It’s Alive!

Posted in arbid with tags on 2012/08/10 by abhisal

Most of life is prone to death, and nothing dies faster than stale ideas. In a world where everything is recycled and nothing is ever new, if there’s anything worth protecting – it is an idea unfulfilled.
This blog has been dead for far too long, and even though the blogosphere may believe in an afterlife, stagnant water seldom flows. There’s a lot that needs to be said yet, and it has been a while since I heard myself.


And What Becomes Of You My Love

Posted in Memories, rambling with tags , on 2010/11/12 by abhisal

To choose to forget what you might always remember. Painful, yes.

But pain is good for art. Or so I tell myself. While pricking my skin with needles of a burdened sub-conscious.

The traffic crawls in my memory lane.

All Around My Door

Posted in haiku with tags , , on 2009/10/20 by abhisal

Storm Clouds Are Raging

Always at its Most Terrible

Weather is Finest

No Feelings

Posted in rambling with tags , , on 2009/10/15 by abhisal

Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda. But I didn’t, so it ain’t. My Bad. Probably. But no biggie really. Shit happens, right? Don’t soil your pants for your overboiled eggs. As Lefty said, Forget ’bout it.

What’s next, you ask? May be I’ll miss a few more shots. But I’ll be swinging. Until it hits the nail somewhere close to the head. That’ll make a point. And its important to make one in this pointless ordeal, ain’t it?

There. Did I leave something out? Perhaps. I certainly don’t feel anything else.

“Great Idea, Jim!”

Posted in arbid, humour, Movies, rambling with tags , , , , , on 2009/09/08 by abhisal

“My Name is not Jim, its Harry.”

“Then who’s Jim?”

“I don’t know any Jim. Carrey? May be because Carrey rhymes with Harry, you thought my name was Jim. It is not, Sir.”

“Its Okay, don’t apologize Jim. I’ve been embarrased a dozen times too.”

“I guess this is embarrasing.”

“What a brilliant idea, though, for who would have thought remaking an old movie that made us money ¬†would make us some more money?”

“Well, it has always worked in the past and the director was out of ideas so I guess, no one but me, Sir. Yours truly, Harry.”

“Well, then I should meet this Harry. Call him Jim, immediately.”

“Well there is a Tim, may be you’re thinking of him because we look alike, to you, which is a little irregular as he is handicapped and is always on a wheel-chair. And you think his name is Jim. There is no Jim, Sir. I am Harry.

“So you have been working as Harry as well Jim? Is this your secret identity? I don’t understand this, is Jim your pseudonym then?”

“No, Sir, as I have been repeatedly saying… ”

“Well you need to be paid twice your salary then?”

“I am Jim! And Harry. In fact, I would prefer if you do not refer to me as Jim in public. My public name is Harry. And make the second check also in Harry’s name, if you would please.”

“Well, what other bright ideas do you have Jim?”

“We can make a sequal.”

I Positively deny the existense of 4th Street

Posted in rambling with tags , , , , , on 2009/08/16 by abhisal

Can I lose my way to nowhere,

if I do not intend to get there?

I have been around this block a million times and yet can’t give directions to anyone else.¬† Everyone needs to learn to lose their own way. My failures are my own. I own them.

I do not own my memories, do not even possess all my own.

Addicted to amnesia, I am memory loss prone.

I am not sure if I caused these changes but things are different. The future ain’t what it used to be. Where did it all turn? I can’t remember that far back. All i know is yesterday, all my troubles looked so far away. And there used to be a promising tomorrow. Not today. Not tonight. I do have a terrible headache.

Whichever the wind blows,

Only the weatherman knows.

A destiny’s fool is always hopeful for a rainbow. How I wish for rain on a sunny day.

Every Man Can Be Replaced

Posted in rambling with tags , , on 2009/08/10 by abhisal

I woke up a morn. And discovered I didn’t exist. It was sudden, yes. My house was there still. And my job. And the bus that led back and forth. The stubble on my chin had to be shaved still. And my shoes to be polished. And the laundry done. And the room cleaned. And the bills to be paid. And the plants to be watered. By someone else. Someone just like me. Someone almost me. Who polished shoes. And took the bus. And went to work. But it was not me. I could not be there. He felt the warm sun, not me. He watched the birds, not me. And took a small measure of delight. What delight he could. He was limited in delight.

He was composed of all the things he had to do. But none of the things he wants to. Of all the things he had to do and go on doing. Just like everyone else.

So our heads became eggshells. We can break them open if we want. Or they will break them open for us. Freedom becomes wreckage. Found only in wreckage. Or in memories. Or daydreams. Or in stolen secret moments. To sell our revolution we also have to sell our revenge.