precipitate to the floor.

They fall to the ground and scatter,
They are swayed easily by the wind,
They may glint a bit, slightly in the sun,
But really, what does it matter?

A raindrop can be angry, strong,
A raindrop can be joyful.
A raindrop can be soft and sad,
Invisible, as glass.

A raindrop must fall to the ground,
For there it must finally perish.
It's fate is doom, it's life must end,
And yet, what does it do?

It glitters in the sun with joy,
It clings lovingly to its friends,
It is noisy when it feels the need,
It is quiet when it doesn't.

It lives its life without control,
But not with lifeless silence.
So if raindrops don't have poetry,
Then my friend, neither do we.

Mist and Rain

2008-07-10T21:26:00.004+06:00

The rain was churning the lake into a fine spray, a mist that swept into the city, a huge mass rolling in, ominous as the storm clouds above it, yet soft and silent. Slowly blotting out the buildings, one after the other, suddenly and quietly. Smothered lies the city now, and darkened is the sky. Some might stand with fluttering, frightened hearts, but not me. Not I.

The rain is all that cuts it, but the rain is only part of it. The mist is pressing up against the glass. It cannot enter, so it knocks. A raindrop. Now two. It cannot enter. The rain is stronger. It cannot enter. It knocks with abandon. Yet no one listens. No one pities. Both mist and rain want shelter from the wind.

The wind masters them, tosses them, blows them off course, first this way, then that. It is merciless and biting, cold and strong, and the rain is at it's mercy, as is the billowing mist.

So they knock at every door, both mist and rain, and the wind does follow. They smother all in search of shelter, not finding, they depart, leaving Church spires wet, and windows hazy.

They come towards me. I see them coming. I wait for their embrace. The streetlights are flickering, beneath the roiling mist. The sky is ringing with claps of thunder, and exploding into shards of lightning, beyond the approaching curtains of rain.

The mist is coming. It has drowned the world already. It presses against the glass. It knocks, quite gently, twice.

It raps quickly, desperately.

It breaks upon the window, battering it, hammering it, but not shattering it, no.

I open it.

A wave washes over me, as fresh and strong as one from the storm tossed lake that lies outside the city. A wet, cool spray. It surrounds me. The rain pours in. It drowns me.

I stand silent in a tempest that is terrible in its joy, its chaos loud, overwhelming. But I let it overwhelm. It is angry. Let anger pass.

The mist is all around me. It has fallen silent. My room is no longer my own. The mist becomes all I know, damp and swirling, slowly curling, around my legs, my arms and eyes. It has me. It holds me. It overwhelms me. It drowns me.

Ah, what a feeling! To be drenched in the rain, and drowning in the mist!

Cosmonaut

2008-05-30T02:51:00.002+05:00

The sights are soundless
The windows clear

The men are speechless
Overwhelmed with fear

The stars are quiet
The planet's near

Earth cannot whisper
We cannot hear

Blue soft-blown silence
World's vision dear

And so with bated breath
We leave her here

For the myriad lands beyond.

Surreality

2008-04-21T22:14:00.003+05:00

A dark shadow crossed his mind, a cloud of turbulent ideas. They shifted with unease, disturbed by light and wind, brooding as they formed strange shapes, as if uncertain of what to do. A flash of lightning and they decided to precipitate. Cascading drops of happiness fell to the grassy plain, which began sprouting musings and emotions as the earth does flowers in spring.

But then it changed. The rain boiled and reddened, forming rivers of horrible, poisonous blood frothing with despair and pain.

Poetic way to look at it, really. The rush, the ecstasy, the freedom. And then the pain, the fear, the misery and self-disgust. His eyes opened, and after a while he began to see.

From his place amongst the garbage cans, the smell of which he was now immune to, he watched as people walked by. People; the grotesque, the masses, the world. The drab greys, the depressing colours, the silly, fruitless exploits of their lives. Walking ashes, soon to be dust.

(to be continued)

Crippled by Life

2008-04-15T23:59:00.001+05:00

Silence is when your head is screaming,

Silence is when the world is dead.

Silence is when your dreams are fading,

Leaving you alone instead.

Patience is in life, your friend,

In death, just as before.

And when your heart is silent then,

Be fearless, be patient,

There might be more.

Heaven blessed, or hell-fire doomed,

This world is no more yours.

Unadorned you will remain at last,

Composed of happiness and woes.

And when the test is taken then,

What will you remember?

Will it be the dreams once held?

Or the day you lost them?

Will it be the days when life was love?

Or time under grief and shadow?

Will it be the hope of a good today?

Or the expectation of tomorrow?

Will it be the justice you did to others?

Or the justice done you?

Will it be the memories of bonds longstanding?

Or the death of all you loved?

What will you be thankful for?

But for transitory joy and pain?

For the purpose first conceived?

Or the aim that last was lost?

Which would you be glad of more?

A life of greater feeling?

Or a life that you did lead,

With virtue and good faith?

Further more, why even ask?

Could the two not simply be?

Must it be one, without the other?

Could we not simply, just have both?

Through the Looking Glass

2008-04-12T18:50:00.003+05:00

A long, straight path stretched off into distant obscurity, darkened by gnarled trees that curved into a ceiling of leafy branches above it. The canopy was dense and heavy, with the sun beating on it from above and the air beneath it still, sheltered and cool. It was inviting yet inexplicably disconcerting.

The scene rippled slightly under his breath. Strange for it to do that, being real. He unconsciously stretched out a steady hand, as if to make sure. He felt his mind wobble and teeter over the edge as his hand began to slowly deform, becoming a part of the surreal image floating in front of him.

He shuddered. So did the image.

He pulled back, more with a force of will than with the aid of any physical strength, and staggered in the darkness.

He didn't know where he was or what he was doing there. It was all very strange. All around him was an intense, black nothing, an expanse of non-existence. But if there was nothing there, then what was he standing on? What was he breathing?

He immediately realized two things. Firstly, he could now see that he was standing on a plain white, polished marble floor, which he was certain hadn't been there a moment ago; and secondly that all this time he had been holding his breath. he immediately let it go, and began inhaling the fresh, dry air, which he had a sneaky suspicion had just been called into existence.

His puzzlement increased as he thought about the sudden changes in his environment. He decided to try and create something else and thought carefully about what he wanted. A hat popped into his head.

A hat popped into his hand.

Something else which also popped into his world at that time was a series of questions. Firstly, why in God's name had he thought of a hat before food? (as he said this a plate of biscuits appeared) Secondly, what was he supposed to do in this place? There had to be something remotely more purposeful for him to do in the place than sit around making mundane objects he could find in real life.

It was clear to him at this point that he was quite obviously dreaming. He liked it when things were clear to him. It put life in such wonderful perspective.

Just then he encountered something vague and complex that he did not understand - the window he had first looked through. It felt strange to him that something he didn't understand, and couldn't possibly make out clearly, would be present in a dream of his own making. He walked towards it: a rectangular window cut into nothing, filled with frosted, blurry, rippling visions. It would shift between these conditions, sometimes looking as if it was raining on its "glass", then as if it was a simple mirror image of its other side, and next like it was bending and twisting the world beyond. It was rhythmic, like breathing, only you could see it. The vision inside however, was brilliant and vivid. The image seemed to leap out at him from the window, transcending its invisible barriers to show itself to him, but restrained by those barriers so much that it would be held from his eyes. It was as if another world was repeatedly pushing itself up against the window of his universe, and with every one of its heartbeats, trying to fill the void of his own, newly conceived world, but was held back by the mirror of invisible glass and clear light. Visually, to his eyes, it was all mind-bogglingly confusing and entrancing to look at.

Which was why he found himself once again, teetering on the edge of consciousness in his own dream almost nose to nose with the shady path of a teeming, seemingly real other world.

He was just about fed up with this mirror thing. He hadn't gone to bed for this nonsense of being confused even in his sleep. I mean this was his own domain!

He thought about it rationally. If this was his dream he could leave it at any moment. He had already tried ending it by imagining waking up, but that had not worked. So obviously his exit had to be something tangible within this place. The only way in or out of it was this strange window. Granted it wasn't his bedroom on the other side, but it was still a hell of a lot more real than this place. If it was still a part of his dream at least it came pre-created and he didn't have to be worried about having to construct everything from scratch, especially when most parts of his creation would be completely useless. Like hats.

He didn't think beyond this point. He didn't even take a deep breath. He simply walked through. (still not over. to be continued)

The Cat, the Girl and the First Moral Reason

2008-04-12T18:14:00.003+05:00

A shudder travelled slowly down his spine and throughout the rest of his body, spreading out and giving him goose pimples. His hair stood on end, almost buzzing with imagined electricity, as a long, thin, human finger once again moved down his back, making him tingle with excitement and uncertainty. He felt he was in different territory now – powerless yet charged with energy, reluctant but unable to resist the wonderful sensation of the hand on his back. He didn’t know what to think so he simply followed his instincts.

He gave a slight yawn and purred.

Arching his back and stretching, he turned around and began to affectionately nuzzle the hand that petted him, running his soft, smoothly furred head up its arm and into the human’s lap. The hand followed, scratching behind his ears and under his neck in a way that was simply divine. Feeling that purring was simply not good enough an exchange for such joy, he curled up in the human’s lap in an abominably adorable manner and promptly fell quietly to sleep.

She had discovered the stray sitting on the front step, staring intently out at the street twisting its head to follow passing cars around the corner. Every time they did so its tail would start twitching, as if he was sticking out a thumb, trying to hitch a ride. She had sneaked
up behind it stealthily, with no less design and cunning than a common thief. She knew she had him when instead of jumping away from her hand’s touch, he instead began to purr. Slowly and carefully she picked up his furry, slumbering body and carried him into the house.

She sneaked a few treats up to her room for him and spent the day playing with the delightful stray. He gambolled about the room delighted by his surroundings and eager to play with his host. They both spent a while playing with one another and by the time she realized that she would never be allowed to keep him, she was already in love with him.

In the evening she let him out, hating to part with him, but knowing it was best to keep him out of the house. Surely no one could have an objection to that?

***

At this point nothing would pain me more to say that they both lived happily ever after in a loving but slightly distant relationship and that both their families were happy with it (the strays normally have a prejudice against mingling with humans) seeing as I'm a pessimist. But seeing as the story seems to be going in the general direction of the sweet, cute, cuddly and sunshiny-days-on-the-beach, I’ll let the cat live and the girl be happy and grow up being loved and having a wonderful and lovely childhood. After all, what’s the point of fiction if it isn’t a break from disappointing reality?