Asylum

My hands tied behind my back
In padded walls, an abandoned shack
All my screams muffled down
As I'm left inside my dazing frown

Locked doors and windows all I see
As food and drink trickle to me
They whisper voices into me
We'll make you better just you see

Madness

Welcome to the madhouse. No doctors or nurses here to pick you up and dust you off, this is your home. Madness, how I’ve lived in it and reveled in it. It is a coveted curse, madness, to those who know of it. A poison sweeter than ambrosia but deadlier than nightshade. Oh, how it grips at the soul and tosses it about in murderous winds, yet how every moment of it takes you by the neck and each second of that gouging misery is just as addictive as a potent drug. Not many people know of madness, they are lucky. They live in bliss, controlled and swayed by their myriad distractions, for once this daemon has seized you in its maddening grip, it never lets go, how you crave every moment of it and how it leads you on into an insanity so profound you are so far displaced you can never return home. It takes over you, lives and breathes as you feeding on every semblance of sanity and control you have and pushing you off into a chasm so deep all you feel is the rush before the splatter, and the rush, oh that divine beauty, when every single cell of your entire being rushes forth into a crazed frenzy and pounces forth towards the only goal that madness sets before your eyes, ignorant and mindfully neglecting all the spines and daggers beset before the path. Oh the pain, the pain that madness brings. It spurns you on into focused, dazed rushes where everything is but a blur but you are completely invincible and you dash forth bleeding from every slit on your skin and cut veins and arteries aware of nothing but what you seek. And madness, this vengeful being, spurns you on with illusions of grandeur and greatness into mandatory suicide. And when your object is so firmly out of your grasp, when you’ve learnt you’ve been  chasing mirages, it dispels itself from you leaving you cringing and regretting when it’s too late to even begin amends for every mistake that the audience can only see as wilfully brought upon. And when you are left with nothing, shriveled and curled up on the dust and ashes of your dreams it is Mephisto again offering its hand unto you, another promise of grandeur and greatness, the only hand that reaches out to you, set so far away from any scope of help or retrieval. And that hand, that treacherous, vengeful, venomous hand that poisoned you into destroying yourself, using you as a conduit for your own seppuku without honour, it is the only hand of God that reaches out to this fallen Adam and you grasp at it again, the pain lingering, wounds and slits upon your being never to scar, forever condemned as living beings of torture, but unable to resist. For now, madness is your only friend, madness is your only God, madness is the only thing you can ever hope to aspire to and become and you let it take over you again. The rush returning, the might of God into the soul of Satan, you run, you run faster, you scream louder, you laugh in your crazed madness as tears stream down your pale lifeless face as your dreams only are blisters upon your spine and you go through it again. Emptiness can never be a friend, nothingness is impossible to grasp at escaping ethereally from your grasp so you let madness consume you again. Again you rush in this darkness, stumbling and being torn as you slip into deeper and deeper abysses, madness torments you, leaving you to rot and returning as your faithful savior. And finally, it ends, you cross the line to never return, madness is your only true being and insanity is your love. Life has finally begun the moment everything you are has ended, there is nothing more but just blinded screams and laughter echoing off the walls of your empty mind, growing ever louder and louder, and you are what you have finally chased after. Nothing more. The world is my asylum. There is no escape.

Empty

A poem from one of my darker days

Again I thought I'd find what I once lost,
To fill the cold abyss that once used to be not
Time has done to me what it had to do
And made me lose myself and lose me to you

I thought I'd find if I searched and laughed
I prayed and cried but it wasn't to last
The time grew weary and I was gone
Writhing in agony to the pain I was left on

Causality, Predictions and Consciousness

Causality is a concept that is considered axiomatic in the workings of the universe, or at least in our daily experience. The concept of causality as understood in our working sense is simple, "Cause precedes action", a natural seeming concept. Every action, which here also means a result from another action or a seeming change of state, is not a standalone concept but bears it's root in a cause or a reason for it's existence. And the result is seemingly influenced by factors of space, time and causation, or simply the circumstance. And this rule is very strong founded in our experience of how the world works and also in how we are taught it works. But in an experiential sense, it may not appear so, for perceptions are naturally stained and limited and our proof too that proceeds from the data bank of these senses which are further selectively assimilated by our mind, for it is too an imperfect and limited instrument, a sense that governs senses. And this post seeks to look at it from the perspective of experience.

Opinions Wanted!!

To all my readers, thank you very much, I am very glad and grateful that you take the time to read my posts. But, I would also like to know your opinion and criticism, and also any suggestions you have for me will be much appreciated. So, leave some comments for me. Thank you guys and gals for being such an awesome crowd. Keep kicking!!!

Bias and Original Thought

Note: Sorry about the long hiatus, but I can't seem to maintain a schedule well. I'll try to get some posts running and the blog back on track soon. For now, I hope you enjoy this post.

Bloom's taxonomy is a simple presentation of the cognitive heirarchy in learning, and the higher processes represent a more refined and deeper understanding of an idea or subject. We begin with the base of the pyramid, which involves a rote memorization and basic memory of the subject involved, a fact collection stage. After this the understanding, application and other stages which are more or less self explanatory from their names. But the pinnacle of this pyramid is creation, which represents the deepest level and highest cognitive process that can be called upon when we are using the fundamental ideas we have gathered at the fact collection stage. This also involves a great deal of understanding the facts and also their interplay with different scenarios and facts.

Bloom's Taxonomy

But even with all that, even at the highest stage of creating, there is an inherent dependence in the facts learnt at the bottom of the pyramid. And in fact collection there is a great deal of prejudices and opinions that are gathered too. And the inherent problem in this is that, unconsciously, we become conduits for ideas, and opinions of other people. What we call as identity is simply degraded into a mere confluence of ideas and emotions that have been collected over the span of a person's education or lifetime. In such a situation, where does original thought exist? How many of us present the ability to express an idea that is truly original and not born out of the many prejudices and influences that have made their impression on our mind?

Phoenix

I was born and raised
I laughed and played
My time was spent in frolic and games

A baby I was, new to the world
I thought it simple, but couldn't put it in a word

But as I grew I came to know
Battles must be fought, in rain and in snow
The world fought back but it was the world
That hit me back until I curled

Jacqueline

She was a bird that wanted to fly
She stood in her cage, but she couldn't cry
She sang a sweet song, so sweet yet so soft
Does she know what holds her heart aloft?

Isn't she sweet, this pretty little bird?
She loves everyone, but isn't she heard?
She is so pretty, yet so far away
A faint little smile, she steals my heart away

7

This is an article dedicated to the weird me.

Normally 5 would be considered as the centre or middle number from 1 to 10. I have found this a hard idea to accept. 5 just seems to be an impostor, masquerading itself as the balanced middle number. I have thought about this and the right contender to the throne appears to be 7. No other number seems to be proper to fill that role.

5 seems to be a very small number, and in a way bland or bitter, meek and misplaced. It doesn't seem to be the balancing number, I don't know why. But 7 on the other hand seems just perfect. It's not too big or too little. And it's not even, it's an odd number. It seems to perfectly stand in between 1 (or 0 for that matter) and 10, balancing out their weights. 

So, in my opinion 7 is the number that must be rightful middle number.

Perversity of Beauty

Note: Please understand that the blog entries do not intend to and cannot describe everyone in general. They are only indicative of certain trends and the entries are usually clear about what they seek to comment on. And in my opinion, I'd call this article juvenile, but something I still wanted to put out.

Beauty can hardly be construed as something that inheres completely in the object beheld, but it could completely be confined to the realm of perception itself. Beauty isn't just a simple perception or an amalgamation of thoughts, beauty is better described as an emotion. And that makes it all the more harder to give it a form and definition. But even if you can't see the wind blow, you can see the leaves rustle in it. And beauty is better judged by the mark it leaves on a man than on absolute terms.

And the perversity of beauty I speak of is less a perversity of the object but the perception attached to it and it's present incapacity for subtlety. and for depth. A story would illustrate the point well, though I don't remember the source.

In an art gallery a man was looking intently at a painting of a beautiful, young and incidentally naked woman. An old woman who passed it by remarked that it was a very vulgar thing to display to which the man coolly said, "The vulgarity of the painting, madam, is in your eyes".