Inspire how?

Where does inspiration come from? Well there's no special place. It doesn't come from the land of wonderment. It’s a simple aspect of life. Yes, just an aspect of life. It comes from life. It comes from our life experiences. What we experience we write, draw, say or basically express in our own way. What can you draw from if not experiences? Figments of your imagination? Well what does your imagination draw from? Experiences. Yours or someone else’s. But if it isn't yours, how can it really feel true and just? It will remain a figment of forced imagination. And it will be evident. It will be an expression hanging in the air. To feel the words, you really need to feel them. But what if you don't know the different facets of an experience? What if it remains just as empty thoughts?

We need to experience what life has to offer. Experience and grow. And boy does it make you grow. It makes you develop as a person, as a companion and as a human being. The growth of your world unleashes the hounds of imagination within your mind. Let them roam, free and wild. They will hunt for new thoughts. But only because you set them free. Free with your travels, your interactions, your search of work, your search of a high truth, your search of yourself..

Midnight in Paris

Midnight in Paris. A beautiful movie by Woody Allen. And it truly is beautiful. I fell in love with it. The direction, the cinematography, the characters and ahh the music. But most of all I loved the concept. A man who believes that the golden age is long gone, the 1920s in Paris to be precise. Something is lacking for him in the time of the present.

A writer by profession he's lost in the 1920s. Because that is when true talent around the world came together to celebrate life and each other in Paris. Transported at the stroke of midnight, back into the world of Paris in the 20s, he rubs shoulders and ideas with the likes of Ernest Hemmingway, Scott Fitzgerald, Pablo Picasso, Salvador Dali, surrealists, realists, artists and aficionados.. A time, that most would kill to relive. And in turn he falls in love with a woman, who symbolised whatever he loved about Paris in the 20s.

Its not a love story though. Its a story of self discovery and self preservation. Preservation of your mind and soul. What does he discover in the end? That we as humans always believe the past is beautiful and perfect. It strikes the chords of truth. Those in the 20s took the time of belle epoque to be the golden age, who in turn believed the renaissance stood as the time of free imagination. And who knows what the renaissance artists believed..

We are stuck reminscing about a time long gone, constantly wondering why we never make the most of the present. That being, because we can never truly stop comparing. The world gone by, has gone. The present beckons, "Come, I could be intriguing, I could bring a smile to your face, I could free the leash of an unimaginative soul.."

But why do we ignore? Because we already know the magnificence of the past and ignore that, which could be of the present. We say we think about the future, but only what society has laid out for us. What of the path that we intend to build? What of the path that our imagination could build? We need to unshackle ourselves from the past, keeping them as fond thoughts, and take care of this moment.

Our glory days are yet to come, but only if we make ourselves think so.

Wherein lies the problem?

What do you do when you're in a creative field and surrounded by creative people?

You be creative.

Simple? Maybe not. How do you "be creative"? Is it something you can learn? No. Is it something that can be taught? Definitely not. So what do you do? What if the life you have been living has dulled you. What if a mundane life has compelled you to become numb to creativity. Your mind processes only what you're told to.

Then what? Just cover it up, grow a long beard, gaze into the distance and pretend you're "creative"? That could work. Maybe get a pair of thick rimmed glasses and throw in a hat to complete the look. That could fool many. But could it fool you?

What do you do when you feel useless and completely devoid of creative juices? You feel that maybe you're in the wrong place? Or feel you're better off doing that dead end job with that deadening effect on your mind? Those moments of writing and painting as a younger man are glimmers of a distant memory. So what do you do when you feel like you're facing the barrel of that self deprecating shotgun?

You push yourself. You push yourself. Maybe I didn't say it right. You PUSH yourself. And when you're tired, you push yourself more. When you fall down, you pick yourself up and you push more.

It isn't over when you feel you are, its over only when you know you are.

Fare thee well..

It hits you.
The goodbyes, the hugs.
The kiss on the cheek, the handshake.
The slight glisten in the eyes.

The final day of work hits you. Behind all the troubles and all the pain that you might have faced, there lie memories. The good, the bad, the ugly. All forgotten is all remembered. But the good is what really gets you.

The nostalgia, the feelings of never seeing those people. The words of a few wise ones, and more the words of the stupid ones. The laughs, the silent tears, the heart wrenching lectures, the satisfaction of completing a good day’s work, the laughs of a fellow conspirator, the gossip that you never needed to hear.

It pulls at you, pulling you back. Stay, it says. Stay a while longer. You'll be happier. You'll be satisfied. Friends made will not become friends lost. But you can't. You say your goodbyes again. Some, twice over. They deserve it. They touched your life. They touched your heart. And they left their mark. Responding to them with one goodbye is inadequate. Maybe not even two. You leave them, maybe to meet again or not.

But you leave. It’s the way of the world. Your only hope is when you see them again, you know you made a mark in their hearts as well. Your words, thoughts and actions affected others. And you move. Forward. Forward towards others. Making a mark in some other minds. Never forgetting those who you leave now. You move. With behind, remaining memories to cherish. And maybe someday relive.

Heavy lies the mind

With heavy feet, I walk up the stairs,
Wanting not to go that way..
No light nor any beacon flairs,
I get lost in an endless day..

There was a time when I ran up with joy,
oh how that time slowly died..
My mind was broken like a toy,
it hurt inside for how I cried..

Time stops and stands quite still,
no movement on either side..
I feel trapped against my will,
Wondering someday if I’ll ever ride..

Ride away from this wasted stench,
the only smell that fills my mind..
I will twist and turn as a wrench,
no more will I stand with eyes blind..

The thrill is gone..

It’s been a while since I wrote for myself. I really wanted to, but I just couldn’t. I guess that’s the drawback of being in a profession where you are paid to write. When you enter work and are forced to write, a part of you gets caged. “We need to send this out in the next half hour. It’s urgent.” These words become a norm. These words force you to control your thoughts and still force your mind to out your bread and butter. You write to survive. But what survives? A living body feeding a dying mind. What meaning does it still hold?

The value of a word doesn’t come from caging your thoughts. It’s about letting them free. Letting them wander, far and near. Wherever they want.

A sense of freedom.

A sense of evolution.

A sense of creation.

We evolve as people only when we let our thoughts evolve. But I stopped feeling that freedom. My world, my thoughts, my voice croaked. I forgot what words meant to me. If I ever sat down to think, 10 different people in different forms interrupted my thoughts. As I write this, 5 have already come and done so.

I struggled. I really did. I didn’t know what to do, which way to go. Then the answer rang in my ears. Literally. It erupted with a twang, followed with a beat, ran like a wave of tones and lifted my thoughts to me. Music, my only solace.

It has a dramatic effect on my mind. It opens the floodgates and releases my thoughts. It causes a destruction that brings about peace. It’s reminiscent of the great flood. Only those thoughts true to me float aboard the great ark, safe and cared for. It's the only thing worth saving. The rest is laid to waste, swept away, leaving me clean. My thoughts flow free and lucid. They fly, they soar, and they explore lands unknown. And that is where I find my words. They were waiting in the skies above, waiting for me, waiting for me to be free, waiting for the day I came back to me.

A keypad?

A keypad.
Our life?
How?
Well it fits..
All these letters..
They can form anything in our life..
All that we love,
All that we hate,
All that we want to remember,
All that we want to forget.
Numbers add weight to those things..
Some confuse us,
Some simplify for us.
Those symbols..
They express every emotion we feel,
Confusion,
Anger,
Delusion,
Everything is expressed..
Backspace, move back..
We might try, but we still move back,
We always think back..
Our lives are ruled by our past.
Space is a need..
Space to think,
Space to write,
Space to be free,
when you have that space, you Enter into life..

Life...Life is a keypad.

An upward curve

You're sitting with your head in your hands. You're tired. Your mind is tired, your mind tells your body to be tired. Everything feels slow. So slow. A smile feels a distant dream. Its too tiring. What's the use of it? Your mind doesn't have a reason to smile. Fuck, your mind just wants to shut off..

Then a slight buzz makes you lift your head. A light flashes. That piece of machinery beckons. It bellows at you. You're too tired to pick it up. But you just have to. You lift it, you feel it, it feels cold. Bah, everything feels cold anyhow nowadays. The flashing light feels blinding..

But then you notice who it is. Hmm, it suddenly doesn't feel that cold anymore. Hmm, you're not that tired after all. Hmm, your mind doesn't want to switch off. Hmm, you finally find a reason to smile.. Hmmmm, maybe its her..

Want?

I wish sleep was a luxury, not a necessity..

Time passes, and leaves me wanting. I want more out of life, I want more time in life. Things I want to accomplish, things I want to experience, things I want to see through to the end..

I want to write,
I want to make music,
I want to swim in the ocean,
I want to spend time with family and friends,
I want to dance,
I want to stare at fire flies,
I want to learn a new language,
I want to make fun of random people,
I want to point at a place on the map and travel there,
I want to learn photography,
I want to sketch,
I want to fall in love again,
I want to fly a plane,
I want to collect stamps,
I want to bungee jump,
I want to stop and just sit,
I want to run till I fall,
I want to slide in mud,
I want to paint,
I want to ride a bike for days,
I want to sleep nights under the stars..

However big or small, I want to stop wanting..

What gets me through the day..

I'm listening to a radio show. They have some djs coming on air and listing the things that get them through the day.

What gets me through the day?
Music is the base of my life. It makes me forget everything except for those beats. Those beats make my heart thump.. Those beats make my heart jump.. Good times go.. Bad times go.. Music keeps me company. Music and humour. Humour and me.. Its a love hate relationship. But I still need it in my life. Its a drug for me. A smile, a giggle.. A chuckle, a laugh.. Humour makes me happy. Makes people around me happy. It lightens up the mood, it lightens up the day, it lightens up my life. It stirs up a group of friends. Friends.. they light up your life. They are there to share a joke, a dance, a tear, a laugh, a trip, a beer and sometimes, silence. Loneliness stops becoming a part of your dictionary..

Music, humour and friends. I can't live without that trio. They are what gets me through the day. They are a part of me and they play no tricks.. They in some way, form my essential mix.

Death is..

Death is inevitable..

Death is not an end, it’s a beginning..

Death is karma taking a complete circle..

Death is a person’s fulfillment of his duties on earth..

I’ve heard them all, they just bounce of me. They make no sense. Neither of them explains death. Neither of them explains why it hurts so much. Neither of them explains the repercussions it has on people. It makes people stop smiling, it makes people stop thinking, it makes people lose any connection to the world, it makes people weaker, it makes people stop feeling..

Death is just .. Death.

There and back again..

You're sitting
You're waiting
You don't want to leave
but you have no choice

You put on your headphones..
The mind is lost in a place soon to be distant
hmmm the music is nice
Reminds you of the previous night
Ahh that was a night
Lights were bright
Wicked and unexpected it was

Music starts picking up
hmmm feels like you're back on the beach
Music is going on
Feels like you're back on the road
The sway of the windswept trees
Rustling with the music
Your lights mark the way..

You're driving
You're unsure of where you are
You're unsure of where you're from
You're unsure of where you're going
but... you're driving

Life suddenly feels better
That empty road tells you where you are
That empty road tells you where you're from
That empty road finally tell you where you're going..

The road that led you there
Leads you back out..
Out of a place special
Out of a place with sand on your feet
Out of a place we call.. Goa

Session with the frog..

You just finished your session in the parking lot.
Feels good. Its time to head in.
The walk is a random blur.
The door reverberates.
It invites.
Well guess there's nothing to do but enter..

Wow its all blue and tingy.
Its all electric..
You feel electric..
That music feels electric.

It starts like a current..
It moves random like a current..
One touch starts you up..
The back is nice, but the front looks better..

You make your way through..
The earlier session helps you weave through the crowd.
It feels as if they move with you and the music, parting to let you slide through.
Finally there's no further to go.
You're right up..

Its just you and the wooden structure called the stage.
Its a bit blurry who's up on it..
But then again your eyes need to open to see.
But they just don't listen.
I feel my mind move..
It starts with a little sway..
And then doesn't stop.
Keeping with my mind, my hands start.
They rise and fall.
Feet not far behind.
They rise and fall.
Soon... I rise and fall.
That beat thumps.
That beat jumps.
I don't stop.
I can't stop.
I feel alone, and that's how I want it.
Everything's blurred out.
Its just me and that sound, rising and falling as one.
I'm tired but I don't stop.
I feel alive finally.
Its still blue and tingy..
I feel, finally.
A smile hits my face..
And it remains there..And always will..
Whenever I am with my blue frog..

Prepared? Whats that?

Sooo, my friend messages me that's she's reading my blog.. This sudden sense of foreboding hits me. For some reason, I just assumed it would be random strangers reading it (very smart, since I put up the link on my facebook profile).. But that feeling felt a bit weird. However prepared you might be for anything in life, it still gets you. To the smallest thing like a blog, to big things like maybe a blog (Hey a blog can be a big thing).. But there's no such thing as being prepared I guess. Whatever happens, happens. Happens for a reason or not, makes no difference. It just happens. Maybe the next time it happens, you could be smart about it, but never prepared.. So well I honestly don't know what will happen if she reads this.. but hey, at least I'll be "prepared"..

Why I love the night..

I came across something I had written down for my Dad a while back. It was in response to him asking me why I was always up late into the night..


Why do I love the night?

Because that's when light actually makes a difference

Because the silence makes me appreciate sound

Because the calm surrounds me and my mind

Because thoughts come closer to me

Because when everyone sleeps, I feel alive

Because friends of far, come close

Because I finally Be, to really See, whats in me..



Needless to say, he told me to stop trying to be poetic, and go to sleep..

Oooo.. Writers block

“I’m suffering from writers block” says a friend.. How the hell did that happen? She’s not even a writer. She writes a bloody blog, and proclaims herself a writer. I’m not a writer. I might be trying to be a blogger, but no way would I suffix the word “writer” to my name. I’m being realistic. I don’t want a Booker Prize (Although that would be fun.. I’d get to rub it in the “writers” face). I just put my thoughts to paper.. or keyboard. It’s simple. What the hoopla all about? I love it when self proclaimed “artists” go with an air of high handedness, trying to justify their lack of brain power. True writers, the ones whose words captivated the hearts of few or many, would probably be turning in their graves, or in their beds. It’s quite shameful. But how do you differentiate a writer from a “writer”. Again, it’s simple. The ones who talk with their written words distinguish themselves from the ones who talk with their mouth. So if you want to be a true writer, shut up and write..

My Girl

I get a call.. Its her. My heartbeat races. She wants to meet. My heartbeat pounds. Today? Sure I'm free. I drive down, and wait. A little nervous, my hands get clammy. When will I see my girl. This wait is killing me.. But then.... I see her. There she is. Standing beautiful. Sunlight gently moving with the wind around her. I make my way over to her. She's even more beautiful up close. I can hardly contain myself. My hands move to her. Slowly caress her.. Then my hands move down..towards the handle.. And I open the door and sit down in my girl. Ferrari Enzo.. And then I wake up. And then my dull existence makes me head to work, to earn a meager salary, to live in the hope that someday, I'll get my girl..

Picasa

I came across an amazing picture on facebook recently. It was a picture of my friend standing in front of a fire. And that friend has used Picasa to edit it. The colours of the fire felt as if about to consume him. And his frame gave the impression that he welcomed the fires from beneath us. That picture stuck in my head. It was just a simple picture of a man inquisitive about a fire that was burning near him.

I was curious. I wanted to try my hand at tweaking an image, so as to give another perception of the same. So I acquired the software. Simple enough. You take an image, and then just start randomly working different buttons. A wide array of options greet you as soon as you start. You feel like a little kid, wondering what this particular button would do, what that one would do. It's fun and quite straight forward. Made for easy use and gives great effects.

I had a photograph with me. It was of the sky with pinkish hues. I felt it would be the correct one to tinker with. And I was happy with the final product. Felt good. Maybe someday I'll be able to create a picture like the one my friend had done. Hopefully..

Football Fever

It’s football season. It happens every 4 years (unless you watch Euro too). The guys go mad, put on the jerseys of their favourite team, paint their faces, shout slogans, shout insults at other team supporters, get into fights, and come back home with stories to tell their friends again and again, however irritating they might get. The girls don't want to get left behind. So they'll find some poor guy to lend them his jersey, wear it and go to the bars to scream at the screens, they'll drink, get drunk and become apparent die hard supporters of teams they hadn't seen a match off. Yep that's world cup fever alright. A weird fever, but it grips you. You just get sucked into it. And it’s electric. You start feeling the pain of losing a match, the joy when the ball hits the back of the net.. It all builds up, and peaks at the last match. The battle lines are drawn, the whole world watches irrespective of who's playing. You chose sides and stick with them. And you shout for them as much as the other. And then it’s over. As quick as the fever swept over you, it let's go and moves on. And then you get back to your life as if it was just a dream, waiting another four years to go by..

Simply free

For 4 years, there was this continuous weight on my head. It kept increasing over that period, steadily and slowly. I got used to it.. It was a burden, extremely heavy for me. But I carried it around. I could have shrugged it off a year into it, but at the time it felt like it would get lighter. But it got heavier and heavier. It started to gnaw at you, it snapped through you at others around you. It just brought you lower..

And then suddenly its gone. You stand up straight, dust yourself off, and it feels as if nothing had really happened. 'Past 4 years? Oh they were there. But who cares eh?'. Because with that burden gone, you dont have anything pulling you down.. you can walk.. nothing blinds you, nothing stops you.. your a person to yourself. So you explore this freedom.. This sweet liberation of the senses. Cause 4 years might have gone by, but the rest of your life still awaits. It beckons to new horizons..

I'm on a plane in the middle of nowhere with no worries about food or fuel.. Just the sunset calling me away, to lands unexplored..