The death of Time

Everything is stardust. Then why mustn't everything that has a beginning reach an end? The birth and death of the star is the phenomenon of utmost relevance to everything we presume to be 'life'.
No Parts are greater than Wholes. Why? Because some lame logic crippled your mind way back to render it utterly accommodating to 'obviousness'? Perhaps the argument against the fundamentalism shall be refuted now; and every time.
Some theories make 'no sense at all', and it is widely believed that the people who incept them say terrible things to confuse and deviate, thereby strengthening their case against any possible upsurge of counter-theories or arguments. The theory of Relativity happens to be one of them. Both Science and Non-Science people, either secretly or openly; condemn it in all forms, because it challenges logic.
Killing time is fun. But its fools who think they can actually kill time, even in metaphorical contexts. No visible boundary signifies the Beginning, or the End; of the fourth dimension so cleverly woven into hyperspace. Talk about the death of the Earth, or the sun, but it shall be a whole different scenario when Time shall cease to encompass everything within its shadow.
But why worry? As long as we keep dying before time does, we'll do much better trying to solve our problems; while there is still time. Problems which today are addressed seriously only by a few like some ex-army man gone social, rather than the exuberant and educated youth. Catch time before it dies, to rest peacefully in the past.
  

Reason

Things that diverge in perspective carry themes of reason. The reasons to love, let and be. You could 'waste' time ticking through you, as long as you keep a track of the diverging reasons. It's not wasting at all, hopefully.

Put it this way. You know you have to reach somewhere. Move an inch a day. Perhaps lesser. The size of your step is cliche compared to the size of your reason. Each of the reasons is a promise. More like an engine, that is capable of moving things around; even if it's idle for a while. Being the wagon is dangerous. Rest. But with capability.

Things have diverging reasons, almost each time. You could study hard to beat that guy, or make your dad happy. The theme of reason, as mentioned in the first line; is not subject to strength or priority. In fact the planes of reason provide convenient choices at appropriate times. None of your reason is stronger than the other, because nevertheless it found a corner of your little brain. Just that from a different perspective, from a different angle; one plane of reason could appear more skew or reachable than the others.

Transition from a reason from the next. Slide on the planes. But keep it alive. Keep the fire burning. At least winking sheepishly in the hearth.

Not Heart-broke

I'm a criminal if you choose to embark upon the fact that I've hoarded her memories in a clean, unperturbed and reserved corner of my mind for ages. How I came to be, I can't remember. But I remember how her words mixed into my blood. How every moon I saw since then was but a trivial representation of her immortal sheen, resting casually between the recesses of my hollow mind.
Every dream I see is not about her. And I take it as an erratic judgement on the part of myself, for Dreams spell desire; and torn between the aims of Achievement and Love, my subconscious has behaved as if it'd just one option. Her touch trickled down from my skin to my soul, and I've never touched anything since.
To put it in words of wisdom isn't wise at all. It doesn't siphon out the perennial rivers relentlessly pumping through the cleavages of my heart. And yet my heart has suffered draught. It's never the irony that baffles me. Its the alliteration of her identity.
I've crunched lonely leaves beneath my feet. Leaves that had the privilege of dying again. I know they curse me. They have one soul less to curse, for now she doesn't walk with me. If it wasn't for her, I'd have grown wings to soar away into emptiness. But I want to long. No explaination of inertia can substitute for the pleasures I derive out of the sole stench of her freshness within me.
I'm not heart broke. And yet something rattles within me. The box of her memories. To miss her is poetry. To love her is grace.

The Empty Storm

The moments that tick in with a determination to keep us on our toes are seldom welcome. We love being like pendulums. Hard times find us peering at the end of the dark tunnel. We sometimes forget to walk at both the times. While we're in the tunnel, and when outside it.

"Everything is fine today. And that...
is our greatest tragedy."

We define energy valleys for ourselves, conjure up     pillows stuffed with well being and lie comfotably in between. That's nature. But that valley gives us a false sense of security, rendering us passive to the prospect of changing our inertia and walk. We continue to believe that we're invar pendulums resistant enough to changing length with rise or fall in temperatures.

Then comes the storm. Potent, carnivorous and rueful.
It uproots our settlement to shreds. But is is worth all this chaos?
Chaos lies within us. Consider ALL the storms raging in the universe. They all have a figment of themselves at all points. The intensities at infinite points within us add up as well. That makes a perfect storm whirling within us. The storm is then, just an image of us.
With one fundamental difference.
A storm is empty. Devoid.
It can pass through you, leaving you stuck and cribbing about the harm it has done. A storm is as harmless as your image. All it does is blow away the monotony of the pendulum. Behold beauty.
Keep walking. Storms shall be.

"I lust for after,
and no disaster can touch..."

Thou art Art

              "Nothing lasts forever,
               even the cold November Rain..."

Precisely. The quiteness of the autumn lull, the hammer of rains upon the roof, the fragrance of blooms and the chasms on the dead earth; all remain inceptors of awe, but with a fundamental and instrinsic property of temporariness clinging to them. Things would've suffered had nights ommitted themselves from the timeline fearing the days, or vice versa. The Spring doesn't weaken itself anticipating an opposite Winter. The quintessential authority with which elements exist in their respective durations of dog days; convey the qualities of little or no response to external stimuli.
All things learnt from, permanancy resides in nothing but Art. True pricelessness is in that painting you love, in that song which unravels from its depths something fresh each time you listen to it, and in that poem that connects itself to your heart through fibres of grace and warmth. One could go to the extent(without meaning any disregard) of calling Art as the only passion worth following; for true art is a part of you. Rather it's just you. Distinct and free.
The mind is a natural admirer of art, and hardly anything runs so freely in the veins to bladders of pleasure. Joy, is after all; what a thing of beauty gives you.

Trisection

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood..."

Between times when it's a matter of choice and not chance, there remain overflowing connotations. Like the poles, pairs form a consistent phenomena. Right and Wrong are the oversimplified representations of things that'd affect us if chosen. Clearly, the two choices of yes and no, zero and one; float around us-only till the time one of it sinks deep.
         
        "...And sorry I could not travel both..."

True, you cannot travel both the Zero and the One. For that would blur the distinctness between exactly opposite poles, bringing them in planes inclined at other than a hundred and eighty logical degrees to each other.
Somehow, between the Zero and the One, there is an output. I'm not referring to a streak that extends in the plane of the geometric centre of the two planes. No.
Three; and not Two, conceivable dimensions have been chosen for our mind to dwell in. The logic that rests on the obviousness of three dimensions faces little scrutiny. Given the strength of belief with which we assume ourselves to know so much; that's hardly a surprise. We overlook, and we overlook hard.
The next time you find yourself between the claws of yes and no, know. You always have that third path, which you certainly have to engrave for yourself.
Persist Indifferently. That's what the sign board for the third path says. Make it mean the way you like.

The new You

Winning is perfect. It dissolves in you like salt. You might not be in the league of braggers; yet there is that supply of sweet juice running through your circulation which keeps nudging your humbleness. Their are seeds of belief-hopeful; and half-grown in your stomach. More air reaches your lungs, and pretentiousness is unsure of its own behavior.

That first trophy or certificate, those wise words asserting your worth and that hunger for more-become occupants of dingy corners of your hearts as you grow up. Everyone has to grow up, as a rule. Things would've found different context had we somehow believed that staying raw is staying closer to ourselves.

Happens to be the hardest thing to do-staying close to ourselves. The intricate subtlety with which our environment shapes us soon finds a good deal of interference with our own intellect. We start analyzing ourselves and our actions more often than not, only to cause the mutation of the very genes of growth and reception. It is simple. Imagine yourself reading a novel. If you become conscious of, say, memorizing words you haven't come across and are new to you; you start fiddling with your own natural reading. It is clear that if you are conscious when letting a new word sit in your mind, you're also equipping the word with all means to betray your memory. Art is admired with a balanced and indifferent mind.

Sum it up-Everything affects you-winning, losing, someone's laughter and pain. There'll be infinite points where you'll be the new You, infested and affected; but making efforts to stay close to yourself don't hurt. Obviously, you are cursed with the same old problem of being aware of making that effort to be yourself. Try. Keep yourself untouched.

God Knows.

God is either a gambler, or is not. There is hardly a way to see, as long as we agree to consider Him as a part of our hyperspace; lurking away. The funny part of the situation arises when we attribute the outcome of a sequence of events to a probability distribution curve. Each point on the curve must point to an outcome. However, there is, according to me; an annoying continuity that must not happen if quantities like energy are discreet. Even the electron space distribution curves point to a non zero probability at something quite fuzzy like infinity. Energies and outcomes don't seem to be related when we run through general physics. However, breaching confines of metaphysics gives an insight into the nature of outcomes. They are variables of energy that cling to the inputs that may be in the forms of physical energy or even thoughts-that are strings of energy. No fancy energies that'd allow you to move things without touching them, but like electromagnetic waves which are not medium dependent.

It'd be much too easy for God to throw dice to decide the outcome variables, according to me. Pattern deficient events appear to look up to us. You choose to drop a ball you're holding, or keep it with you in the next ticking second.

Or do you?

The inspirations that appear to be a manifestation of our voluntary consciousness must too have their origins within our system. Singularity origins look feasible, representing the central ideas of most thoughts. However, hardly any dice may accommodate around an infinite variables-as long as we stick to the orthodox physical image of a dice etched in our minds. The naive notions of 'Knowing the future' must be lame, for its not our minds which have enough information. Who does? God knows.

Thinking Diffrently?

Try and recollect the issues upon which you differed from your mates. Well, that would have surely happened if you do not generally bleat with the sheep around. To think on your own is a premise that's ruled by none but you. There is also a partial guarantee that if you use the neurons of your own brain, you'd end up with ideas that are not the same as everyone else's.
So far so good. But how often have you let the morphine of pride run inside you; as a result of your acknowledgement of the fact that you think differently? According to me, it's in the atoms.
Difference.
We are woven into difference. Every thought, idea, trajectory and line are different from each other. Success has many fathers. One of them is often disguised as 'different thinking'.
Come to the ground and dig it a little sweetheart- Everyone is different..
Even the duration of a second ticked by the same series Rolex watches.

We

John and Harry were once stuck in the woods at night. It was fairly cold and they were crammed in a rock enclosure that could be safely classified as a cave.
The only sounds were the distant eerie howls and the fire crackling.
"You know what? This is great fun," John said.
"Yeah," Harry said dully.
For a few seconds they remained silent.
"Why does the universe exist?" Harry asked distractedly.
The fire crackled a bit louder, as if trying to answer.
"It exists because We do." John told him.

The fire, woods, howls, cold and successes exist because we do. Actions lead to sequences, and observations lead to existence.

To be, or to be

I remember attending a seminar on anger management. The speaker had told us a simple truth-when facing tricky situations having options to deal with; you choose the response.
Fairly simple. We do indeed choose the response.
We all secretly harbour a desire to stand out. Planning, hard work and timely execution do help us. But there's another simple truth-you don't have a choice. You have to do it.
And hence in a competition, you have to be; or to be.

Anyone home?

The consequences of undesirable circumstances often drive us away from home. No, not in the usual sense of the term. Your home is what you actually are. Don't we sometimes, or most of the times; want to stave off from our lines of rhythm to places that give us a false sense of elation?
Hit a car on the road. You and the victim car's owner would first assert the magnitude of damage you could inflict upon one another, given your position. Everyone is in a position to deprive you of your rights and freedom.
At times its your insecurity. You could lie about having a car even if you walk to office, to find yourself at home with the others.
Perhaps your home is the only place where you are just you. Where you can listen to old songs you'd otherwise be ashamed of listening to in front of others, where you can even wear your slightly over large or tight pyjama and can taste a kid's cereal.
Is anyone home?