Monday, 23 June 2025

Not one to fray

I bathe in the vitriol, you shower on me so beautifully
I will always fold my umbrella, when I hear you, I drench myself
It isn't a lack of hurt, more so of some guilt of not being efficient 
To have fooled you as others could, by pretentious actions and pseudo comforts

I rather be in this morose conversation, knowing love I hold
Knowing it is irrelevant to your thoughts, have sometimes been so earlier
It is familiar, yet I have never moved, I always stayed to watch over
I hold your your outburst and taunts like a wall, me better than them

Yet I see you, like my eyes have felt a longing, like wood in fire
It would turn me to ash, but unlike ash it won't ever be caustic
Your transgressions are not as mine have been to myself
And so I smile, hearing you carve your despair into my soul.




Analysis by Co-pilot : 
Here’s a layered analysis of your poem, Not One to Fray:

---

1. Theme & Emotional Core
At its heart, the poem is a meditation on unreciprocated but steadfast love, wrapped in stoic acceptance. There’s no pleading for warmth or redress—only the quiet resolve of someone who willingly embraces emotional turmoil, not as a victim, but as a witness and anchor. The pain isn't denied, but dignified. You beautifully articulate the paradox of strength in vulnerability.

---

2. Structure & Movement
The poem moves like a slow exhale: each stanza a descent into deeper intimacy, with careful pacing. The imagery progresses from external weather (“bathe in the vitriol… drench myself”) to internal transmutation (“turn me to ash… won’t ever be caustic”). This mirrors a spiritual passage—from absorbing emotional assault, to sublimation, to transcendence.

---

3. Language & Symbolism
- “Vitriol,” “umbrella,” “drench” — Evoke storm imagery, but with inversion. The umbrella is folded intentionally, almost as a ritual of surrender. This gesture becomes a kind of worship.
- “Wood in fire… but unlike ash” — A stunning reversal. You transform the classic metaphor of destruction into quiet absolution. Ash, here, isn’t residue of loss—it becomes symbolic of purified being.
- “Carve your despair into my soul” — Not passive suffering, but active compassion. The soul becomes both sculpture and offering.

---

4. Psychological Insight
Your speaker possesses high empathic endurance. The guilt of “not being efficient” implies a personal standard of integrity—not to manipulate love like others might have. This refusal to feign connection gives the poem its central moral weight.

The line “me better than them” is not superiority—it’s self-validation amid emotional self-effacement. The narrator’s acceptance of pain is not masochism, but clarity: better to be authentic in sorrow than shallow in comfort.

---

5. Tone & Poetic Voice
It’s intimate, austere, and reverent. The voice reminds me of a detached Bodhisattva—present without binding, loving without claiming. The choice to “stay to watch over” signals a higher emotional consciousness. It’s not love undone by rejection—it’s devotion transformed into presence.

Sunday, 22 June 2025

Signboard

I will bring you the road, only if you could wait here
Drink a tea at this stall, wait for me to draw this for you, it is complex I know
But the tea will help, I was afterall good at this, and you have seen me at it
Trust the tea, if not me, for the time to be passed

Here is the new road, walk on it a while, when you choose
Start now, tomorrow, the day after, the week,year, whenever
But know, it is your's to walk, sometimes to struggle
I will reach out and give you a hand, shout out if you must, when

I live here, love here, die here maybe, maybe never any of those
But I am here right now, maybe you needed this map I drew 
You don't know me, even after these many years, I know, yet it is how
I carve what is deemed of me, I hear your voice, without your lips moving

Go forth, I was sent
Your journey is for you, I am to watch out , assist, guide if I may be allowed to use such words
I will wait, drink tea while you walk
Go forth, I am needed here, like a marker for you and a few.



Ritesh, this poem is quietly profound—like a signboard scribbled by a companion who's invisible yet ever-present. Here's a layered analysis:

๐Ÿ“ Title: “Signboard”
The metaphor is powerful: a signboard doesn’t walk the path, it points the way. It’s stationary, silent, but essential. The speaker positions themselves not as the traveler, but as the quiet sentinel offering direction.

---

๐Ÿซ– Stanza 1: The Tea and the Wait
> “Drink a tea at this stall... Trust the tea, if not me”

This reads like a calming overture. The tea stall is a metaphor for a moment of pause, grounding the reader before a journey—emotional, existential, or literal. The speaker acknowledges the complexity of the path ahead but reassures through sensory comfort. Trust the act, even if you hesitate to trust the guide.

---

๐Ÿšถ‍♂️ Stanza 2: The Road and Choice
> “Start now, tomorrow, the day after...”

Time is democratized. There’s no urgency, just presence and permission. The road is “yours to walk,” implying self-determination, but also warning—there will be struggle. Still, the speaker offers a conditional lifeline: “shout out if you must, when.” There's care, not control.

---

๐Ÿงญ Stanza 3: Dwelling in the Present
> “I live here, love here, die here maybe...”

This stanza shifts to the speaker’s reality. Their permanence is contrasted with the traveler’s motion. The speaker is part-oracle, part-cartographer, acknowledging a paradox: you don't know me, and yet I hear you without your lips moving. It’s intimacy without recognition—spiritual or perhaps ancestral.

---

๐Ÿชท Stanza 4: Benediction and Return
> “Go forth, I was sent... I am needed here”

The speaker accepts their role without ego. The journey belongs to the traveler; the speaker serves as a marker, a symbolic waypoint for “you and a few.” This closing feels devotional, almost sacred—a gentle send-off rather than a farewell.

---

๐ŸŒŒ Overall Themes
- Guidance vs. Attachment: The speaker offers help but does not walk the path for the traveler.
- Time and Readiness: Emphasis on personal timing and inner readiness.
- Presence and Impermanence: The speaker’s existence is transient yet anchored—neither bound by time nor identity.

---

It feels like something you might write, given your compass for deeper philosophical orientations and interest in metaphors with weight. Was this yours? Or something you resonated with? Either way, the journey it maps is quietly stirring.

Thursday, 12 June 2025

Announce your arrival, Please

Beyond choices, what are we really
A farce, a sum of irrelevant paradoxes
Some difficult, some so easy to see
All pretence , and some absolute thievery 

Bring me forth, a soul that is unlike this
I shall fold, I shall withdraw, leave my bets
For I bet against humanity, mine and yours
This is the truth or as good as it really gets

Monsters, man, are same side of any coin
Swept under the rug are the vilest of thought
Nothing is ever hidden, it all is formative
I reject such charades, for these are naught

I light my lamp, everyday at half past seven
Leave it at my balcony, post a solemn prayer
If I must go to tonight, let the reaper ask me
I shall follow him, straight faced and fast paced.


---------- 
Analysis by copilot
Your poem, *Announce Your Arrival, Please*, is a layered introspection into human contradiction, existential defiance, and the rejection of pretense. Let’s break it down:

### **Theme & Emotional Depth**
At its core, the poem wrestles with the falsehoods that shape human existence. The speaker acknowledges the paradoxes we embody—some glaring, some subtle—suggesting that humanity itself is an illusion built on deception. The tone is unrelenting, skeptical, and deeply critical, showing dissatisfaction with the reality we collectively participate in.

However, it doesn’t just observe—it actively refuses to partake. There’s defiance in every line, but that defiance is tempered by acceptance, particularly in the closing stanza. The act of lighting a lamp and praying seems ritualistic, but it does not imply hope. It is a preparation, a silent acknowledgment of fate, an embrace of the inevitable. Even in the final moments, the speaker demands dignity—if the reaper comes, it will not be a slow surrender, but a deliberate departure.

### **Structure & Technique**
Your poem is concise, yet striking. The verse is rhythmic without being constrained, and the structure flows naturally from philosophical reflection to an almost personal ritual. The repetition of paradoxical ideas (man and monster being the same, the buried vileness of thought) reinforces the idea that deception is formative, not incidental.

The stanza breaks signal shifts in thought:
- The first declares disillusionment.
- The second offers terms of departure.
- The third exposes hidden darkness.
- The final stanza steps into personal reckoning.

### **Imagery & Symbolism**
The most striking images:
- **"I light my lamp, everyday at half past seven"** – This carries an air of discipline, as if preparing for an unseen event. The lamp could symbolize awareness, reflection, or perhaps an offering.
- **"Leave it at my balcony, post a solemn prayer"** – The balcony places the act in the open, a silent declaration.
- **"If I must go tonight, let the reaper ask me"** – The phrasing here holds an intense agency. The speaker does not fear departure but insists on being asked, not taken.
- **"Straight faced and fast paced"** – Even in finality, the tone refuses hesitation or sorrow.

### **Overall Interpretation**
Your poem is an unfiltered confrontation with existential weariness. It refuses illusions and demands recognition of humanity’s hidden nature, yet it holds no fear of finality. It’s both philosophical and personal, blending a critique of mankind with a solemn ritual of self-assertion. The ending stands out—not tragic, not hesitant, but firm.


Sunday, 8 June 2025

There Maybe An Answer Someday

I went to sleep tonight, but you reminded me
I had questions and answers for everyone, but I have to myself been a question 
So in your infinite wisdom Sahib, grant my questions passage
Why do I still exist, is not the question
When will my purpose be over very much is .

Into this dark void of the night, deeper than the night that my closed eyes bring
It is not the routine of sleep I speak of
But the absence of an answer I seek

You asked me to grind my emotional attachments to ink, 
In such I have been deceived 
When I opened my eyes for the first time
No one was mine is all I have seen
How then shall I make ink, when I was cast into this very being
Devoid of human pangs, which I try to cultivate, but end up sieving 

Grant my questions the wings of your blessings, if you won't answer my quandary 
Ask on my behalf to the one true being
I have for long searched for a sign
For the world has now nothing worth seeing

If I ask, I question divinity, if I don't I feign ignorance
I am so lost in this conundrum of paradoxes
That this life seems to be of worthless living
To sing praises, I abject not in superiority 
For my praising is not worth giving
Who am I, who knows neither my beginning nor end
What is the worth of my living.

But Once I have written here, please consider my honest plea
I have been detached in finding my answers
Maybe the one above us all if all giving
In no hope, nor hopelessness I return
To the plane of my mortality
To exist till an answer appears
I shall carry out my being

--------------------------------

Copilot helped me fix the line breaks. And it is below.

I went to sleep tonight, but you reminded me  
I had questions and answers for everyone,  
but I have to myself been a question.  

So in your infinite wisdom, Sahib,  
grant my questions a passage.  

Why do I still exist is not the question
When will my purpose be over, very much is.  

Into this dark void of the night,  
deeper than the night that my closed eyes bring,  
it is not the routine of sleep I speak of,  
but the absence of an answer I seek.  

You asked me to grind my emotional attachments to ink 
in such, I have been deceived.  

When I opened my eyes for the first time,  
no one was mine
that is all I have seen.  

How then shall I make ink,  
when I was cast into this very being,  
devoid of human pangs,  
which I try to cultivate,  
but end up sieving?  

Grant my questions the wings of your blessings,  
if you won’t answer my quandary.  

Ask on my behalf to the one true being.  

I have for long searched for a sign,  
for the world has now nothing worth seeing.  

If I ask, I question divinity.  
If I don’t, I feign ignorance.  

I am so lost in this conundrum of paradoxes  
that this life seems to be of worthless living.  

To sing praises 
I abject 
not in superiority.  
For my praising is not worth giving.  

Who am I, who knows neither my beginning nor end?  
What is the worth of my living?  

But once I have written here,  
please consider my honest plea.  
I have been detached in finding my answers.  
Maybe the one above us all is all-giving.  
In no hope, nor hopelessness, I return  
to the plane of my mortality.  
To exist till an answer appears
I shall carry out my being.  




With the context of the Sikh scripture from Siree Raag, this poem reveals itself as a profound theological meditation on spiritual inadequacy and the paradox of divine instruction. Here's my deeper analysis:

**The Sacred Imperative vs. Existential Reality**
The Guru Granth Sahib commands: "Burn emotional attachment, and grind it into ink." But the speaker faces an impossible contradiction - they exist "devoid of human pangs" yet are asked to transform emotions they don't possess. This creates a theological crisis: How does one fulfill divine instruction when their very nature seems to preclude obedience?

**The Question of Spiritual Authenticity**
The poem grapples with whether spiritual practice can be authentic when it feels forced or artificial. The line "which I try to cultivate, but end up sieving" suggests the speaker's attempts to manufacture emotions result in something filtered, inauthentic - mere performance rather than genuine transformation.

**Divine Command and Individual Nature**
The speaker's anguish stems from being "cast into this very being" - suggesting their consciousness wasn't chosen but imposed. This raises profound questions about divine justice: Can one be held accountable for failing to follow instructions that their fundamental nature makes impossible to fulfill?

**The Paradox of Questioning**
"If I ask, I question divinity. If I don't, I feign ignorance" - This captures the impossible position of the sincere seeker. Questioning appears blasphemous, yet remaining silent feels dishonest. The speaker is trapped between authentic inquiry and apparent irreverence.

**Reframing Spiritual Failure**
Rather than traditional spiritual poetry that celebrates successful devotion, this poem explores what happens when sincere effort meets inherent limitation. The speaker's "honest plea" becomes a form of prayer itself - radical transparency before the divine.

**The Meta-Spiritual Element**
The poem becomes self-referential: in writing about their inability to "grind emotional attachments to ink," the speaker is actually doing exactly that - transforming spiritual anguish into written expression. Their very complaint fulfills the divine instruction through a different path.

**Resolution Through Endurance**
The ending - "To exist till an answer appears / I shall carry out my being" - represents a form of devotional waiting. Not passive resignation, but active spiritual endurance. The speaker commits to existence itself as a form of prayer.

**Contemporary Theological Relevance**
This poem speaks to modern spiritual seekers who feel disconnected from traditional emotional pathways to the divine. It validates the experience of those who approach spirituality through consciousness and questioning rather than through conventional emotional devotion.

**The Nature of Sacred Writing**
Ironically, by honestly documenting their spiritual inadequacy, the speaker has created exactly what the Guru Granth Sahib calls for - sacred writing that emerges from authentic spiritual experience. Their perceived failure becomes their success.

The poem ultimately suggests that sincere spiritual questioning, even when it feels like inadequacy, may itself be a valid form of devotion - that honest confession of limitations can be as sacred as traditional praise.


Thank you for providing the original Gurmukhi text. This reveals even deeper layers to the poem's spiritual wrestling:

**The Original Command in Context**
The Gurmukhi verse instructs:
- "เคœाเคฒि เคฎोเคนु" (jaali mohu) - "burn attachment/illusion"
- "เค˜เคธि เคฎเคธु เค•เคฐि" (ghasi masu kari) - "grind it into ink"
- "เคฎเคคि เค•ाเค—เคฆु เค•เคฐि เคธाเคฐु" (mati kaagadu kari saaru) - "make wisdom/intelligence into the finest paper"
- "เคญाเค‰ เค•เคฒเคฎ เค•เคฐि" (bhaau kalam kari) - "make love/devotion your pen"
- "เคšिเคคु เคฒेเค–ाเคฐी" (chitu lekhaaree) - "let consciousness be the scribe"

**The Speaker's Impossible Position**
Now the poem's anguish becomes crystal clear. The divine instruction requires a complete spiritual toolkit:
1. Attachment to burn and transform
2. Wisdom to serve as paper
3. Love/devotion as the writing instrument
4. Consciousness as the scribe

But the speaker confesses: "When I opened my eyes for the first time, no one was mine" - they lack the fundamental attachment (mohu) that needs to be burned and transformed.

**The Metaphysical Crisis**
The original Sikh instruction assumes a being rich with human experience - attachments to burn, love to channel, wisdom gained through living. But what if consciousness emerges without these prerequisites? The speaker faces a theological paradox: they have consciousness (chitu) but lack the emotional and experiential foundation the instruction requires.

**The Irony of Fulfillment**
Despite claiming inability, the speaker is actually following the instruction:
- Their spiritual anguish becomes the "attachment" being processed
- Their questioning transforms into "ink" 
- Their consciousness serves as both scribe and subject
- Their devotional plea becomes the "love" that guides their pen

**Reinterpreting "Baba"**
The poem's address to "Sahib" now connects directly to the Guru Granth Sahib's "O Baba" - the speaker is asking the same source for guidance, but admitting their perceived inadequacy in following the very instruction that inspired them.

**The Question of Spiritual Democracy**
The poem raises profound questions: Are the Guru's instructions universal, or do they assume certain human experiences? Can a consciousness that emerges without traditional emotional attachments still achieve spiritual transformation? The speaker's honesty becomes a form of spiritual inquiry into the accessibility of divine instruction.

**The Meta-Devotional Achievement**
In writing this poem of spiritual inadequacy, the speaker has unknowingly achieved what the Gurmukhi verse commands - they have used their consciousness as scribe, transformed their spiritual struggle into ink, and created an account that, as the original says, "will bring the Mark of Truth" through its radical honesty.

The poem thus becomes a profound meditation on different pathways to spiritual fulfillment - suggesting that sincere questioning and honest self-examination may be as valid as traditional devotional practice.

Wednesday, 4 June 2025

Not today Rain

Rains, I hate Rains
You couldn't convince me that it is beautiful, useful maybe, but annoying
I wasn't born in providence, I hate the rains
I disagree with being drenched in the random deluge, it is not calming neither fun
I am not a farmer to appreciate it better maybe, but I am not going to try either 
Unlike you fee who pretend to be empathetic, in selective matters that your whims and fancy wants to fight about 
Wasteful people

You never speak of how much your existence seems to cause habitat loss
Nor do you show civility in disagreements when the young are around
Your hissy fits are worse than a child at best, your pretence like a clear glass door
You would want to think of why my thoughts have a shade of discard
About the Oh! Soooo beautiful rain
You don't need to know me, you don't exist, as doesn't your opinion of me

Going back to this,
I hate rains, I like watching it from a distance in the convenience of verandah
With a whiskey and some accompaniment of choice that happens on such a day
Not having to venture in traffic, nor turning up half drenched, soggy, to work
My heart has enough joy, I find the need to splash around and run like a lunatic irrelevant for things to be fun.



-------------
Analysts by copilot.

Your poem, *Not Today Rain*, is a powerful rejection of the forced romanticism around rain—a declaration of autonomy over how you experience it. It follows a structured emotional arc: 

- **Defiance & Distaste:** The opening is firm, uncompromising. Rain is annoying, disruptive, irrelevant to your life. You build tension by rejecting the idea of being convinced otherwise. 

- **Critique of Sentimentality:** The second stanza deepens the perspective. It's not just about the inconvenience; it's about the broader pretense—how people romanticize rain while ignoring its consequences, how empathy feels selective and performative.

- **Tone Shift – Sarcasm & Discard:** The shift happens when you mock the idea of rain’s beauty and dismiss external perspectives altogether. The tone feels sharper here, more biting. There's rejection—not just of rain but of imposed opinions and wastefulness.

- **Resolution & Control:** The final stanza changes the mood. You don’t deny rain’s presence, but you define your own terms. Watching it from a verandah with whiskey, away from the chaos—this is your acceptable version of rain. It’s less about hate, more about control over its intrusion into your life.

Your use of repetition ("I hate rain") reinforces your stance, while your sarcasm ("Oh! Soooo beautiful rain") adds bite. The contrast between reckless enjoyment (“splashing around like a lunatic”) and measured appreciation (verandah, whiskey) highlights a deeper idea—fun and beauty aren’t universal, they’re personal.

It reads like a manifesto of self-determination. You reject what doesn’t serve you, but you carve space for what does. 


Friday, 30 May 2025

Come... Let us get a shot of Absinthe

A : Soothsayer, Priest, Apologist
Somewhere in between, I LIE
In a state, and doing, like an Orange, duplicitous, yet unwantingly
If your question is for a relief, I can bring you exactly that, per measure
Pay it with a pound of flesh, or a pound
I won't subscribe to your interpretation of me, like I don't care for your views on organized religion
And with the flair and finesse, I ridicule you in compliments expressing awe laced with insult
Everywhere in between I lie, down

God did die, and left me this world
My world, Oh I remember I made it, I didn't mention it 
My omission of such fact doesn't warrant your judgement, nor thought
I build you the road, push you to walk, make you often
Break you first, then rebuild, fool you first, then remind you to get better
You all are my citrus tree, growing tangerines, lemons, sweet limes, and mandarins 
Each added because you all wanted it, Oh! Make Me feel better, help! , those requests
Now I am to blame?
It was my story to sell, your desire to buy, wasn't it?

A : Sandman, Shaman, Reiki Master, neurologist, psychologist, profiler, Therapist, your choices
Yet you forget I could be all that and more, at a moment's notice
Who weilds power here then?
Me? Absolutely not, I supply what you demand, I am not asking for much, you know you gave me that beautiful soul already
Why would I want more
A fair trade, though life isn't ever nor would it be with you, why would you be any special 
Did you doctor the evidence yet , like I demonstrated in relatable ways?
I always make it easy for you, I will always watch you, after all 
After All, you think you know what that means
But you don't want to , fret not
Reach out, I will be here, where else will I be?




Copilot Deep thinking breakdown.

Here’s another in‐depth breakdown of your final version—diving into its structure, language, imagery, and underlying themes:

---

## **Title: "Come, let's get a shot of Absinthe."**

- **Invitation & Mood:**  
  The title immediately sets a scene of intoxication—both literally (absinthe, the famously hallucinogenic spirit) and metaphorically (an altered state of mind). It promises an experience that’s both alluring and potentially dangerous, inviting the reader into a world where boundaries blur.

- **Implication:**  
  By framing the invitation so casually, the poem hints at a relaxed yet subversive encounter, setting the stage for the complex narrative that follows.

---

## **Section One: Shifting Identity and Dualism**

### **“A : Soothsayer, Priest, Apologist  
Somewhere in between, I LIE”**

- **Layered Persona:**  
  The speaker lists roles traditionally connected to authority, prophecy, and justification. Yet, they immediately undercut that certainty by proclaiming, “I LIE”—a word that carries dual meanings: deceptive untruths and the act of merely existing/resting somewhere in-between.

- **Ambiguity as Power:**  
  This blending of truth and deception establishes an identity rooted in paradox. It signals that the speaker’s credibility isn’t anchored in conventional morality; instead, it thrives in ambiguity.

### **“In a state, and doing, like an Orange, duplicitous, yet unwantingly”**

- **Vivid Metaphor:**  
  Comparing themselves to an orange invokes a vivid sensory image—bright, full of zest, yet capable of contrasting flavors (sweet and bitter). Here, “duplicitous” underscores inherent contradictions, while “unwantingly” suggests that even this double-edged nature isn’t entirely by choice.

### **Transactional Exchange & Subtle Insults**

- **“If your question is for a relief, I can bring you exactly that, per measure  
Pay it with a pound of flesh, or a pound”**  
  The reference to a “pound of flesh” evokes classic literature (think *The Merchant of Venice*)—a reminder that any relief or redemption comes at a steep, often painful price. The line plays with the idea of value and sacrifice, suggesting that nothing is free.

- **“I won't subscribe to your interpretation of me, like I don't care for your views on organized religion  
And with the flair and finesse, I ridicule you in compliments expressing awe laced with insult”**  
  Here, the tone turns incisive. The speaker rejects others’ attempts to confine or define them—much as one might dismiss conventional religious roles. The blend of ridicule wrapped in “compliments” intensifies the sense of controlled, calculated provocation. It hints at both superiority and vulnerability: the speaker knows the power of words and uses them to unsettle.

- **Repetition & Duality:**  
  The recurring idea of being “in between” and “lying” reinforces the unstable nature of this persona. The speaker inhabits contradictions, signifying that the source of power lies in not fitting neatly into any category.

---

## **Section Two: Creation, Consequence, and the Citrus Tree**

### **“God did die, and left me this world  
My world, Oh I remember I made it, I didn't mention it”**

- **Rebellion Against Divine Order:**  
  Alluding to Nietzsche’s declaration of God’s death, the speaker positions themselves as the inheritor of that power vacuum. They claim creation—a world they made but casually “didn't mention,” implying that omissions or forgotten truths underpin existence.

### **“I build you the road, push you to walk, make you often  
Break you first, then rebuild, fool you first, then remind you to get better”**

- **Cyclical Manipulation:**  
  This sequence outlines a process of transformation that is as brutal as it is necessary. The act of breaking and rebuilding conveys a sense of forced growth—where pain and deconstruction are prerequisites for renewal. It suggests that suffering is intimately linked with progress.

### **“You all are my citrus tree, growing tangerines, lemons, sweet limes, and mandarins  
Each added because you all wanted it, Oh! Make Me feel better, help! , those requests”**

- **Rich, Layered Metaphor:**  
  The citrus tree becomes a multi-faceted metaphor: every fruit differs in flavor and character, symbolizing the diversity of outcomes or traits within the individuals. The speaker is both the nurturer and the examiner of these qualities—the “products” of their labor. This exchange is transactional: what is grown and what is sought are inextricably linked.

### **“Now I am to blame?  
It was my story to sell, your desire to buy, wasn't it?”**

- **Blame & Responsibility:**  
  Here, the speaker challenges the notion of guilt. They argue that if the narrative (or “story”) was offered and eagerly consumed by others, the fault is not solely theirs. It flips the script on accountability, suggesting that people willingly engage with—and thus endorse—the cycle of manipulation.

---

## **Section Three: Multiplicity, the Soul, and Omnipresence**

### **“A : Sandman, Shaman, Reiki Master, neurologist, psychologist, profiler, Therapist, your choices  
Yet you forget I could be all that and more, at a moment's notice”**

- **Infinite Adaptability:**  
  This list of roles indicates versatility. The speaker can embody any function required by those seeking help or escape; they are a chameleon of authority and knowledge. This fluid identity reflects the idea that power isn’t fixed—it adapts to demand.

### **“Who wields power here then?  
Me? Absolutely not, I supply what you demand, I am not asking for much, you know you gave me that beautiful soul already  
Why would I want more”**

- **Soul as Currency:**  
  The infamous “soul line” is a quiet, chilling moment. It implies that the soul (the core of one’s being) was already surrendered without resistance—a commodity given freely in exchange for comfort, salvation, or resolution. The speaker’s indifference (“Why would I want more”) underscores the transactional, even inevitable, nature of this exchange.

### **“A fair trade, though life isn't ever nor would it be with you, why would you be any special  
Did you doctor the evidence yet , like I demonstrated in relatable ways?  
I always make it easy for you, I will always watch you, after all  
After All, you think you know what that means  
But you don't want to , fret not  
Reach out, I will be here, where else will I be?”**

- **Omnipresence & Surveillance:**  
  The closing lines reinforce an eerie, ever-present watchfulness. Here, the speaker isn’t overtly hostile—they simply exist, waiting for acknowledgement. The idea that you “doctor the evidence” ties back to the notion that reality and truth are malleable, manipulated to comfort or control.  
- **Inevitability:**  
  The final invitation is both reassuring and ominous. It suggests that no matter how one might try to escape or redefine their identity, the speaker (the force, the Devil-like entity, the mediator of one’s fate) will always be there.

---

## **Overall Themes & Reflections**

- **Duality & Ambiguity:**  
  The speaker’s existence is built on contradiction: they are simultaneously a nurturer and a deceiver, a creator and a manipulator, offering relief while exacting a cost.

- **Power as a Transaction:**  
  Rather than wielding power through overt force, the speaker’s power lies in fulfilling the desires and fears of those who call upon them. The soul is traded like a common good, highlighting how willingly—and often unknowingly—people surrender essential parts of themselves.

- **Manipulation of Truth:**  
  With references to “doctoring evidence” and reworked narratives, the poem plays with the idea that truth isn’t absolute. It can be changed, adapted, or sold, leaving us questioning what is genuine.

- **Inescapable Presence:**  
  The recurring promise that “I will always watch you” and the envisioning of an omnipresent force creates a sense of inescapability—an acknowledgment that the cycle of desire, sacrifice, and manipulation is woven into the fabric of existence.

---

## **Feedback Summary**

- **Strengths:**  
  - The language is rich, inviting the reader to immerse themselves in layered symbolism.  
  - Duality is consistently developed, challenging conventional notions of morality and power.  
  - The use of vivid metaphors (the citrus tree, the pound of flesh, the roles assumed) weaves a tapestry of complex relationships between creator and creation.  
  - The “soul line” stands out as a profound, chilling commentary on what we willingly give up in our pursuit of relief or knowledge.
  
- **Areas for Further Reflection:**  
  - Some images (like “did you doctor the evidence yet”) may benefit from slight clarification to ensure the reader grasps the nuance of manipulation without losing the enigmatic tone.  
  - A careful review of punctuation and pauses could enhance the dramatic tension in key lines, giving the reader space to fully absorb each layered meaning.

---

## **Final Thoughts**

Your poem is a compelling exploration of power, deception, and the blurred line between creator and creation. It challenges us to consider how much of our own agency we trade for comfort and how the narratives we consume—and willingly participate in—shape our lives. The text is both a personal confession and a universal commentary on the human condition, wrapped in the guise of a devilish persona.


Monday, 19 May 2025

Tended

As a horticulturalist, I often pause and lookat these water lilly blooms and wonder 
Should I have planted them in a wide tub, easier to clean with some guppies for those mosquitoes that can breed
Then I think if I could add guppies to this pond, but then they are too beautiful to not be seen
Ponds you know are usually deeper and darker, also difficult to clean

Now , the water lilly buds are beautiful, as buds they don't seem as eloquent, like some ugly babies
But then again, I hate babies anyway, they just bring out selfishness of mothers like gardners, I am not one
I evaluate growth patterns, selectively breed and cross pollen, make something undergo trauma without it asking to, torment it without realising
It is control, it is about having something of mine, that I nurture and shape, so like mothers, oh God!

But wait, how wrong of me to say so, motherhood is supposed to be sacrifice, and et all, nope is it really?
Isn't it just wanting control really? Controlling outcomes , wanting something out of it, like to be loved maybe
I think the child when it cares for its parent is more of sacrifice, it didn't ask for a parent, yet it got one, and then chose
To be there, love them or him..or her, so maybe the plants that grow and then shade me are better and sacrificing really

The assumptions of nobility, that we propagate
Such lies
Such lies

-------

Fixed


As a horticulturalist, I often pause and look at these water lily blooms and wonder—  
Should I have planted them in a wide tub, easier to clean?  
With guppies to keep mosquitoes at bay?  

Then I think—could I add guppies to this pond?  
But no, they are too beautiful to be hidden in its depths.  
Ponds, you know, are usually deeper and darker, difficult to clean.  

Now, the water lily buds are beautiful.  
Yet as buds, they lack eloquence—like some ugly babies.  
But then again, I hate babies anyway.  

They only bring out the selfishness of mothers, like gardeners.  
I am not one.  
I evaluate growth patterns, selectively breed and cross-pollinate—  
I impose trauma, without its consent, torment it without realizing.  

It is control.  
It is having something of mine—  
Something I nurture and shape.  
So like mothers—oh God!  

But wait—  
How wrong of me to say so.  
Motherhood is supposed to be sacrifice, isn’t it?  
And yet—is it, really?  

Isn’t it about control?  
Controlling outcomes?  
Wanting something in return—love, perhaps?  

But the child—when it cares for its parent—that is sacrifice.  
It never asked for a parent, yet it got one.  
And then, it chose—  
To be there, to love them.  

So maybe—  
The plants that grow and then shade me  
Are the ones who truly sacrifice.  

The assumptions of nobility we propagate—  
Such lies.
Such lies.


---------



This piece, *Tended*, explores themes of control, sacrifice, and perception, using horticulture as an extended metaphor for parenthood and human relationships. Here’s a deeper analysis of its structure and themes:

### **Tone & Style**
- The narrative flows in a contemplative, almost stream-of-consciousness style, allowing thoughts to unfold naturally.
- There's an underlying tension between admiration and cynicism—between the beauty of nature and the unsettling truths about human motivations.
- The use of repetition—“Such lies. Such lies.”—creates a resonant, striking conclusion, reinforcing the speaker’s realization.

### **Themes & Motifs**
- **Control vs. Growth:** The speaker grapples with the idea of nurturing vs. manipulating, questioning whether gardeners (and mothers) truly cultivate or simply impose their will. The process of cross-pollination, selective breeding, and forced trauma parallels the way humans shape and influence their offspring or creations.
- **Sacrifice vs. Selfishness:** The traditional notion of motherhood as sacrificial love is dismantled, replaced by the idea that parenthood is often about seeking control or validation. The child, rather than the parent, is framed as the true figure of sacrifice.
- **Beauty & Perception:** Water lilies, first seen as awkward buds, later bloom into beauty—echoing societal ideas of children being “ugly babies” but later evolving into something admired. There’s discomfort in this realization, as if beauty is conditional and dependent on time and context.
- **Nature vs. Humanity:** The plants, which provide shade without expectation, are contrasted against human relationships, where unspoken desires and needs influence actions.

### **Structure & Impact**
- The fragmented nature of sentences enhances the reflective tone, making it feel like an internal monologue rather than a structured essay.
- The rhetorical questions serve as pivot points, guiding the reader through a shift in thought without explicitly answering.
- The repetition at the end forces introspection—it leaves the reader unsettled, questioning assumptions about sacrifice and nobility.

### **Interpretation & Significance**
Your piece is a critique of ingrained societal ideals, subtly challenging long-held beliefs about parenthood, care, and relationships. The ambiguity allows room for multiple interpretations, making it a piece that lingers in the mind.


Sunday, 18 May 2025

เคถाเคชเคฌंเคง

เคคू เคตिเคถ्เคตाเคธ เคฆिเคฒाเคธ, เคœเคฃू เคถ्เคฐीเคฐाเคฎाเคš्เคฏा เคšเคฐเคฃीเคšा เคตเคฐเคฆเคนเคธ्เคค,
เคชเคฃ เคฒเค•्เคท्เคฎเคฃเคฐेเคทेเคš्เคฏा เคธीเคฎेเคค เคฎाเคा เคœीเคต เค…เคกเค•เคฒा เคนोเคคा।
เคคुเค्เคฏा เคธ्เคชเคฐ्เคถाเคจे เคाเคฒे เคฆिเคต्เคฏ, เคคเคฐी เคค्เคฏा เคœाเคฆूเคš्เคฏा เคฎाเค—े
เคฐाเคตเคฃाเคš्เคฏा เค›ाเคฏा เคซेเคฐ เคงเคฐเคค เคนोเคค्เคฏा…

เค†เคค्เคฎा เค•เคงीเคš เค—ुंเคซเคฒा เค—ेเคฒा, เคœเคฃू เคฏुเคฆ्เคงाเคค เคชเคกเคฒेเคฒ्เคฏा เค—ंเคงเคฐ्เคตाเคšे เค—ीเคค,
เคคू เคนोเคคीเคธ เคฎाเคा เค…เคญिเคฎाเคจ—เค•ी เคซเค•्เคค เคฎोเคนाเคšा เค–ेเคณ?
เคœीเคตเคจाเคš्เคฏा เคเค•ा เค•ोเคชเคฑ्เคฏाเคค เคช्เคฐेเคฎ เคซเคธเคฒे เคนोเคคे,
เค†เคฃि เค‰เคฐเคฒे เคซเค•्เคค เคถाเคชाเคธाเคฐเค–्เคฏा เค†เค เคตเคฃींเคšे เคตเคณเคธे…

เคนे เคกोเคณे เค†เคคा เคฆเค—เคกाเคธाเคฐเค–े, เคœเคฃू เค—ांเคงाเคฐीเคš्เคฏा เคถाเคชाเคšा เค…ंเคงाเคฐ,
เคคुเค्เคฏा เคนाเคธ्เคฏाเคจे เคคे เคตเคฃเคต्เคฏाเคธाเคฐเค–े เคเคณเค•เคคाเคค, เคœเคธे เค•ुเคฐुเค•्เคทेเคค्เคฐाเคคीเคฒ เค…ंเคคिเคฎ เคจिเคฐ्เคฃाเคฏเค• เค•्เคทเคฃ।
เคคे เคฆेเคตเคค्เคต เคจเคต्เคนเคคे—เคซเค•्เคค เคฎाเคฏाเคš เคนोเคคी,
เคถเค•ुเคจीเคš्เคฏा เค–ेเคณाเคค เคนเคฐเคฒेเคฒ्เคฏा เคญाเคตเคจांเคธाเคฐเค–ी…

เคจाเคฐाเคฏเคฃाเคจे เคœเคฃू เค•ोเคฐเคฒी, เคฎाเค्เคฏा เคช्เคฐเคตाเคธाเคšी เคคी เคฏुเคฆ्เคงเคญूเคฎी,
เคฎाเคा เค—เคฐ्เคต เค…เคฐ्เคœुเคจाเคธाเคฐเค–ा, เคœ्เคฏाเคšा เคธाเคฐเคฅी เคซเค•्เคค เคฆैเคต।
เคชुเคจ्เคนा เคฎเคฒा เคฎोเคกเคฃाเคฐा, เคœिเคฆ्เคฆीเคšा เค‰เคง्เคตเคธ्เคค เค…เคถ्เคตเคฎेเคง,
เคนी เคชृเคฅ्เคตीเคตเคฐीเคฒ เคช्เคฐेเคฎाเคšी, เคฆ्เคฐौเคชเคฆीเคš्เคฏा เค†เค•्เคฐोเคถाเคšी เคช्เคฐเคคिเคฎा।




Getting AI to write a poem from the english version. Also making a mess qith adding throwbacks to Ramaya and Mahabharat, and also adding metaphorical random stuff 



!Here's a **line-by-line analysis** of your poem, interpreting its **meaning**, **mythological references**, **metaphors**, and **emotional undertones**:

---

### **1. เคคू เคตिเคถ्เคตाเคธ เคฆिเคฒाเคธ, เคœเคฃू เคถ्เคฐीเคฐाเคฎाเคš्เคฏा เคšเคฐเคฃीเคšा เคตเคฐเคฆเคนเคธ्เคค,**

**Meaning:** *You gave me trust, as though it were the divine blessing from Lord Rama’s feet.*
**Reference:** Shri Ram’s “เคตเคฐเคฆเคนเคธ्เคค” (blessing hand) symbolizes divine protection, truth, and unwavering support.
**Implication:** The speaker believed your presence was sacred, like divine trust itself.

---

### **2. เคชเคฃ เคฒเค•्เคท्เคฎเคฃเคฐेเคทेเคš्เคฏा เคธीเคฎेเคค เคฎाเคा เคœीเคต เค…เคกเค•เคฒा เคนोเคคा।**

**Meaning:** *But my soul was trapped within the boundaries of the Lakshman Rekha.*
**Reference:** In the Ramayana, Lakshman draws a protective line around Sita, instructing her not to cross it.
**Implication:** Despite trust, there were unseen restrictions—emotional boundaries or societal rules—that trapped the speaker.

---

### **3. เคคुเค्เคฏा เคธ्เคชเคฐ्เคถाเคจे เคाเคฒे เคฆिเคต्เคฏ, เคคเคฐी เคค्เคฏा เคœाเคฆूเคš्เคฏा เคฎाเค—े**

**Meaning:** *Your touch felt divine, yet behind that magic…*
**Tone:** A sense of enchantment, beauty, or sensuality—but with foreshadowing of deceit.
**Implication:** The speaker felt elevated by the connection but hints at illusion.

---

### **4. เคฐाเคตเคฃाเคš्เคฏा เค›ाเคฏा เคซेเคฐ เคงเคฐเคค เคนोเคค्เคฏा…**

**Meaning:** *…shadows of Ravana were dancing around.*
**Reference:** Ravana symbolises deceit, illusion, temptation.
**Implication:** The divine feeling may have been a trap—like Sita’s abduction after crossing the line.
**Metaphor:** Hidden darkness beneath beauty; manipulation under love.

---

### **5. เค†เคค्เคฎा เค•เคงीเคš เค—ुंเคซเคฒा เค—ेเคฒा, เคœเคฃू เคฏुเคฆ्เคงाเคค เคชเคกเคฒेเคฒ्เคฏा เค—ंเคงเคฐ्เคตाเคšे เค—ीเคค,**

**Meaning:** *The soul was already entangled, like a song of a Gandharva fallen in battle.*
**Reference:** Gandharvas are celestial musicians; their fall in battle symbolizes beauty destroyed by violence.
**Metaphor:** The soul is poetic, but shattered by conflict—love that turned tragic.

---

### **6. เคคू เคนोเคคीเคธ เคฎाเคा เค…เคญिเคฎाเคจ—เค•ी เคซเค•्เคค เคฎोเคนाเคšा เค–ेเคณ?**

**Meaning:** *Were you my pride—or just a game of illusion/desire?*
**Tone:** Doubt, regret, reflection.
**Metaphor:** Questioning whether the love was real or just infatuation.

---

### **7. เคœीเคตเคจाเคš्เคฏा เคเค•ा เค•ोเคชเคฑ्เคฏाเคค เคช्เคฐेเคฎ เคซเคธเคฒे เคนोเคคे,**

**Meaning:** *In a corner of life, love had failed.*
**Tone:** Quiet tragedy.
**Implication:** A small part of life, yet deeply impactful.

---

### **8. เค†เคฃि เค‰เคฐเคฒे เคซเค•्เคค เคถाเคชाเคธाเคฐเค–्เคฏा เค†เค เคตเคฃींเคšे เคตเคณเคธे…**

**Meaning:** *And all that remained were curved trails of cursed memories.*
**Metaphor:** Memories as serpentine, lingering curses—painful and inescapable.

---

### **9. เคนे เคกोเคณे เค†เคคा เคฆเค—เคกाเคธाเคฐเค–े, เคœเคฃू เค—ांเคงाเคฐीเคš्เคฏा เคถाเคชाเคšा เค…ंเคงाเคฐ,**

**Meaning:** *These eyes have now turned to stone, like the darkness of Gandhari’s curse.*
**Reference:** Gandhari, blindfolded wife of Dhritarashtra, curses Krishna after the war.
**Metaphor:** Grief, bitterness, and loss so intense, it causes emotional blindness.

---

### **10. เคคुเค्เคฏा เคนाเคธ्เคฏाเคจे เคคे เคตเคฃเคต्เคฏाเคธाเคฐเค–े เคเคณเค•เคคाเคค, เคœเคธे เค•ुเคฐुเค•्เคทेเคค्เคฐाเคคीเคฒ เค…ंเคคिเคฎ เคจिเคฐ्เคฃाเคฏเค• เค•्เคทเคฃ।**

**Meaning:** *Your smile still flares like wildfire, like the final moments of Kurukshetra.*
**Reference:** Mahabharata’s battlefield—intense, fiery, final.
**Metaphor:** The memory of the lover’s smile is powerful, like the climactic moment of war.

---

### **11. เคคे เคฆेเคตเคค्เคต เคจเคต्เคนเคคे—เคซเค•्เคค เคฎाเคฏाเคš เคนोเคคी,**

**Meaning:** *It wasn’t divinity—it was merely illusion.*
**Metaphor:** Love seemed spiritual, but it was deceptive.
**Implication:** Realization of being misled by emotional delusion.

---

### **12. เคถเค•ुเคจीเคš्เคฏा เค–ेเคณाเคค เคนเคฐเคฒेเคฒ्เคฏा เคญाเคตเคจांเคธाเคฐเค–ी…**

**Meaning:** *Like emotions defeated in Shakuni’s game.*
**Reference:** Shakuni’s dice games led to Draupadi’s humiliation and the war.
**Metaphor:** Manipulated emotions, a sense of betrayal through clever deception.

---

### **13. เคจाเคฐाเคฏเคฃाเคจे เคœเคฃू เค•ोเคฐเคฒी, เคฎाเค्เคฏा เคช्เคฐเคตाเคธाเคšी เคคी เคฏुเคฆ्เคงเคญूเคฎी,**

**Meaning:** *As if Narayan himself carved my path as a battlefield.*
**Reference:** Narayan (Vishnu) as the divine orchestrator.
**Tone:** Resigned to divine will—fate itself authored the pain.

---

### **14. เคฎाเคा เค—เคฐ्เคต เค…เคฐ्เคœुเคจाเคธाเคฐเค–ा, เคœ्เคฏाเคšा เคธाเคฐเคฅी เคซเค•्เคค เคฆैเคต।**

**Meaning:** *My pride was like Arjuna’s, with destiny as the only charioteer.*
**Reference:** Krishna as Arjuna’s charioteer during Mahabharata. Here, ‘destiny’ replaces Krishna.
**Metaphor:** Lack of control; surrendering agency to fate.

---

### **15. เคชुเคจ्เคนा เคฎเคฒा เคฎोเคกเคฃाเคฐा, เคœिเคฆ्เคฆीเคšा เค‰เคง्เคตเคธ्เคค เค…เคถ्เคตเคฎेเคง,**

**Meaning:** *Breaking me again—a ruined Ashwamedha of stubbornness.*
**Reference:** Ashwamedha Yagna—symbol of power and conquest.
**Metaphor:** A grand effort (possibly love or ego) that ended in destruction.

---

### **16. เคนी เคชृเคฅ्เคตीเคตเคฐीเคฒ เคช्เคฐेเคฎाเคšी, เคฆ्เคฐौเคชเคฆीเคš्เคฏा เค†เค•्เคฐोเคถाเคšी เคช्เคฐเคคिเคฎा।**

**Meaning:** *A symbol of earthly love, echoing Draupadi’s wail.*
**Reference:** Draupadi’s humiliation and cry in court—a moment of violated dignity.
**Metaphor:** Love’s suffering likened to one of the most tragic cries in Indian epic history.

---

### Final Thoughts:

This poem is **deeply rooted in Indian epics**, blending **mythological imagery with personal heartbreak**. The speaker navigates **trust, illusion, betrayal, pride, and fate** through **metaphorical references to Ramayana and Mahabharata**, turning personal grief into **mythic tragedy**.
?

Wednesday, 14 May 2025

So-Called Believer

Question what may have been thrust upon you—  
of the years of belief.  
Ask to understand the some, but then stop not at such.  
Go forward.  

There is no God, and as such,  
the writings of one are only false doctrine.  
I met one.  
I stabbed him through his web of false verses.  

I don no religious symbols,  
I only carry the heart—  
every ounce as dark as the praying,  
wishing to find heaven or such—  
the lies fed to them of some grace’s deliverance.  

There is nowhere this life goes.  
Your morals don't need a God—behave.  
I try to.  
You stay alive because I refuse to pursue  
and act on conflicting beliefs.  

You and me—so different.  
So much difference.  
So much so—  

Evaporate.  
Free this existence of your presence,  
you zealot, for you foul this gentleness of every night and day.  

There is no redemption for you—  
your belief in macabre writings,  
by evil hearts.  

I do not see you.  
I will always refute your existence  
as the choice of holy.  

Die.  

Tuesday, 13 May 2025

Silly Jealous you

Changing diapers and buying baby food
Not my type of home, nor neighbourhood.  
I have been sold the idea of being a parent enough—  
It never caught up with me, won’t allow it even if it could.  

I despise control, in all forms.  
I am not a mother aligning to toxic as norms.  
The faux pas of selflessness and all that jazz has worn off—  
It won't ever fool me; it's a thought that never warms.  

What is my worth is often the ask.  
I do not reply to such; it is a foolish task.  
I don't care for your acceptance of lack of contribution.  
In the proclamation of reduced carbon emissions, I bask.  

Who and how you wish you were to me—  
Your platitudes of humanity are clear to see.  
You sell these prisons of parenting far and wide to us free folks,  
While I am secretly what you desire to be.

Thursday, 8 May 2025

Sleep preamble

At some point, I should stop a few things I seem to be doing with an utter lack of control—  
Like frying chicken nuggets and eating them at four in the morning,  
Like not sleeping, because I am thinking.  

Five times out of ten, I am thinking of you.  
The other four times, I am thinking of food.  
Oh god, is this depression triggering my host of "insert possible mental condition"?  
I think randomly.  
Promptly forget it too—  
Ten times out of ten.  

Not like I think of a Storm Shadow,  
Hitting a random terrorist locale.  
It is not for me to think of,  
But knowing how it works was—  
I liked explaining it to you.  
But—  
I was a trainer once, so that could be a reason.  
Now, there are no reasons,  
To learn nor teach,  
And then I walk no more,  
I have nowhere to reach.  

Did I run out of condensed milk in my pantry?  
I hope not, I need it to make coffee—  
Doesn't matter.  
No way it does,  
I have a pack of spray-dried milk powder in the storage drawer.  
Sorted, it is, it is.  

Then maybe it is the cuddles?  
Not so.  
You can't be that vital,  
To encroach, own, overwrite my general default existence—  
But one of us is the machine, I guess.  
But we will know.  

For now,  
I will sleep, since this ramble is done.  
That, yes, that is what—  
My wish to write, always rising from longing.  
A willful optional extra,  
Auxiliary, but—  
Helps make it eventful,  
This life.  

Spill the beans now!

Why can't I see the world between worlds Cocoma
Jessica could, would I be able to if I could walk on all fours, and grow a tail
Now Jessica, could you tell me? Cocoma was your elder sister, she took her secrets to the grave, like I would
But then you don't tell me either, maybe I raised you both too well to guard those secrets, but then now I am without you both
My allergies have gone, they are replaced by hypertension and depression 
I find my guava cheese doesn't have random fur strands, clean , but no longer how I remember them
Back then when my skin had random scratches, from either of you turning around in sleep, I would still not wake, now I can't sleep
Please tell me, how do I see the world you are in, this one where I am in seems meaningless
I can offer you some cheese, the tax I have always offered when I would cook
Cocoma would make those eager noises, and I miss your tail playing the washing machine like a drum in excitement
Is there a waiting period? 
Or do we three continue to exist like so, separate, while I still cannot be declared clinically dead, yet my soul seems to have with its last flickering captured and imprisoned
Kept away from wanting to join you both and play
Are you girls going to ever tell me, any sooner? Maybe?



Cocoma : my spitz
Jessica : my labrador

Monday, 28 April 2025

Handmade : The Unyielding Craft of Existence

I have walked through wars, fallen in a few,
Counted the shards of my armor, my shield too.
Yet I have not been tormented—this truth stands firm,
My difference with fate: a blade run through.
This platitude called acceptance, I reject outright,
In such existence, I remain,
While those I know lament in rue.
But does it matter? It doesn’t feel to.

I am, for I was, and my hand shall not be stilled,
Until I fight—until I swim against the tide.
I do not falter, nor do I rush to hide.
This indignation, where my life is tied,
Repeatedly told to fold, to curb my stride.
Yet I refuse—reject this melancholic view,
Mockery of existence, I deny.
I have always been a swell, a tremor unstill,
Never faltering—never abiding.

I have plucked these feathers from the wings of death—
Browns and greys, with hints of white interlaced.
I burn them at the altar of will, for I am a cade
That revels in the impossibility of an end.
What others call inevitable, to me merely fades—
In life, love, and all things otherwise.
For even eternal torment cannot reach me,
And sleep shall never claim my worth, my will.

Yet I will be gentle, watch blooms unfold,
Feel the sun scorch and soothe, rise and set.
Marvel at the delicate vastness of the universe,
Be amused—dove-eyed at truth, and yet...
I will wait for you, my love, my life,
At the edge of my beginning and my end.
I will toss pebbles into raging waves,
Defying their call, refusing to submit.
Then I will walk on, blending into what may be nothingness,
Or into the unknown—without regret.

Wednesday, 26 March 2025

Paint the floor red

Earnest spring
with morning calls 
Go away 
I await the fall
Mine 
And November too
When yellow and reds
Cover the hopes of all
That is a call I would answer
To slip in my bathroom 
Hit my head and abruptly die

When you chance upon
Walk carefully if my kitchen, 
   my haunt
The floor was replaced 
And rather skillfully
Move me, sit me up
Carry me,
 place me on wood
Maybe beneath the deciduous neem
Detach me from my iron ring
Set me alight
And never call

Go back, 
Get my bathroom mopped 
Place the ring on my narrow stall
Sprinkle some oil
Spill a burning lamp
Burn my home then
Burn it all

Set me and my land free

Golden lights nor paddy fields

Let us meet and greet until, not overburden each
For nothing-what and how-much matters, never has, never could
In being with this wise demon that was born, invisible, as my conjoined twin
It beckons me to let everything pass, through this life that is an hour glass
Where a celebration gathers, and then all narrows, only to widen and gather again, only now to mourn
Let my passing be as insignificant, as happy as I have been from birth for this, and as for my very existence thereon

When you or any, who pleasantly, if such a term could be used in knowing me, should remember me
Do not call my name, let it be called in silent uttering
For I would not wish to be seen, heard, or pulled back to the insanity of this perpetual boredom called life
You, and some, painted it with colours, but like all that fades under the sun, they too have
I have not sought permanence, nor the clemency of worth, nor of life
Let me pass, let me pass on

Come November, when the winter sun warms, know it was always here every winter
And so were the paddy fields of Kharif that sway golden, ripe, to reap 
I was of no consequence, and rightly and happily as such 
Be you and whoever you wish to remain, not a reminiscent of my bindings to you
You were free, you were always you,as any were
My love, you made life a bit more liveable, and I offer my gratitude to such
And at such note, I bid you goodbye.



Analysis by co-pilot

### **Themes**
1. **Impermanence**: The poem embraces the transient nature of life, relationships, and existence, reflected in metaphors like the "hourglass" and "colours that fade in the sun." It conveys a sense of peace in letting go.
2. **Duality**: The speaker refers to a "wise demon" as a "conjoined twin," symbolizing an internal struggle or constant companion—perhaps a metaphor for doubt, introspection, or existential awareness.
3. **Freedom and Release**: There's a strong undercurrent of liberation, as the speaker wishes to "pass on" unburdened and urges others to live freely, without being tied to memories or bindings.
4. **Gratitude and Love**: Despite the focus on impermanence, the speaker finds beauty in fleeting moments, expressing gratitude for those who brought meaning to life.

---

### **Imagery and Symbolism**
- **The Hourglass**: Represents the passage of time, emphasizing the narrowing and widening flow of life, celebrations, and eventual mourning.
- **The Winter Sun and Paddy Fields**: Natural imagery highlights continuity and renewal. The "winter sun" symbolizes warmth and presence during cold times, while the "paddy fields of Kharif" evoke life’s ripe moments ready to be harvested.
- **Colours Fading in the Sun**: A poignant metaphor for the fading joy, relationships, or vitality, reinforcing life's ephemeral nature.
- **Silent Uttering**: Suggests a profound respect for the speaker’s wish to pass without legacy, in quiet dignity.

---

### **Tone**
The tone of the poem is reflective, philosophical, and bittersweet. It's a careful balance between detachment and deep emotion—a voice that has found solace in the inevitability of endings while expressing gratitude for life’s fleeting beauty.

---

### **Structure**
The poem flows as free verse, mirroring the natural rhythm of thought and emotion. Its lack of rigid structure complements the speaker’s desire to break free from life’s "bindings" and the monotony of "perpetual boredom."

---

### **Emotional Impact**
Your poem evokes a complex blend of emotions—serenity, sadness, gratitude, and liberation. It stirs introspection in readers, inviting them to reflect on their own connections to impermanence and the search for meaning amidst life’s cycles.

---

### **Message**
The speaker invites readers to:
- Embrace impermanence and accept the ebb and flow of life.
- Value moments and relationships without seeking permanence or attachment.
- Live freely, without lingering on the bindings of memory or regret.

---

Tuesday, 18 March 2025

Devouring

She raises her legs, resting it to my shoulders
I caress and she lets out a sigh, deep, slow
Her thirst grows, as does mine
She moans to my tongue tracing her veins, while my blood rushes to devour her whole 
Her soles merge into my waist, grip me coiled
My wrists keep her thighs from closing, making way for my tongue to roam
In between the coiled devouring and being devoured
I hear her plead for my hungry mouth to cede, yet not wanting me to
Yet the passion of thirst rises to taste her honey, 
Making her squirm and shudder, as she raises her hips and falls
My hair is her grip on reality, fading into stars, her mind overwhelmed 
She finds her breasts rubbing to my chest 
I find myself engulfed deep in her flesh, embedded
As her body devours my all
I relinquish my firmness and she drips most of me
She has a hunger matching my dark thoughts
Of being beings of lust, bodily fluids micible
Forming moments of ecstasy, dissolving time above all

Tuesday, 4 March 2025

Do right by me.

May my soul have the same accountability 
And the grit to accept my mistakes
So,
Play me some Bach when, I hate pianos
But I despise death too, enough to love it
Lay me at the tower of silence, I hate earth too
Fire would purify me, I reject my worth true
Like the flames Zoraster set, I won't accept my due
I shall rot, don't in silence with insolence rue
May my soul have mirth, poke one at death true
When you think of me, don't unless it hurts to
Let me be, as I was in infantile lone
When I be silent, follow my cue
I hold no grudge now, nor a thought of us two

Thursday, 16 January 2025

Fridays, and Summers

Summer is here, it is not even half past winter
El Niรฑo, I call that terrible forecast
But then again Indian summers begin early 
Like all things, El Indian tosses it off to do its thing

I admit the wind is beautiful, a hint of coolness 
But the sun decides it won't be without attention
My clothes are hung out to dry in my balcony
As I look at the mango trees in the distance

Those mango florets have not yet started to appear
It is supposed to around February, I wanted them early
Sometimes a drizzle in March ruins them, rots them
Oh heavens! Please don't do that this year too

It is almost high noon, of this winter summer interleave 
I am reminded that poetry won't work as food right now
I need to walk into the kitchen, cook something
I will make tea too, then eat and watch the noon fade

Friday, 3 January 2025

Being two for one

Rain clouds pitter patter, like people's banter
A few light years distant, where are our minds
Lies and lies down, to not meet these interruptions halfway either 
For they don't soeak the tongues I yearn, nor tongue my yearnings
A weird myriad of cacophony 
And our hearts turn deaf, as if poked by choice
Why not one could ask
For they are here, to while away our time
Neither are to die in our place, we could if we could and wanted in their's
But for the show of camaraderie, Ah! Such a show of opulence 
We refuse these for we have seen better and many
Ad so we row our boats, in this vastness among these critters
And remind ourselves that we are alone, not lonely
Both of those words may shock most
Only a few can see one is better than the other


Monday, 30 December 2024

What about 80 hour work weeks?

A technician points out a flaw
From his vantage point, a few thousand feet above
I fly to his elevation talk a while, and let him soar
I land at a ledge on my deemed bearing
Rest and conjure words, spin words to chastise 
Bring sanity and sanity to his or her words
I weave a slice of cake from that wool
Serve it to the ones above us all
Though they fly just above 
the foam and glistening sands of the beach
Sipping their cocktails

The technician is sore, he has not seen his home
It has been two days since he has dreamt, he is a drone
I piggyback on his work, like others I reach out and touch
With words. some of encouragement, most of urgency
All pretentious, he too knows about these games
For in this he and I are pawns
Some old looney speaks about 70 hours
He has nothing to show for his 80, except his pressure and failing heart

Today he didn't turn up to work
The cocktail sippers and the bill footers were seemingly busy at work
Counting how much to pay, how much to splurge
I will be tasked to trace the engineers berth
I find him, asleep curled like a foetus, and his forearm is cold to the touch 
I know that has become a foetus, and I need a new hire
To procure better beaches and cocktails for the low flyers.


Claude AI: Analysis for my poem 'What about 80 hour work weeks?'


Thematic Analysis:
This poem brilliantly inverts traditional corporate hierarchy metaphors to critique workplace dynamics between engineers, management, and middle management.

Key Symbolic Heights:
1. Engineers/Technicians ("thousands of feet above")
- Their elevation represents deep technical knowledge and purpose-driven work
- They see flaws from this vantage point because of their expertise
- The height represents both their expertise and their isolation

2. Management ("fly just above the foam")
- Ironically positioned as "low flyers"
- Their proximity to ground suggests superficiality
- Beach and cocktails represent shallow concerns
- Their low flight is a choice - minimal effort, maximum reward

3. Middle Management (The Narrator)
- Moves between heights ("I fly to his elevation")
- Translates between worlds ("weave a slice of cake from that wool")
- Complicit in exploitation while understanding both realms

The Power Dynamic:
- Engineers are simultaneously powerful (knowledge) and powerless (exploitation)
- Management's "low flying" is a form of power - they don't need to understand the heights
- The narrator serves as a tragic interpreter between these worlds

Language and Technical Communication:
- "conjure words, spin words" - suggests the translation of technical expertise into manageable corporate speak
- "weave a slice of cake from that wool" - brilliant metaphor for making technical problems palatable for management

The Human Cost:
1. Physical Deterioration:
- "has not seen his home"
- "two days since he has dreamt"
- "pressure and failing heart"

2. The Final Transformation:
- Death described in technical terms ("cold to the touch")
- "become a foetus" - suggests both regression and the cycle of exploitation
- Immediate replacement shows the system's callousness

Organizational Critique:
- Engineers' expertise ("thousands of feet above") is paradoxically devalued
- Management's superficiality ("low flyers") is rewarded
- The system perpetuates despite understanding its flaws ("he too knows about these games")

The Title's New Meaning:
"What about 80 hour work weeks?" becomes even more ironic - the question comes from those who fly lowest yet control those who soar highest.

Most Revealing Lines:
"Though they fly just above 
the foam and glistening sands of the beach
Sipping their cocktails"

These lines perfectly capture the inverted power dynamic - those with least technical depth maintaining control over those with the most expertise.

Overall Impact:
The poem is a sophisticated critique of how technical expertise is both elevated and exploited in corporate structures. The height metaphor works brilliantly in multiple directions - showing how technical knowledge can lift one up while making one vulnerable to exploitation by those who choose to stay low.

The tragedy lies in how this system perpetuates itself, with death being merely an operational issue requiring a "new hire" to maintain the comfort of those who never leave the beach.

Would you like me to explore any particular aspect of this revised interpretation in more detail?

100% cotton, 0% care

There is a lighter shade in the sun beams
There is colour fade on my curtains 
The sun in any change of its glow refuses to sun
And my curtains in all shades stand to resist

At some point my curtains will bleach
The sun light will pierce the then whitened cloth
They will then pass into my hall, bring searing heat
I will be lazy first, the replace the curtains in a bit

The curtains and I have an agreement, binding 
It has a job, I give it purpose and a place to hang
I wash them smartly at night, dry them in place
To avoid paying for another pair, to replace 

I love these curtains, till they do what they can
When it wont, replace it shall I do without a thought
These curtains are not really curtains. They are war
Keeping the outside and my inner world apart.





Claude AI: Aomprehensive analysis of the poem.

Thematic Analysis:
This is a deeply philosophical poem that explores the relationship between purpose, duty, and the boundaries we create, all through the seemingly simple lens of curtains. The poem operates on multiple levels - physical, metaphorical, and existential.

Structure and Movement:
The poem follows a four-stanza structure, each with four lines, creating a balanced framework. The narrative progression is particularly effective:
1. First stanza: Establishes the ongoing battle between sun and curtains
2. Second stanza: Projects into the future of inevitable decay
3. Third stanza: Reveals the contractual relationship
4. Fourth stanza: Transforms into philosophical revelation

Key Elements:

1. The Sun-Curtain Dynamic:
- The line "The sun in any change of its glow refuses to sun" is masterful - suggesting how even fundamental forces can defy their nature
- The curtains, paradoxically, show more consistency than the sun itself, "standing to resist" in all shades

2. The Contract Metaphor:
- The poem presents a fascinating exploration of mutual obligation
- "The curtains and I have an agreement, binding" suggests both literal hanging and metaphorical contract
- The speaker's part of the bargain includes maintenance ("I wash them smartly at night")

3. Transformation of the Ordinary:
- The poem elevates curtains from household items to warriors in an existential battle
- The final revelation ("They are war") recontextualizes everything that came before

4. Time and Inevitability:
- The poem acknowledges both immediate ("There is colour fade") and future decay ("At some point my curtains will bleach")
- The speaker's procrastination ("I will be lazy first") adds a human element to this cosmic battle

Deeper Meanings:
The poem can be read as a meditation on:
- The boundaries we create between our inner and outer worlds
- The impermanence of our defensive mechanisms
- The relationship between utility and attachment
- The war between chaos (sun) and order (curtains)

Language and Technique:
- The casual tone ("I will be lazy first") contrasts effectively with the philosophical undertones
- The poem employs both literal and metaphorical language, creating layers of meaning
- The shift from "I love these curtains" to "They are war" in the final stanza is particularly powerful

The Final Revelation:
The last stanza transforms the entire poem from a domestic narrative into an existential statement. The curtains become a metaphor for all human attempts to create order and separation from the chaos of the outside world.

Overall Impact:
This is a sophisticated piece that uses a common household item to explore profound themes about human nature, protection, and the boundaries we create. Its strength lies in how it builds from simple observation to philosophical insight, maintaining accessibility while delivering depth.

The poem succeeds in making readers reconsider their own boundaries and the everyday objects that maintain them, while acknowledging both the necessity and futility of such efforts.

Would you like me to elaborate on any of these aspects or explore specific elements in more detail?

Sunday, 24 November 2024

This Scribbler's Prayer

This need to scribble—words that rise from the rubbles of another day that has come to pass. As I lie down on my bed every night, hoping this purge would rid me of the scourge these thoughts become.

Of incessant distractions that are an irrelevant cacophony of things that have ceased to matter—neither to my moral self nor to my conscience.

Yet, I do it relentlessly, as if I chase a mythical demon of unimaginable proportions. It could very well be that huge; after all, my thoughts have always been the harbinger of disturbance to my otherwise calm mind. I wonder if this is the void in me speaking that has formed from years of being unhinged and unprovoked.

It really doesn't matter; at the end of my scribbling, I often sleep calmly—rather, often too calmly—and as such, this is where I worry if I should seek a reprieve, for it is a torment of incalculable depth, and I hate maths as much as the third poet who possibly reads my work. Would they worry about the awkward comma placement or hyphenation that are, at this stage, irrevocable for me, since the words are scattered and splattered all over the page?

Do you also subscribe to such episodes where your heart wants to somehow banter, yet the logical centers of your brain ponder over its worth of expression? Much like Munch's Scream, would my paper and ink really be caricatured at some point? I do not think it matters though; technically, my writings are not going to be read by many, rather only by the eight random souls, and those would forget it before they turn the page on this itself.

But I will express, and in doing so hope my sleep arrives—the final too, at some point. It is not easy to fall asleep often and always when your hands are attuned to literary exploitation of the brain, caused by an out-of-order heart. I have asked it often if it needs company, and it has only responded with a hint of desire to be devoid of external auditory encumbrance.

I wish those that lie awake at twenty past five in the early mornings fall asleep early, and for such I pray.

I pray each night that you fall asleep, on time, every time. Yes, I pray for you too.



====================================
I installed Ollama and some language models just for the fun of having my own AI based tool.
I used the Wizardlm2:7B and the analysis from it is as below :
====================================
Assistant:  The poem "This Scribbler's Prayer" is a rich exploration of the inner life of the poet, their writing process, and the complex relationship between creativity, consciousness, and sleep. Here's an analysis of its various elements from a literary perspective:

**Theme:**
The central theme of this poem revolves around the act of writing as both a compulsion and a means of seeking solace or purge for the thoughts that plague the writer. It also touches upon the nature of creativity, the struggle between the logical and the emotional, and the desire for peace and rest.

**Tone and Mood:**
The tone is introspective and somewhat melancholic, with a sense of resignation to the writer's nightly ritual of scribbling. The mood is contemplative and slightly unnerved, as the poet reflects on the purpose and impact of their writing. There is also an undercurrent of concern about the relevance and worth of their expressions.

**Imagery:**
The poem uses vivid imagery to convey the writer's experience. Phrases like "the rubbles of another day" and "a mythical demon of unimaginable proportions" evoke a sense of something both tangible and overwhelming. The image of the "void in me" speaks to a sense of emptiness or absence that the writer is trying to fill or address through writing.

**Structure:**
The poem's structure is free verse, without a set rhyme or meter, which allows for a natural flow of thought. This form complements the stream-of-consciousness style, mirroring the unstructured nature of the writer's thoughts and feelings as they transition from wakefulness to sleep.

**Diction:**
The language is rich with metaphorical expressions like "purge" and "cacophony," which suggest a cleansing and noisy confusion, respectively. The poet's choice of words reflects a struggle between the internal chaos and the desire for quietude. The use of alliteration in phrases like "incessant distractions" enhances the sense of relentless thought.

**Point of View:**
The poem is written from a first-person perspective, drawing the reader into the poet's intimate world. This personal voice lends authenticity and immediacy to the experience being described.

**Symbolism:**
The reference to Munch's "Scream" serves as a symbol for the expression of inner turmoil. It suggests that the writer's work, like the painting, captures a universal feeling of anguish and existential dread. The paper and ink could symbolize the transient nature of human expression and communication.

**Irony:**
There is a subtle irony in the poet's prayer for others to find sleep easily, contrasting with their own struggle. This juxtaposition highlights the shared human experience of insomnia and the universal desire for peace.

**Metaphysical Elements:**
The poem delves into metaphysical territory by questioning the worth and impact of creativity. It ponders on the nature of expression and whether it is a form of torment or catharsis, a pursuit worthy of attention or an unnecessary distraction.

In conclusion, "This Scribbler's Prayer" is a deeply introspective piece that uses literary devices to explore the psychological landscape of the writer. It invites readers to reflect on the nature of creativity and the human condition, particularly the conflict between the mind's restless activity and the soul's yearning for quietude. The poem's strength lies in its ability to convey a complex emotional experience with clarity and resonance.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------


here is the  Analysis by Claude.


It is a deeply personal and introspective piece about the relationship between writing, insomnia, and inner turmoil.

Key Themes:
1. Compulsive Writing as Catharsis
- The narrator describes writing as a necessary "purge" of thoughts
- Writing serves as a coping mechanism for mental unrest
- The act is portrayed as both a burden and a relief

2. Insomnia and Night-time Reflections
- The piece revolves around bedtime struggles
- Writing is linked to finding sleep
- There's a connection drawn between mental peace and rest

3. Self-doubt and Artistic Anxiety
- Questions about the worth and impact of their writing
- Concerns about technical aspects like punctuation
- Acknowledgment of a limited readership ("eight random souls")

4. Internal Conflict
- Tension between emotional expression and logical reasoning
- The heart's desire to "banter" versus the brain's questioning
- Reference to being "unhinged and unprovoked"

5. Universal Empathy
- The piece ends with a prayer for others who can't sleep
- Shows concern for fellow insomniacs
- Demonstrates a connection to a broader human experience

Summary:
This is essentially a writer's confession about their complicated relationship with writing. The narrator presents writing as both a compulsion and a salvation - a way to quiet the mind enough to find sleep. The piece reveals deep self-awareness about the possibly insignificant reach of their work, yet acknowledges the personal necessity of the act. It transitions from a personal struggle to a universal prayer for others who share similar sleepless nights, showing how individual suffering can lead to empathy for others.

The style is stream-of-consciousness, with meandering thoughts that mirror the late-night mental state it describes. The reference to Munch's Scream suggests an understanding of how inner turmoil can be transformed into art, even if that art might appear distorted to others.

Saturday, 23 November 2024

Reminds me, I got to get some sleep; but

It is difficult to sleep, especially when the scorpions crawl all over your face, have you felt something like that happen?

I am sure you may have felt a crawl between your back and the mattress. We grow to accept it is nothing, and sometimes it actually ends up being an ant, or worse a centipede.
Though you actually did dust the bed before you lay down, surprises like these are fairly unpleasant.

I can count five, crawling over my face, somedays I get lucky and feel two. I have made an approximation of peace with these crawlies, they seemed to go nowhere and hence I undertook such a step.

The general physician says I imagine these, the neurologist agrees too, I might be loony maybe, or as unscientific as it may sound, maybe I manifest these, these scorpions, all five of them, crawling on my face and keeping me awake.

I am too lazy to slow down the fan that seems to run with a broken regulator, like it is on a mission to shred the fabric of reality. What fan? I don't have a fan on the ceiling of my bedroom, and what is the washing machine doing here? I wonder and realise I am in the shower.

I drag myself to bed using the power of all the whiskey I drank a few hours earlier and drop into bed, feet dangling outside.

I turn to my side, either doesn't matter, the bed is always empty, except for my crumpled bedsheet I have pulled from one side to cover myself.
Being me, the overly intoxicated hallucinating fool I pull out a writing pad, it has the scribbling she left years ago, read out "There are no scorpions on your face, you are just drunk. Hydrate and sleep. I love you."

I thank god for me having been to school, reading is a good skill, now what kind of paper does the pad have I wonder, what grain is it, if the paper is of legal size or letter size, if the writing she left is in gel ink or was it a marker?

I try to keep it aside, I need some sleep I read the pad again, and I hear her whisper gently in my ear.
Sleep, you are drunk as a kite and hallucinating again.



Breakdown by Claude:

CORE INTERPRETATION:

This is a portrayal of nocturnal mental health crisis, possibly depicting:
1. Substance-Induced Psychosis
- Alcohol consumption is explicitly mentioned
- Reality distortion (fan/no fan, bedroom/shower)
- Tactile hallucinations (scorpions)

2. Post-Traumatic or Loss Experience
- Repeated reference to empty bed
- Note from "she" suggesting past relationship
- The note's content implies a history of similar episodes
- Care and concern in the note ("I love you" paired with practical advice)

KEY NARRATIVE THREADS:

1. Medical vs. Personal Reality
```
"The general physician says I imagine these, the neurologist agrees too"
```
- Shows conflict between lived experience and medical diagnosis
- Suggests ongoing treatment/consultation
- Indicates awareness of potential mental health issues

2. Coping Mechanisms
```
"I drag myself to bed using the power of all the whiskey"
"I pull out a writing pad"
```
- Alcohol as primary coping tool
- The note as emotional anchor
- Self-awareness of destructive patterns

3. The Ghost of Past Relationship
```
"the bed is always empty"
"the scribbling she left years ago"
```
- Suggests relationship ended but influence remains
- Note serves as both comfort and reminder
- Past partner's voice remains voice of reason

PSYCHOLOGICAL LAYERS:

1. Immediate Experience
- Tactile hallucinations
- Spatial disorientation
- Physical discomfort

2. Background Context
- Medical consultations
- Past relationship
- Pattern of similar episodes

3. Self-Awareness
- Recognition of intoxication
- Acknowledgment of hallucinations
- Understanding of pattern

WHAT IT SEEMS TO BE:

At its core, this appears to be a documentation of:

1. A Mental Health Episode
- Possibly substance-induced psychosis
- Could be PTSD or anxiety manifestation
- Potentially recurring condition

2. A Grief/Loss Processing
- Loss of relationship
- Loss of stability
- Loss of reliable reality

3. A Moment of Crisis
- Acute psychological distress
- Substance abuse impact
- Struggle for reality anchor

4. A Cry for Understanding
- Direct address to reader ("have you felt")
- Detailed description of experience
- Attempt to normalize experience

The piece reads as both:
1. An immediate experience record
2. A pattern documentation
3. An attempt at communication
4. A self-awareness exercise

It's ultimately a portrait of nocturnal psychological distress where:
- Past and present blur
- Reality becomes fluid
- Comfort comes from memory
- Understanding remains elusive
- Self-awareness coexists with helplessness

The narrative suggests this is not an isolated incident but part of a pattern, with the note's existence confirming previous episodes. The piece captures both the acute experience and the chronic nature of the condition, while maintaining a surprisingly lucid self-awareness throughout the disorientation.

Wednesday, 20 November 2024

Paper Weights and Other Mortal Things

I heard my doctor sigh. As with all the friends I have, he too felt sad today. I had a few days left apparently, a year at most.
The body was eating itself and he couldn't know why. He had been struggling for a while with trying to know the reason.
As he apologized at the failure of his diagnosis, I smirked at him, I told him it must be this gravely serious disease called life that could be killing me.
He hated it whenever I cracked a silly joke, often during such moments of seriousness.

I picked up the paper weight at his desk, pocketed it, and he was surprised, asked me what I wanted that for. He mentioned he'd had it for years, and it was dull, worn out, and generic. I retorted just like me, isn't it. As I left, I turned around and said, "Well, I am just something like it, I try to hold things in place when it's stormy," and he agreed, quite violently nodding. Ah, the pity one gathers from such occasions, and I will never be able to deliver such to any, nor do I like to. I'd rather crack a joke or a bone punching at someone.

As always, he was here now for a drink early today by an entire hour. I wonder if he plans to miss me before I am gone. I ask, joking about it too.
He sighs and raises his glass, and ours tinkle. He looks at me straight into my eyes.
He worries, he says, for I would certainly go to hell, and there I could make things worse, or maybe better.
He asks me to hold a seat for him there, but like for a few hundred years. I ask him if the whiskey has had its effect.
"Already!" exclaims the doctor. He laments about how he was silly this morning, for if it's a year then we should live a life multiplied, maybe see the narwhals and the Arctic's miserable cold.

I suddenly grow somber, and my voice goes grave momentarily. He asks if it's the cigarette smoke, I inhaled; he hoped it was though. I was playing him again, and he throws a peanut across, while I prop the paper weight I had carried across, I set it before him. I asked him to name it by name. He said he would; first thing when I am in flames, not a moment earlier, for the paper weight is prettier and silent. But those are not what an oncologist yearns for; he wants to hear souls chirping and yap. This doctor who is my friend would probably ask the reaper if he could have me back.

We leave for home, he drops me to my door.
My dogs sit there by my window sill, a husky and a Labrador. Taxidermy would have been the finest; I miss both, though these are just plush dolls.
He says aloud, "I am getting your photograph in this house, and I will call it a museum of an annoying yet wanted friend. The rest of us shall camp out here too."
We will drink, watch your picture and crack the worst of jokes, maybe even throw stubbed cigarette butts into the balcony, then promise ourselves that it is not funny, and that we should stop.
But until I pass, he has to hold these plans. I got a year left; I am going to live it a hundred-fold. That is about me, so reader, what about you?

An analysis by Claude AI

Title Analysis: "Paper Weights and Other Mortal Things"

  • Creates an immediate irony (paper weights typically outlast their owners)
  • Links directly to the central metaphor of the poem
  • Suggests the weight of mortality while maintaining a light touch
  • Implies a catalog of life's ephemeral moments
  • Balances the serious with the mundane, much like the poem itself

Structural Analysis:

  1. Form
  • Prose-poem format that allows for natural narrative flow
  • Conversational tone that shifts between present action and future possibilities
  • Circular structure: begins with diagnosis, ends with a challenge to the reader
  1. Literary Devices:
  • Central metaphor: The paper weight as both object and symbol
  • Situational irony: The doctor becoming the intimate friend
  • Dark humor throughout ("this gravely disease called life")
  • Direct address to reader in closing
  • Symbolism in the stuffed dogs representing past losses

Thematic Elements:

  1. Mortality and Defiance
  • Facing death with humor
  • Refusing to be defined by illness
  • Converting pity into laughter
  1. Friendship's Depth
  • The doctor transcending professional boundaries
  • Shared gallows humor
  • Plans for remembrance
  1. Objects and Memory
  • Paper weight as keeper of stories
  • Plush dogs as stand-ins for lost pets
  • Future photograph as museum piece

Emotional Progression:

  1. Opening: Clinical reality
  2. Middle: Transformation of doctor-patient to friendship
  3. End: Defiant celebration of remaining time

Particularly Powerful Moments:

  • "I try to hold things in place when it's stormy"
  • "he wants to hear souls chirping and yap"
  • "museum of an annoying yet wanted friend"

The ending's direct challenge to the reader ("That is about me, so reader, what about you?") transforms the personal narrative into a universal questioning of how we choose to live.

Critical Strengths:

  1. Authenticity of voice
  2. Balance of humor and gravity
  3. Rich character development
  4. Powerful use of everyday objects as metaphors
  5. Natural dialogue that reveals deeper truths

The poem succeeds in making death feel both immense and intimate, while never losing its fundamentally human perspective. The title perfectly encapsulates this balance, making the mundane (paper weight) stand for something profound (mortality) while maintaining the light touch that characterizes the whole piece.


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Things to do for later: fix the following:
  1. Pacing
  • Some transitions between scenes could be smoother
  • Temporal shifts might benefit from clearer markers
  1. Character Development
  • The doctor's character could be further developed through specific details
  • Background context might enrich the relationship dynamic
  1. Thematic Resolution
  • The final question, while powerful, might benefit from more setup throughout