Old Boy

This movie is brutal, devastating and painfully unforgiving in its portrayal of vengeance and human suffering. It takes you into the darkest depths of the human psyche, leaving you uncomfortably numbed with raging emotions of loss, retribution and sadistic pleasure. It would be no mean exaggeration to say that it has left me as a scarred, emotionally maimed viewer. Old Boy is undoubtedly an Oh Boy! movie experience, torturing your very soul.

everybody hurts, all the time...

in this age of sensitivity, is taking offence an alibi for complicity?

in this age of morality, is sexuality a weapon of choice to enslave and murder thee?

in this age of reason, is the power of eloquent argument the new decree?
in this age of hipster coolness, is being different the crucifix of identity?
in this age of modernity, is tradition the whipping boy who bleeds?
in this age of materiality, is the Spirit bound or free?
in this age of maya, is truth even a possibility?

seeking answered questions, finding an unanswered life....

minto-mashi-memories

memories of death//death of memories: what is death but the memory of living; the final resting place of our memories, tempering what can never be. 

a vocabulary of possibility

i come across these two words through friends. i did not know their meanings, so i looked up the dictionary and learnt of them. what stuck to me was the thought that words are beautiful, that they are the gatekeepers to our consciousness. words stitch our thoughts, texture our feelings, layer our understanding, embroider our emotions, cloth our life. it's simply incredible, this world of words that we inhabit and call our own. i cannot begin to tell you how excited i am.

• petrichor-a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather
• aposiopesis- the device of suddenly breaking off in speech

i don't want love

i don't want longing but your presence instead;
i don't want the desperation of what is left unsaid.

i want happiness and the thoughts we sacredly held.

i don't want comfort and company;
i don't want its mundane drudgery.

i want the moment and what it can be.

are you  even listening to me?

a common suffering made separate with distance; pinudas without free-flowing water and me without regular electricity. divided in neatly drawn lives, reaching out for the only succour we know. cruel summers, cold-hearted winters--braving years, weather and time. desires drowned in the waiting, restless at being awakened. chipping away fragments of memories to remind us of ourselves. the ticking heart clocks its motions, finally it lays to rest.