The unreal

You meet people everyday. New people. Old people. Unreal people. With coats and coats of paint, to hold the rust without and within. Adding a layer every year. Are twenty something layers virtually impenetrable? Cynicism. Ego. Pride. Hurt. Fear. Insecurity. Why can I see the layers. Old paint. New paint. But not the metal beneath? I want to pry. It keeps sinking deeper. And I keep up the conversation. My unrealness talking to your unrealness.

It tires me. And I go back to them, whom I knew before. The paints' still there, but there is the shared knowledge, of having seen the naked beam once. The talk is still unreal. But you borrow the reality from a distant past. And continue chipping away at the coats, slowly, hoping you can chip away one before a new one comes up.

And I seek the girders of steel. Immune to rust and unafraid of the blemishes. But to see that maybe you must be that.

The siege

There used to be a fortress. Impregnable and proud.
Contained but cocooned. Determined but hidebound.

Stones are merely instruments of the will that rules within.
No match for a long strung arrow flaying the tender string.

The weakness lay deep, but they'd caught the slight blink,
the walls would not hold now, they'd shred the weakest link.

The gates now thrown open, the forces marched in,
and every strike drew blood, as they caught the naked shin,
they would not win it all, the will was not all gone,
but the armor of pride and certainity, lay forever worn.

But brusies make stronger, and wounds leave scars,
serving as incessant lessons, of forgotten old wars,
and with walls goes the dogma, chains that held you back,
narrow minds pried open, to many a different track.

Peace prevails where there are walls. They will go up again.
But what they protect shall never be the same...

Ephemeral

Is my only sin,
this ephemeral high,
belied only, in quickened beats,
not a scream, just a sigh.

as numbers fit & words rhyme,
colors flow & philosophers dine,
I did it, I indulge the sin,
the sin of calling it mine.

in that passing moment,
I hold an illusory sway,

and then it goes away ...

Beating blogs to death

As I was thinking and discussing with A (yeah another one)... the boringness of a blog is directly proportional to the inability of the author to open up. And I don't mean the boringness of reading it (that is a different matter altogether), I meant the the boringness of writing it. If blogs cater to some voyeuristic/exhibitionist tendencies of human nature, there should at least be enough gore and juice to make it interesting. Completely abstract and cliched posts really don't cut it. A blog is more like a sitcom, it becomes fun when you get immersed in the story, start knowing the characters.

That brings me to the second question. Do I really want to wash my laundry in public? Probably not. Is it a good idea to let the grumpy guy or the sweet girl in the next cubicle know whats going on in the dirty little corner of my mind? Hmm. So I would rather be anonymous. A faceless exhibitionist? Writing as if nobody is reading? That contradicts the exhibitionist part, doesn't it.. oh well.

I am sure every blogger beats this to death. Its actually reading a friends' (let's call him PS, we shall refer to all characters by some screen name henceforth. I'll try to come up with interesting ones...) recent "first post" that made me ramble on.

Oh btw, I gets a kick out of messing with dem' grammer, like call myself "we".