1306neha

[1306neha]

Lit Theory

Literary Theory with a Capital L and Capital T,

I wonder if it can be written like poetry?

No harm in trying I presume,

To shake the staunch doors of Academia.

As some say it is dead, and others say dying,

And what wit lies in being scared of ghosts,

Unless it be Hamlet's father.

So I solemnly gather,

My critical commentary in verses,

And unconceal the prosaic solidity theory professes,

And declare that

all Literary Theory ever was and will be,

Attempts to grasp yet never fully

the philosophical truths like poetry.

In the beginning was the Word,

and the Word was with God,

and the Word was God.

But Nietzsche murdered God,

Since "the letter killeth",

Word killed word.

And now Descartes is our perpetrator,

For uttering mind matters,

Cogito ergo sum,

No cogito no sum.

What of me who cannot think?

And What of me who cannot utter?

Me the earth, the animal that therefore I am,

Me the woman, the slave, the chicken on your plate.

Me the bi-ji labouring in your farms,

Infantilised and asked to go home.

My presence matters naught,

And words I have none.

Am I Not?

Or Am I Naught?

Verba Volant, Scripta Manent

Derrida says Speech leaves no trace,

And the written word survives,

But speak of roast parsnips,

And a Swiggy ad arrives.

Walls are paper thin here,

And the paper is scarce,

The virtual word destroys,

The physical windows of the soul,

That flood out in heated streams.

Yet, no respite, no aid.

Everything is virtually alright.

No difference and no differánce,

The infinite freeplay of circumstances destroyed,

between me and you behind the screen.

Guardians lulling us to sleep with lullaby-lies,

Making us dance to banging cutlery,

Or truths? Who can tell.

All mere words.

Words weaponising hate,

Breaking Capitols.

Nations vaccinating themselves,

Against mutating viruses

Of diseases of the body,

What of the diseases of the mind?

the liquidating dough of bankruptcy?

The extremes settling at the edges.

Could this be auto-immunity?

All resources and knowledge pooled,

Into this fooling of the body's biology,

But can you trick the machinery of life?

It's just a flu. It's nothing else.

And we who speak treasonous theory are the enemy.

And we the blokes on the street,

Going against theory.

For we need to be heard not eavesdropped.

Theory is your house,

And our scaffolding supervised by Foucault.

Where we fashion the architecture on discourse.

We build with words a new window,

And barricade with words an old door.

And prepare well for Derrida's seismic tremors.

And when the grim reaper comes knocking,

We hope to scare him away with scary jargons.

#literature #literary theory #opinion #spilled thoughts #pandemic #philosophy #dark academia #poetry #poets corner #writerscorner #writerscreed #writersociety #writers of tumblr #writersofindia #poets on tumblr #spilled ink #such is life #meanwhile poetry

[1306neha]

For all that is viral

“O! that this too too solid flesh would melt,

Thaw and resolve itself into a dew;”

For I must turn from the overwhelming question.

Do not ask - what is it?

Let us turn away

From the clear sirens,

wailing notes of woe,

in the creeping silence of a gasp.

Let it drown in the melodic cacophony

of shouts of life.

Turn from the demics of inequity,

Those that are doomed,

were doomed at birth.

Visible only in death.

Its ‘Survival of the richest’.

Must not dwell too long

In unwise sorrow,

And turn to the virtual social.

With an inscription on the gates:

Through me you go to the grief-wracked city

Through me you go and pass among lost souls

Through me you find the final means

with no guarantees.

Come here to forget

Come here to escape

Come here to laugh

At Bill Gates' misfortune

And yours far bigger

Welcome to Dystopia

We serve 24*7

a grotesque mixture

of memes and death tolls.

Or treasure hunt for the hidden truths

for those who dare to find it.

Sing along with Twenty One Pilots,

“Would you be, my little quarantine?

Or is this the way it ends.”

Not with a bang but a whimper.

Turn away,

There cannot be endless mourning.

But escape through the doors of life,

Into the unreal city.

There will be a reckoning,

Of the evitable deaths.

wayward ashes and bones.

arcades turned into crematoriums.

failed systems.

But until then, let us think of (t)reason

And persevere.

#politics #pandemic #poets on tumblr #poets corner #writerscorner #writerscreed #spilled ink #spilled thoughts #meanwhilepoetry #poemsociety #prose poem #writersociety #writers of tumblr #creative writing #writeaway #i write therefore i am

[1306neha]

Sheer bliss!

Is it possible to forget it? I wonder how I did. Yesterday, she asked me,  "do you remember?" I didn't remember her at first. She said it was the happiest day of our lives. Don't you remember our samskrit teacher in class 7th and how he told us that everyone has to watch the morning news in samskrit at 7:30 am. And you said, "but Sir our school bus comes at 7:15". And everyone laughed. And you laughed. And we have never laughed that much since then, have we? 

I can see how badly she wants that memory to be her sheer bliss. I know why, as I watch her pound raw turmeric and ginger in a mortar for the third time that day, as the tea simmers. I watch the overflowing sink full of muddy cups and plates with melted food sticking stubbornly on the surface, and I know that she needs that memory of our sheer bliss to get through all this. I watch her delicate yellow hands pound everything to nothingness with a graceful violence. But I don't tell her that I have another one. Solely mine. 

Last week, I cooked noodles in my electric kettle in the hostel room. And as I poured it in a glass and tried to eat it with a spoon, I laughed. In the middle of the night. I laughed and laughed at the glass. Until I cried. Tears trickling down in channels of kohl over the curve of my cheeks, welling at the chin and dropping with a leap to my collarbone. Drawing broken lines, as I rocked and roared with laughter. And then my roommate woke up and was scared. She asked me why, and I couldn't tell her. I couldn't stop to tell her through the pain in my chest that made me feel like my heart would break with the jerks of laughter. Of all the other million ways it could have broken! That's all I remember. I couldn't stop until I got it all out, all the sheer bliss that I had been bottling up. Out. At last. All others have been erased slowly. With cruel life's passing. I remember nothing else. I am nothing else, but a mixture of tears and laughter in an uncontrollable tremor.

(Just wrote it for another creative writing class submission. Seems like the only catalyst that can get me to write these days. )

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[1306neha]

The Free Jackfruit

I dreaded having to ask my father. I waited for him to set down the half-dozen vegetable packets on the floor and noticed he'd brought jackfruit. Mother was going to be furious. She had lived out her days of enjoying cooking. Now, she wanted to be done with the whole thing with minimum efforts. But he always brought these vegetables that would require elaborate steps of sorting, washing, and chopping. Jackfruit was especially troublesome because you had to apply oil to your hands while cutting it up, at regular intervals, and even then the sticky gluey whiteness stuck to the hands. The very sight made her mad, as she emerged sweat-dampened from the kitchen. And her expression spread like a contagion to his face. It was going to happen. I knew all those arguments. But today, I needed a favor and so I entered the arena. I knew the one thing that would end this imminent war. I asked my father, "how much did the jackfruit cost? Got a good bargain?". He looked at me, and the angry lines around his face relaxed, " I found a tree on my way and plucked it myself. So, it cost nothing, and it's fresher." And then I looked at her, raising my eyebrows. Her momentary fury was replaced with resignation as she looked at the few specks of dirt on his pants, the ones she would have to wash and heaved a sigh, "Hmm, you did one good thing at least!", and then she smiled through her wrinkles and sweat. He gloated a little in his triumph and smiled back at her. 

And I dropped the bomb, "Papa, Can I go for a vacation to Shiksha's place. There won't be any expenses apart from the tickets. There's a river in front of her balcony!, and mountains. Please?"

They turned towards me with their displeasure and that particularly middle-class regret of not being able to take me anywhere themselves. Not having the heart to say no directly, they told me about the riots, the torched buses and the amputated families. I stood silent.

Two days later, I jumped out of the bus with Shiksha, rebellion coursing through my veins, having met no inconveniences and thinking how my father had been irrationally over-worried. And then the phone rang, an unknown number. I didn’t pick up. It rang again,

“Hello…?” I said, through the confusion of blaring sirens. “Madam, this man’s last call was to you, he has been found unconscious by the road, we are taking him to the Metro Hospital, he had a heart attack. Can you please reach there ASAP?.” Shivers went up my legs as I collapsed on the street, muttering weakly, “But, I can’t... come…."

(Another one from the creative writing class. Tried flash fiction for the first time. Could not do it in less than 300 words but this was what came out and I went with it. )

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[1306neha]

Daphne

It does not matter.

Next time, I will ask my mother,

To dress me up tenderly and tightly,

With her sweat-dried cold hands,

In a white silken gag;

The priceless heirloom,

like she did last time.

What do I say?

It does not matter.

But I remember his eyeballs.

They felt like snails slithering

With mucky gluey trails on my branches.

Gripping, slowly, thoroughly.

Sucking the sap like a leech.

Yellow bile rising bitterly,

I contracted into a little leaf,

And expanded with a violent jerk.

The filth came up

and stopped at the white silk,

I swallowed my own spit

and felt it turn black.

His sparkling white teeth,

Leering ear to ear.

And then he said it. It was...

I can’t tell you.

I know what it meant.

I knew from how his words fell flat, cracked like a cup and became dust.

And I stood there, half human half tree.

And I saw you behind me too.

I told you and you questioned me.

You, you, you and the stranger reading this.

“What did he say?”

I told you it was,... crack... snap...horrible.

But I will not tell you.

Why are you asking me?

What are you telling me?

Why didn’t I,... Why didn’t I this or that or that?

But wait...

You generation of manufactured voyeurs,

Of Instagram and Youtube.

Eating my tale with smacking lips,

Misery is your favourite dish.

I will not tell you.

Because today you will heave a sigh,

And tomorrow you will forget.

You will see him on the street,

And you will say to yourself,

Why did Daphne turn into a Laurel tree?

Maybe she was mad, it was too much.

Her disproportionate fury.

I will untie my white silk,

and puke my guts out.

I will put it in a glittery glass bottle

and place it on the bookshelf.

But can you answer me, Why?

You who stood there and did not speak!

You who stood there and questioned me!

You who told me it happens everyday.

Why have you come here to buy it?

(Wrote it for another creative writing class. Otherwise this surely isn't a phase in my life where I feel like writing poetry by myself. Have been recycling my previous works for the class as well but I wrote this and thought I'd share.)

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[1306neha]

I turn the page of the day, with forgetting...

The words you spoke,

Have travelled for miles in these forsaken streets,

And stubbornly penetrated my forsaken body.

With every word you enter me,

Licking and teasing the corners of my mind palace,

Breaking the chastity of it's doors and windows, running up creaky stairs,

Sneaking in to the attics,

And disrobing the dust-covered clothes off my hidden trinkets.

It's vandalism!

And as my vulnerability staggers against a wall and gasps for air,

You're lying comfortably in your bed somewhere.

Oh, how unfair!

And as the vestiges of your words wantonly grab the insides of my head,

touch the puckered ends of my nerves

and rub their gunpowder tipped fingers against my exposed thoughts,

Strike a match and drop it on the wooden floors of my consciousness,

Setting them ablaze in a shivering frenzy.

The flames rise up haughtily,

And ram into the skull.

the blood boils and the cranial air becomes humid,

As the mind prepares

For rain.

It spatters down in broken syllables,

Further broken into letters of the alphabet, that dance on the ruins of meaning,

With wet-webbed feet.

I perceive the world expand, out of proportions, blurred.

Memories spinning into whirlpools.

And then the water drains,

drops upon the page, Smudges my words.

And as the ink abandons the line,

breaching the linguistic promise,

the words dissolve into each other

Fighting till they become mere unintelligible blots on wet paper.

As the world shrinks and comes back to itself.

And a cool breeze blows against the charred wet walls,

As my consciousness gently descends with a splash,

Upon the damp blackened floor,

With your words curling beside it,

Yawning and spooning it from behind,

Sleeping in for the night.

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[1306neha]

I was at war

With parts of me

With those loud shrill voices

That just wouldn't shut up.

So I shut them up for good.

killed them.

Put them in a casket and shovelled some dirt upon it.

Captured their souls

Put them in shiny bottles of glass.

Hung them in my room,

My graveyard.

The voices were gone

Nobody could kill me now,

I was a corpse.

Invincible.

And then you came.

Sneaking in like a breeze

From the window I forgot to bolt.

You dropped like a tiny stone

On the still Waters of my lake

A breeze that whooshed through the twisted corners of my graveyard and raised a tornado.

The tiny stone. Sending ripples that wouldn't stop until they touched my ends.. my edges.. the bottles

The bottles broke.

You set my ghosts free.

How could I handle them when I had forgotten how?

Their love. Their rage. Their longing. Their madness.

Pent up for eternity.

Set free in a second by a flick of your hand.

And what do I do,

When those I've murdered

Seethe with vengeance at my face?

When they push me to a shaking precipice.

And just a nudge from your finger sends cracking lines down the spine till it's dust

like a polished china cup fallen from the shelf.

I fall apart.

I hate how eerie silences pulsate.

And words depart.

How do I stop these torrents from capturing me?

They flood me and I drown.

How do I put into words a rupture?

What do I do?

When I'm left with my ghosts.

In my devastated graveyard.

And you've sneaked out just as quietly as you came in.

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[1306neha]

Logs crackled in the fireplace and my bed chamber's atmosphere became scalding as if it would char me alive if I didn't get out right away. The door was locked and the moonlight streamed through the hefty baroque window, decked ornately with jewels, embedded in the snakes that slithered amongst gilded flowers. Sliding the heavy skirts of my gown above my knees, I dangled one foot outside and sat on the sill, exposing my sensitive skin to the chilly breeze, inhaling the frost that flicked my nose red. And the wind felt like a thousand needles piercing my face simultaneously, needles tipped with sedatives. That numbed when the biting chill crossed a threshold and vanished. The moon tried feebly to blanket an endless darkness that seeped, in a flimsy white veneer. I gazed at the distant mansions, candles flickering through their windows, trying to engulf what the moon could not, and ended up adorning the darkness as the stars adorned the night sky. The crickets had come out in the trees to recite their black spells in a cacophonous melody. Dogs howled, as if calling out to the spirits that hide in the daylight to come out and haunt unseen. My dying vitality felt the pull, to discover that which was concealed from the living, fanning the curiosity of what came after. I jumped outside and ran barefoot upon the tiny sharp stones that penetrated my skin and drew out a crimson trickle. I paused. I resumed my forbidden rendezvous with the night and walked further towards the shadows of the swinging willow trees.

Then came whispers of restrained guttural gasps behind me. It had sniffed my blood. It sprang upon me, flattening me on the frost that seeped into my robes, and the darkness swirled into shapes before my gaze landed on it's burning eyes that spoke of an unspeakable bliss and exposed sharp fangs set in an innocent rotund and woolly mouth as I lay enchanted, waiting for it to sink its fangs, knowing that it wouldn't stop until it devoured every inch, until nothing remained. And I whispered lightly into it's ears, “What Immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?”

#short story #spilled ink #passion #writersclub #writerscribbles #writerscorner #writerscreed

[1306neha]

Some stories don't have a title.

“I feel better today”, she thought to herself as she walked home after having completed her agenda for the day at the office. Her limbs ached and the heat of exertion ran through her body and felt soothing like a balm. That's when her mother called and she groaned to herself before picking up her cell phone.

“Hi ma! , I can't talk sorry. I'm on my way, I'll call you when I'm hom--”

“That's not your home!! This is your home. And I know you're not there. Your brother has been waiting for you since the last couple hours. Where have you been?”

“Why? Ma I told you. I'm tired of telling you. I need time. I'm trying to do something. I can't come back now.”

“Have we ever stopped you from working? You could find a job here and work. Why are you doing this?”

“You don't understand…” she said and hung up.

She stopped midway and started walking back towards the metro station. A heaviness and a feeling similar to guilt descended in her chest as she decided to spend the night at her boss's place. Her mother wouldn't approve of it but she could not go back to her apartments as she knew her brother would emotionally manipulate her and make her go back to live with her parents. She couldn't ever go back now. Not to that house. Nobody understood. But at least he never asked in the first place. So, her employer is who she went to.

She knocked on his door. Nobody answered. She knocked again. She tried to get a good look at his door. Yes, it was locked from the inside and he was there as was evident from his car parked outside. She called. He didn't pick up. She called again. This time he did pick up,

“It better be important. I’m a bit busy at the moment. You know I don't work after leaving the office. Can it wait?”

“Yes, maybe a few minutes if you're in the shower or something. I'm outside your door.”

“Oh fuck. Alright, I'll be there in a minute”, he said and hung up. Two minutes later, She heard his heavy footsteps coming towards the door. He stood against it in nothing but his towel. Her eyes travelled lower and she winced and closed her eyes. “Yeah well, as you can see, wrong timing. Wait in the guest room as I go deal with this.” Motioning towards the you know what.

“Oh perfect, he has a woman over”, she thought to herself. She was perfectly sure she had no interest in him whatsoever. But the idea still made her a bit queasy. She was sure it was only because she felt more alone, as if she did not belong anywhere. It felt wrong to be at his house at that moment, to interrupt something so personal with her presence. She only took help from her boss because she knew he didn't care much. She knew there would be no drama. No change. She hated change at present. And he wouldn't pry. He'd let her be and that's all she wanted right then. So she put down her bag on the chair and went to freshen up before hitting the bed. She just hoped she wouldn't hear the sounds from the other room. She didn't care what people did behind their doors in their houses. But she had had so many unsuccessful attempts with men that seeing two other people sharing such a moment brought back the memories of angst, despair, and failed attempts to muffle and subdue her impulses, but they had always been stronger, failing to be subdued- strangling her in return. Moments like these stood mocking her shortcomings. The sounds never came, even though she had anxiously been waiting for them to trigger her nerves into berserk zone. She knew it would come. That gut feeling of everything being wrong. That incessant voice in her head repeating one sentence over and over and over again, “Get out of here. Go home.” Her senses would go erratic, the sounds would turn into a cacophonous blare. Lights too blinding, skin clammy, the air touching her skin overpoweringly humid. Then the vibrations would start. Something vital inside her, shaking on and on and on. Heart beating so fast she'd feel like doing anything to just make it stop. But where could she go? She had no home anymore. No place came to mind when she thought of peace. Isn't that what home meant? But she was fine with solitude if she couldn't find peace and hence she had liked going back to her apartments. Where would she go from here though? At this very moment, she didn't belong anywhere in the world. Her thoughts raced each other in a circular race track and this wait for madness to descend became maddening. Then she heard an engine start outside.

Somebody left. Did they both leave? Wouldn't he have told her if he had decided to leave her alone in his house? She decided to check for herself.

He stood by the fridge, dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt. All the lights were off and moonlight filtered through the windows. His hair gleamed in the moonlight just like they did ten years ago. This was what she had never been able to erase from her head. She had been to Goa with her friends that summer. She had lied to her parents about going somewhere else. It came naturally to her in those days. And she had run off to the beach secretly in the middle of the night in pursuit of the sublime, which had been explained to her in class as the feeling which one felt at midnight standing alone in front of a vast ocean, or in mountaintops covered with snow. But she had always preferred oceans to mountains. It's curious how young people follow ideas to such extents. How they keep running after life as if it's a drug addiction, jumping from one high to the next. Not thinking or caring about anything else as long as they get their fixes. And then one day, their world suddenly crashes around them. All the incidents and episodes of life standing in a queue asking for explanations after the high vanishes for good. And they realise they have none. But until then, it doesn't matter at all. Like when you're standing with your feet planted in the sand, feeling the salt permeate in your body, the water brushing you gently, sending little shivers through your body as you wonder at its calm menace. Wondering how instead of brushing your feet with gentle caresses it could completely ravish you.

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[1306neha]

She's playing her pipe The pied piper that lives in my head. It gets too fast and too loud sometimes The tunes changing before I can process it. Too loud and shrill

Like a hundred people chatting around me so loudly and I can't understand a single thing. And my head starts to hurt the more I try to make it out. And it makes me mad. So I stop making it out.

Stop!!! I tell her Please stop now. She doesn't listen to me. I give up. I lie down. Deep breathe. I can control her if I try they say. They don't realise I can fail if I try too.

She keeps lurking with her pipe. Master of her own will. And whenever I see red. And I throw things hard. She starts playing. Sweet melodies. Of how blissful the next place could be. Not ugly and poisonous like this one. If I just let her lead me to it. And sometimes I follow her to the edge like a rat. Entranced by the tunes. My entire thoughts paralysed and her music is all that exists. And I look down the edge. And realise I can't come back here from that place. And I stop. Turn around. And go back.

Then she plays again. Every time its harder to stop at the edge. Harder not to just let myself be swept away in the trance. Harder to come back. How long before I jump?

#writer #writerscreed #writerscorner #spilled thoughts #spilled ink #poetry #spilled words

[1306neha]

When Empires fall in revolutions, and all structures destroyed, Then comes the re-construction. We break free from prisons. Destroy them. And create new ones. Eliminating everything faulty with the old one. Hoping this time the bars will not be visible. That nobody will feel the suffocation. And right between these two stages, After the destruction, Before the reconstruction, Lies Anarchy. When the air is pregnant with a million ideas. Not knowing which offspring will be born. Its infinite. Its maddening. Yet, for this short time No bars exist. And it’s frightening. Being truly free. That’s exactly where you’ll find me. Sitting in the ruins of my mind palace. Holding the broken bars. Scared.

#writer #writerscreed #writerscorner #spilled thoughts #spilled ink #poetry #spilled words

[1306neha]

Caged

I have no shackles around my wrist and feet.

Here I sit in my high tower, warm and comfortable, looking around, wondering what it would be like to be this little Sparrow.

To fly to the moon and stars, soaring through the wind, feeling the cool breeze whisper tingling secrets into my face.

Me?

I’m not allowed to be impulsive like she, flapping my wings on a whim.

I have to wait for the “appropriate” hour, to step outside my tower.

It would be a luxury to not have to think. Not think before following my curiosity to the end of the world. Not think if the time, place or attire are appropriate. Not think “Is this too crazy?” before doing something crazy.

I wish I could afford to throw caution to the winds.

I wish I could afford the luxury of madness.

This is when the invisible shackles feel heavy, tugging at my hands and feet, weighing down my throat, constricting my very air.

My body is a cage. Holding captive my fluttering spirit, thrashing violently to tear out of my skin and explore the seven seas, the wilderness, or anything else that exists. Death then, must be bliss, when the spirit will break the bars of bones, and emerge unbound by mortality. Truly free.

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[1306neha]

Here I stand by my glass window, warm and comfortable, thermostat turned on in a corner, heating up the room, looking around at the vast expanse in front of me, squinting from beneath the blanket of snow. It feels like an illusion, unreal. The idea of numbing frost is hard to conceive in my comfy apartment. It's like a photograph.

I saw a 7D clip in a movie theatre several months ago. I still remember when there had been a flower garden on the screen, and the machines had released flowery scents into the air, the ceiling had sprinkled water upon us when there had been rainstorms and earth scented winds had blown, and when there had been snow, the ceiling had sprinkled white fluffy flakes, and chilly winds had numbed my nose for a few minutes.

It is so funny, the world that we live in today, all this technology. The unreal seems more real than reality. We are so intent on creating reality, life-like illusions, that we have cut ourself apart from reality itself. Manufactured desires, for the perfect realistic illusions, that it is defeating imperfect reality.

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[1306neha]

The Night

Here She comes again, Princess of the dark, Bathing the world in her dark magic. Lulling the world to sleep So she can have a rendezvous without being caught. Clothed in ruffles of the twinkling stars. Oh they are but sequins that adorn her. Sly little tricks she uses to tempt her lover. The faithless moon. Oh how inconstant he is, To show her such attention one day, And then start to wane until he’s gone completely. And the audacity Lord! To show up again at her doorstep After the unexplained adventure of the new moon. And there she goes forgiving him again. Oh you’re hopeless dear night! He’ll do it again. I’m telling you. You deserve better. Like the sun. He is so constant. He is perfect for you. But you don’t listen to me, you just run away whenever you see him coming. Dump that cozening moon, Your bad decisions don’t even let me sleep.

- insomniac me

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[1306neha]

“We are the blood of the witches you thought were dead.

We carry witchcraft in our bones whilst magic still sings inside out heads.

When the witch hunters imprisoned out ancestors when they tried to burn the magic away.

Someone should have warned them that magic cannot be tamed.

Because you cannot burn away what has always been aflame.”

-Nikita Gill

[1306neha]

Sometimes life is too fast for the senses. Some words and actions will haunt you forever. But the senses don't realize it while receiving the blows. Senses do their dramatic over-thinking when it's too late to do something about it. And when the senses catch up with it, you get another incident to blame your insecurities on. Voila!

So when life gets too fast for you to comprehend

And dominoes start falling like rain

Get out from under the fluorescent lights

And run for the moon.

You can take deep breaths and stay quiet for sometime.

As long as it takes for your retarded senses to catch up to you.

The moon will stay there for a while

Steady in all the chaos.

#spilled words #spilled ink #spilled thoughts #spilled in poetry #spilled writing #excerpt from a story i'll never write #writerscommunity #writerscreed #writerscribbles #writersclub #writerscorner #musings #moon #life #lifequoteoftheday #life quotes #breathe

[1306neha]

Demons

Humans have instincts. The most basic human instincts are hunger, lust and survival. An urge to kill for hunger, lust or survival. People associate these instincts with the 'animalistic' or 'demonic'. These are our 'demons'. People cage their demons and put a leash around their necks. But the demons are still lurking inside, wild, struggling beneath the surface for freedom. All it takes is one moment. One moment to let go of the leash. One moment for the demons to destroy the cage and take over. That one moment is of fear. Fear triggers only two responses: fight or flight. Some run away. Others Kill. Kill because they are scared of any entity that poses a threat to their survival or happiness. People rape because they are scared of not being wanted, of never being wanted. All crime can be traced back into that one moment of fear. Can the demons be killed? The hunger, lust or survival instincts, can they be killed?

The demons are stronger than us. Passions have always been more intense than sobriety. Insanity stronger than sanity. That moment of fear lets us know that we aren't capable in this moment, the demons are. The demons will always break free in these moments of fear. The demons can only be tamed, so their reins are still in our hands. But, to tame the beast inside us, we have to approach the beast without being scared of it, beasts can sense fear. A beast needs to be accepted and loved, to be tamed. Love the beast inside you.

And for all the untamed, caged or leashed demons out there, the only answer is to eliminate that one moment of fear. However, the civilizations, systems of education, religion, power, culture tradition and especially economy are frightening.

#spilled ink #spilled thoughts #musings #spilled words #psychology #crime #demons #demon #humanity #religion #culture #economy #sociology #society #epiphany #systems #excerpt from my journal #excerpt from a story i'll never write #writerscreed #excerpt from a book i'll never write #writers