A piece on/of peace

I went to places searching,
to find me some peace.
And the wise men said, don't you know?
It's in you, inside you, you dunce.
I said, but, with the dance
of the beast inside,
How do you find peace inside?

Where is the peace?
Is it at the end of this race?
Days are long. Yet life seems done.
Or will there be some when we are ghosts
of who we thought we were?

Where is the peace?
Just give me one piece.
Or is it when breath ceases,
only to become air?

Where is the peace?
Except in two places..
in the womb we came from,
Or the tomb we go to?

I wish I had one wish.
I'd wish for water to catch fire.
Then all we'd need is one rain,
to drench the world.
And then we burn this world.
We could hope for peace then
for our children to find,
in the ashes.

Treadmill monologues

The treadmill is a funny thing. Its the first choice of exercise when I enter the gym. I don't know what is it about it, but maybe because I always felt it does half the work for you. Its good to get a push at the start of the day. Maybe a reward for getting up and making it to the gym. Once you are there its not difficult. In fact, working out is like a drug. Its addictive. It gives you a feeling that you are moving ahead, going strong and every day you need more, you do more. Also funny is the fact that when I look around me, everyone is walking, jogging and sprinting on the treadmill with so much determination and sense of purpose, you can see it on their face; me included. Its as though we are all going to reach somewhere, a place even beyond Elysium. But our plan fails. The timer runs out and we are still here. The treadmill fails to take us to promised lands.

 I have broken into a sweat and that's what I came here for. That's the drug. It washes out all that you did, didn't or wanted to do yesterday. That's what I like about physical exercise, its like a mental reset for the brain. So I continue on and on, in search of more sweat. I see rorschach designs on everybody's T-shirts that the sweat makes. Its probably the darkness inside everyone coming out. But I am more interested in mine. That's how I clock my time in the gym. At some point when you are soldiering on, you have reached critical mass and the sweat doesn't stop. At that point how much ever you wipe off the sweat your gym towel feels useless; that's when YOU start feeling useful. ( A note to a friend here, avid blogger and gymmer(?) who recently had a whole post dedicated to his gym towel, I feel your sentiment bro. Also before you comment, no pegs were used in the writing of this post :) )

After a while, the rorschach on my shirt has disappeared in a monolith of sweat. That's my cue. The heart is beating hard. Sweating hard, the rush. That's when I feel I have given a small quantum of mass and energy back to the universe and in that instant I enjoy a quantum of solace. Today's salvation is the five steps I take from inside the gym as I walk out the door. Because outside it, the day is waiting. We will all take it on, failing and succeeding and in the process gathering some self-doubt and some hubris, but I will be back here again tomorrow to lose both.

The Last Prayer

Here I lay, my lord,
The night so dark.
Darker is our soul,
So easy to lose it whole.

I pray'd to you, my lord,
make me all that I am not;
Been chasing rainbows
from the womb to the tomb.
Yet there it was, bliss,
in the dew drops at my feet,
Only if I'd look away from the abyss.

I pray'd to you my lord,
For power, pleasure and ecstasy
but the prayers they were empty.
And all in store for us, the pain,
Please lord, take it away, the pain,
like the first monsoon rain.

We are still praying to you, lord
You've given a long rope, of hope
So fallen we are, We tied it to a noose;
On the hanging tree of sins
Our need is greed, and that we breed.
Soul laid to rust with all the lust.
Fanning the flames of hell so high,
I am sorry, lord, your halo's on fire.

And yet, still to you, lord, we pray,
Inside of us, the soul of Dorian Gray.
And as I close my eyes to sleep;
I now pray for you, my lord,
That if we die before we wake;
There's a soul down here left for you to take.

-Abhijit Patil

Inches

Within all these inches of time and space we live, fight and survive. Its not an inch too far or too near, not an inch too soon or too late but the inch you get that matters more often than not. Because providence favours that one inch more than others. Its these very inches by which you miss each other on our Indian roads. And I don't know where else but in these inches I am dead certain there is a god. Let that inch be with you. 

Shared from Google Keep

Hope Kills

Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man.
 - Friedrich Nietzsche


Day Breaks,
Night falls;
Tumbling through life.
Rhyme and reason,
nowhere on the horizon.
Felt you would take it on
Unravel a great mystery,
But all its become,
A ritual misery.
And as each day ends,
Inadequate reality dawns.
that all that it is,
fucked by fate,
dogged by dogma,
designed by destiny.
But through the darkness
a glimmer that hope shows,
Again you hang on to it, cling to it.
A new day is coming, it says,
But fooled are we, as together with it
does it bring again,
the old hope's betrayal.

© Abhijit Patil

A Side of Paradise

Here you are looking deep and down
the dark abyss, life of your own
pursuing what meaning has this self.
It is eating you inside, isnt it?
gnawing at your soul, if there is one.
Purpose of your existence, if there is one.

Purpose might find you yet,
May lead you yet to paradise.
But a purpose which might not suffice;
A paradise which might fail you still.
Dont you see, better to create purpose
Better to have a side of paradise, your own.

Seeing your strife is so tiring;
between having to and wanting to.
But its all the rules that led us here,
Created this crisis, of existence.
Simplicity of living, laid to ruin
Why dont you create a side of paradise, your own.

So stop trying to find meaning and make your own.
Purpose, found easier on an empty stomach;
not on an empty soul. So in this life so short,
Let your purpose be joy, my love
Lose the grief and spite, turn to me my love,
We make a side of paradise, our own.

Temple Of Ruin

Whats become of the creed, my brother?

People filling their coffers

with so much dirty coin

And filling their head

with empty irrationalities;

A temple of gold is no building

to atone their sins.

Oh why Oh why, cant they see

the cobwebs of dogma gathered

in their temple over the ages.

How do I see all this, my brother?

and they dont.

None of this was to be,

Not in the book that they swear on.

So lets stop waiting now,

No more prophets are coming now.

It is time, lets bring this diseased

temple of theirs down on them.

It is time, my brother,

for the gods to die now.

They need some new ones now

We build a promised land now

From the ruins of the old now.

©Abhijit Patil