True Madness

‘“How goes it, you maddest of mortals? How glad I am to see you again! For nowhere on this earth am I likely to find a madder friend. There are lunatics and dingbats aplenty, and one often does them the honor of calling them mad. But true madness is as rare as true wisdom, it is perhaps nothing but wisdom vexed at knowing everything, including all the baseness of this world, and that, therefore, made the wise decision to go mad. The Orientals are a wise people, they honor madmen and prophets alike, but we take every prophet for a madman.” ‘

– Henrich Heine, Travel Pictures

You must be drunk always. That is everything: the only question. Not to feel the horrible burden of Time that crushes your shoulders and bends you earthward, you must be drunk without respite.
But drunk on what? On wine, on poetry, on virtue—take your pick. But be drunk.

-Baudelaire

Forgetting

“Forgetting meanings is not a matter for excuses, an unfortunate defect in performance; it is an affirmative value, a way of asserting the irresponsibility of the text, the pluralism of systems(if I closed their list, I would inevitably reconstitute a singular, theological meaning) : it is precisely because I forget that I read.”

-Roland Barthes, The Pleasure of the Text

Explaining

“The reason why ‘explaining’ affords so much self-satisfaction is just because in it consciousness is, so to speak, communing directly with itself, enjoying only itself, although it seems to be busy with something else, it is in fact occupied only with itself.”

-Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit

Reality, Dreams and Nightmares

Dreams allow us to tolerate reality,

To live it with hope of a better future, a pleasanter one,

The opposite of hope is fear,

The nightmare makes us love reality,

Makes us forget its ugliness,

Even the ugliness of reality is better than if a nightmare becomes reality.

Love is a dream, hatred a nightmare,

Reality has both love and hatred.

To advocate only love is sentimental,

And to feel only or even mostly hatred is cruel and equally false.

A dream is to a nightmare, what God is to Satan. Both are false(I am an atheist).

But without dreams and nightmares we can’t know what is real in reality and won’t be conscious of the truth.

Thus we need both these untruths.

And those who make reality nightmarish- the status-quoists, fear a greater nightmare,

While those who want to change and improve reality must surely be capable of dreaming aloud

A Dream in which I Die

I have noticed that I remember more of my dreams and much better after I have quit smoking weed. Last night’s was remarkable and quite unprecedented. It was based in my MA days but the landscape it seems had been imported from my earliest days in Delhi.

In the bizzare diegetic world of the dream some students had come across some great secret about some officials belonging to the university or the government, I am not sure which. Those officials in turn had killed those who knew. Its not exactly clear whether these incidents actually take place in the dream or they belong to its prehistory if at all it was possible for a dream to have a prehistory.

So these people in the dream now wanted to kill us(I don’t at all remember who all were with me) and we on the other hand are are quite determined to expose them. My memory remains quite hazy about what happens after this except the fact that it was all quite dramatic and thrilling.

I played quite a heroic role and someone in his anger and frustration shoots me in the head. The bullet, I remember, gets lodged in the back of my head but I don’t die for a long time. I remember that I walk around in panic hoping to be saved somehow but that doesn’t happen and I wake up before I die or could be saved.

Another Nocturnal Morning

It was another nocturnal morning. He had remained awake all night and was waiting for sunrise. He went out in the balcony out of habit after some time and also to smoke outside which he liked to do when he was getting bored and heard a screeching or chirping of a solitary bird which like him it seemed to him, had been unable to fall asleep. What was keeping this creature of nature awake he thought, which is supposed to have a perfect routine? Why was it awake before dawn? Maybe, it was also feeling hungry like him. How do birds wake up? Some earlier and the lazier ones have to be forced out of bed or maybe they wake up with the sheer noise. Yes they are very noisy sometimes. No the hungrier ones which could not have a good enough dinner wake up first as soon as God’s light comes and run away swiftly to prey on certain insects and get breakfast before the herd arrives and makes it more difficult.

He continued to think about the birds for some more time but soon noticed that the screeching had now ceased, his cigarette was also finished and he started worrying about the entrance results which were about to be out but he didn’t know exactly when and had already checked the website so many times in anticipation.

Nocturnal Morning

It was a very pleasant summer morning and the sun could not be seen,

It had rained intermittently all night and was drizzling still.

I went for a walk in the slight rain came back drank milk and then smoked a joint because I thought that then time will pass away easily and won’t be a strain.

I lied down on the bed again and the stimulated but in a way tunneled imagination saved me from boredom because there was nothing to do,

The discomfort due to the absence of a pillow(my own on which a friend of mine was then sleeping) also prevented me from sleep, and

If you just wanna know what it is all about this poem of mine or gibberish prose then it is that some friends had come over last night and we talked and had fun, drank a lot of alcohol and there were few interesting women and all
but I don’t wanna say anything anymore about how it was and what all we did last night because I am trying to write a poem and the lines should not be too long or somehow all wrong,

Even if it is true that I am lazy and poems are supposed to be shorter than prose and more beautiful for I don’t know how else a poem is supposed to be different from prose and I sometimes think that the tradition of poetry is old and elitist and that what should be called poetry is a political debate because I certainly don’t like Wordsworth(although I am a student of literature and so am somewhat ashamed of saying so) and Shelly(although I know that he was a revolutionary) but like Blake and the love poems of Vidyapati the 14th century Maithili poet who much of the world does not know about and neither did I till some time ago.

But, yes, so, it got very late last night or it was early morning till I could finally sleep and had to go to college only a few hours thence so I decided not to sleep at all if I was to attend all the classes that day which I wanted to do because there are strict rules for attendance under the new VC’s rule.

I did attend all the classes and also met a woman I wanted to meet who said my eyes were red and I told her the story of last night or some of the details about last night.

Yes I told her in quite some detail because its nice talking to her and its so much easy to communicate through speech than write a poem and later on that day there was a very boring class, the very last one in which the teacher didn’t realise that she had tired everyone thoroughly and some of them prayed quite spontaneously that God make her stop.

She didn’t stop for a long time though she glanced at her watch twice and unconsciously talked about her philoshophy of life while telling us about an English poet of medieval times(for the British ancient) and I thought she thinks it’s her duty to teach and won’t leave us earlier which is our unspoken but most earnest wish