This Messed Up Mind Of Mine


These halls, they seem longer, darker, alien, 
That’s how I know the difference; too many doors.

Voices sprung from invisible mouths, like the vipers they are, yet another attempt to restrain a free thinker, yet again they fail.

A slumber punctuated with horror and sweat of the brow, do we still call it a rest?

Too many doors, too many possibilities?

Too many doors, just a lack a direction?

Too many doors, a dirty game of a virulent spirit?

Too many questions, too many horrors, too many answers and no certainty; A daily concoction,

A daily dose,

‘Day’, ‘night’, terms which carry no meaning where I awaken,

When the portal to this otherworld is ajar,

When the doors start to creak,

Where Dread is granted the freedom to speak,

I’ll meet you there.




I look upon the incineration of sculptures by an architect who worked under influences of intoxicating delusions, by yours truly,

Screams of ancient demons paint the air,

A blood bath no deserving soul will witness, try as they may,

But glimpses of the aftermath, remain promised,

If you ever stood where I do now, you’d comprehend the consuming surge of a feeling so biblical it defies description in a mortal tongue, but you don’t; but you never will,

Therefore I attempt to paint, 

A picture for a blind audience, so forgive my shortcomings.

Do you smell the irony? 

I smell crimson; a deeper shade than what the clouds adorn this twilight, 

A skirmish of epic proportions, 

An incapable scribe,

A tainted documentation.


Thoughtless, aimless, fruitless

I lie here on my bed tonight. Staring at the ceiling. A ceiling I cannot see what with the absence of light but I know it’s there. Just like this cliff I draw nearer to with the passage of each day. I know there shall be a plunge, a great gust of air and a sudden cessation of the same. In that spontaneous quiet I will stop suffering. That is all this was going to be, that is how this story ends. How naive was I to think of it being otherwise. I live, I suffer, my suffering being the cause of my family’s suffering. I see only one measure. Only one option. Only one road headed down towards a certain grave. I’ll just drive faster.

Memoir Tomb

There were moments of unparalleled elation, and then there were tandems of split second glimpses of you, your essence crafted from a fabric of a foreign reality,
Tonight, I stand basking in the light of the same pixels which once brought me pain, unimaginably unbearable.

Tonight, I feel no pain,

Tonight, you’re a distant memory of an eroded lifetime; that which now rots in the deepest depths of forgotten catacombs built for such entities of the subconscious.

A spectre is all that remains of you,

I reckon it still carries a fragment of me I had lost, I possess no desire for its presence to fill the void.

You were that welcome calamity, that pleasurable pain, that which ripped open an emptiness as such.

It ate away all that I ever felt and would’ve felt.

Tonight, I walk into the dark,

For tonight, I am the void.

– Shunya


Well past midnight,the horizon rife with the stench of dawn,

Witness, the rich black silhouette of leaves on this crooked wood,

A visage of fertility,

Here cometh the harbinger of the morn,

Unveiling what lies under comforting lies,

A Skeleton, raven adorned, sits stiller than cold death,

A dead mother nurtures and grows naught but crows,

A ripple in the air and chaos comes forth as wings, dark as a new moon, take flight,

Silent now, the winds unmoving and the corpse stands bare,

Anticipating the return of these prodigal birds of prey, unholy spawns, 

For they provide the most sacred of gifts,

For they provide this delusional stiff an illusion of life.


A life to live for….?

Time and again I ask myself. This life that I live, this series of long days and cold nights. What purpose is it, that I’m living for?

Ask this to people you meet on the street, they’ll give you clich├ęd, played out answers. “Look at the bigger picture.”, They say. Why should I? Isn’t life supposed to be all about the little things? Isn’t life supposed to be all about the journey and not about the outcome? 

“It’s all about a brighter future”, they say. Give me a break. I’ve been told this ever since I had developed a faint, albeit flawed, concept of life that the world programs your mind to accept.

They paint a utopian picture, a fresco of the grand stories that you shall have to live through, a portrait of the ideal human you shall become and innumerable sketches of everlasting happiness that lies ahead.

Give. Me. A. Break.

All I’ve come across are myths. Lies. Scams.

I’m here torn between love lives ranging from the ‘one sided’ to ‘non existent’. Love is just glorified lust. Many would disagree. I care not what you think. I’m just painting the world I see through my unbiased eyes.

Love at first sight, heh. Infatuation is what I call it. When you truly love (and I use the term loosely), when you’re ready to sacrifice all that you are and all that you own, the world turns a blind eye. So what’s wrong if I turn one on the world? 

I might come off as a scorned, unloved, inexperienced, introvert who has never really made an effort to reach out. I care very little of what opinion(s) you have, had or will have of me. But just for the unnecessary sake of justification, for I have the time to spare, let me tell you that it’s easy to form an opinion as so without walking the mile in my proverbial shoes. 

Love is blind and so is the world. We ignorantly explain what we cannot understand, we live a life that carries no purpose by blinding ourselves with grand delusions. It’s a hard thing to accept, but accept, we do, at a time too late. At a point too far to come back from. In a situation too morbid to face the truth any longer. So we choose to indulge in keeping the blindfold in place and count our breaths. Comically, hoping for a better afterlife.

Road to self-destructopia: PART IV

And here I sit talking to these 4 walls again. They don’t reply but they listen to me, they don’t sympathize but they listen to me, they don’t know I exist yet they stand and listen to me.
I stare at this plastered concrete, so dead yet standing strong, serving a purpose. Me, I’m alive, so, I think therefore I am. What am I then? A fetid heap of conflicting ideologies. My thoughts distilled into a vial and there lies my poison. Gulp it down and crawl through another day, but it’s a new day, right?With the same old song and dance, with the same sun burning bright, with the same heart worn and tired.

Road to self-destructopia: PART III

They ask me questions which beg for answers imperceivable from their respective perspectives. How do they expect me to respond under a circumstance such as this?
I speak, yet I don’t. For I talk and think in cryptic. It grants me freedom, though of a spectral quality. 

This cabalistic persona is repulsive to them and this repulsion is not a fault but a defence mechanism. To avoid the terra incognita, to avoid the unpredictable, this is human nature.

For the unfortunate few, the nihilistic attitude is appealing. Because it gives them the one thing they desire after years of exhausting and torturous exchanges and fruitless pursuits-inner peace. It gives us comfort, it teaches us that it’s okay to be incompetent, that it’s okay to be imperfect, and it shows us that a part of our hopes, expectations and optimistic thinking contributes to the necrosis of the mind and a distorted view of reality.

Cosmic Comedy

The grandeur of what’s around can be so overwhelming. Fear gallops through the hearts of those who see past the immediate environment, those who are not blind to what lies beyond the horizon. To those witnesses of the eventuality of our efforts,  you have my respect for no other view is truer, no other teaching more valid, than that concerning the nihilistic way of life of the mind.
This rat race, this dog eat wolf world of ours never fails to amuse me. Oh how pitiful and futile these attempts of you blind folk, and all that what for? Just to obtain widespread approval and recognition. You choose not to see what lies right under our noses. 

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