Dysfunctional Writings, 1
Alacrity & Whirlwind
The thing about looking for good ideas is as haunting as losing the one collected quietly as I think about ending ideas, not as an extremity, a culmination, or an epilogue at the very end.
The ending of ideas is the fatal fear of all.
Sitting in the shadows of the wind-up periphery I looked at the origin and always wondered the contrary I used to imagine when I was at it.
The alacrity and the whirlwind happen to be the two places where the dark soul resides.
Silence abhors yet addicted to the generation of the chain of fall, haste, haste, and bait, rings are failing you.
Clouds are yet to be chased, says the one I lovemore: Yes, the Shadow.
Good fortune equals standing on a sine curve with maximum amplitude and watching further depress down the downhill,
Dynamiting Noun, the person, place, and object, foreseen the death of all.
Archetype
Objects before the eyes are not the same as they used to be, the recall collectiveness is lost in the abyss forever,
The Blackhole of silence has swallowed it bit by bit, hitherto it radiates the essence and lets the absence haunt me for life,
What could be at the very end the mind questions at the very origin, the dot of outward projection,
Looking at the clock, ticking time by, the tick feels old as the time passes by, the second stick makes the sound, and the hour passes by minute the minute,
Age of stuff is a fixed number, which ought not to be surprising, yet it is,
Eagerness & Chaos: Two faces of one kind, crony to one other, filled faces of equanimity or utter silence?
Nature has always coaxed the mortality of connected beings; I tend to abide but fail to beeline with ideas.
Fatalistic gloom
What does not kill it makes it killmore, pebble by pebble the sick reach the seashore,
Silence of the sea is the chaos inwaiting: the bliss of the Earth is the bliss in baiting, onemore, growmore, diemore how can one deny! It seems to be the only truth that manifolds more than lie,
The skin gets old as the sun kisses with pride, hidden UV burns, refracts from the sky
Trick. Ester. Is it the eye or the feeling that is dry, shrilled: lacking moisture or picking fights, doubt, richway, sickway, own passion is to lie
Pale-n-Kaali
Close the eyes and see the world, inside the web of memories knitted a faded version. Images of happiness dancing in the darkness, swallowing the visual affinity towards people surrounded by.
Birth of time: in darkness, is not the unknown vicinity but its very uncomprehensive nature
Does the embarrassment bring the tongue out or anger, perception brings the ego with stature
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Ego hates Failure as much as Victory hates Ego, and no full circle i.e. Karma, just let it go
Let it flow. See the demon or kill it, wear it around the neck or feel it the choice is yours you better be it.
Serpentine
When the rage in eyes is one only emotion, the reflection of chaos is the very future notion
Kissing the neck when it is blue weighs more than marking it red, Careful! This might be the last time
Winding way or a walking question mark, ache under violent exclamation signs, at a differential vision a curve consist lines
One Blink and over. Everything & Everyone suffers the cost of odd choices but the one that pushes the flow forward is one standing at the pinnacle
Dreamer
The chain of thoughts grows and writes the path of an undefined future, vivid in memories, enveloped in closed eyes, fosters tenderness, visual of a clear sky,
Sometimes blue and sometimes white, define the mood with eternal light, sunshine shallows as simile smiles wish it pink serve at sight,
Soft letters, making hard words, and clinging to a few tough sentences outline a sense of the turbulent mind while adding a layer of conflicting yet purposeful way, on the path holding a shade: of gray!
What a Dreamer is petrified of is not the one Dream but the absence of many, many which take him away from the air of reality, the force of buoyant pushing him off the ground feint a drag forms a lift.
Birth of Prime Mover
What is in the mind, rare to be found on the tongue, what is in the heart comes to the eyes, hopefully, it doesn’t stay longer
In the process of a system stronger often neglected are the pieces: tiny but real, one small game of permutation ruins the flow of the algorithm or is it the algorithm that cuts its own tail
Crosses its own flow, the creator should be questioned but the existence of such a creator is a question of its own,
Birth of the Unknown celebrates the dimensions: Untangled,
Symmetry is the rule, balanced by entangled
Dead or alive has always been an angle
Formation of bubbles at the point of origin via gradual multiplication, fission is the beginning and fusion is the angel
Individuation
On the surface, an artificial, man-made covering holds the secret to the ultimate self,
Beneath the ego, the circle of life lies the central theme of mind,
The mystique of such center origin holds a mirage as supernatural as an elf,
Integration of individual cells builds one pure as humankind,
As the sensation of shadows clinch the shallow ground, deep underneath, the hot and bound larva of the inner core unleashes unabridged
Jung suggests a healthy integration, anima or animus, should have both in the nation
Wild pace of shadow should be aware of the persona, carrying different masks, separate worlds
