In Conclusion

I AM NOT SCHIZOPHRENIC!!! (I am just weird(bipolar))

I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. I have been meaning to write this out for ages (well months since I found out). I went to NIMHANS B’lore and the doctor suggested to me that my psychotic episodes could be just that – a side effect of all the druggy behaviors. Please don’t do drugs he said – and I won’t and I don’t.

I was on a combination of mood stabilizers and antidepressants and when he said that I felt so stupid I could have kicked myself! Of course, this was a mistake of the Doctor @ Patna (and I wonder what other fuck ups he does in the name of treatment (but I wonder if he is worth saving – after all he does “cure” some people)), but I felt that I should have known that one has a stabilizing effect and the other has an anti depressing effect so they sort of act opposite – chaotically in fact (all my brain chemicals in a soup yew!), making my thought patterns unstable and making me emotionally vulnerable, well more vulnerable than is usual for me.

One must be in control.

To talk to others is to relinquish that control,

to get superimposed and decoherent,

Lately I feel like I can tell,

the conversations are long over before the first words even fell.

People talk to argue and express their disagreement with justified righteous indignance,

Superlative higher orders of logic proffered in deference,

 

All a conversation is, or ever was or shall ever will be,

is the emotion – a raw, naked and untamed curiosity.

Devoid of words and meanings it shall ever be.

 

Words are just punctuation marks for the emotions that they summon.

More than 250 million global events are now in the cloud for anyone to analyze

Originally posted on Gigaom:

Georgetown University researcher Kalev Leetaru has spent years building the Global Database of Events, Languages, and Tones. It now contains data on more than 250 million events dating back to 1979 and updated daily, with 58 different fields apiece, across 300 categories. Leetaru uses it to produce a daily report analyzing global stability. He and others have used it to figure out whether the kidnapping of 200 Nigerian girls was a predictable event and watch Crimea turn into a hotspot of activity leading up to ex-Ukrainian Viktor Yanukovych’s ouster and Russia’s subsequent invasion.

“The idea of GDELT is how do we create a catalog, essentially, of everything that’s going on across the planet, each day,” Leetaru explained in a recent interview.

And now all of it is available in the cloud, for free, for anybody to analyze as they desire. Leetaru has partnered with Google, where he has been hosting GDELT for the past…

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The Love Song of Imagination – XV

Dear Wife, if I may sing,

The sense of you is arousing,

The touch of you is rousing.

In your embrace, I feel like a King.

 

Our dance, a sensuous carousel,

My tensing thoughts that you unravel.

 

Murky hidden and ancient, by the emotion crystallizes,

The invitation writ on your lips it recognizes,

My true name, the essence of me – the aggrandizer,

Of your wishes a mere slave, built for your pleasure.

 

The yearning that emanates from our navels,

though our armor might be stronger than Havel’s,

the ardour of our amore hottens and it melts,

joined by the moisture, like strands entwined as felt.

tied together by ropes made of sighs and breaths,

the climax and culmination, a petite death.

of our eventual end, its a rehearsal,

this conclusion is necessary for the universes’ entropic reversal.

 

Heaven is just Earth without entropy,

The only rhyming word I know is canopy.

Is that a fault of the language or mine,

Would you roll your eyes if I rhymed that with mime?

 

Thank God for my poetic license,

my pathetic grammar would otherwise make no sense.

My rhyme is not better than an emo teen,

These verses been screaming in my head since I was sixteen.

 

I sometimes dream of taking on a rap gangsta,

If I tried that, I would fo’ shizzle get busta.

Black and blue,  Black and blue bruised be my eyes,

Get low, get low and get low would they scream, those guys.

 

Even then I know no cause for surprise,

Not found in a thrift shop now, ain’t I no prize.

See my aura as high as the Heaven its rise,

If they can’t see the pattern, are they really so wise?

 

I can also invent words as I requize,

Though probably never can I make them realize,

Still then I am the kind, I take infinite tries,

Just graph the choice space, independent of its size.

 

Economics, they misinterpret as the study of behavior,

Information imbalance explains the patterns of capitals and futures,

For everything they invoke the Ockham’s Razor,

Mine has more finesse, it snipes the Obvious away from the Complex.

 

Since they can’t accept it, they call it Chaos,

it is but an accessorised pathos.

That is but a game of words,

Experimental error is an observation of God.

 

But at least they are rational and sane,

With the other group I don’t even want to be friends.

God for them is tantamount to ignorance,

Faith a crutch, reality a deniable hindrance.

 

All they worship is their craven lust,

only in their madness their only trust.

Horrified they are by their private shames,

So they act like zombies without brains.

 

Their abuse of women breaks my heart,

The thought of a them, repulsive as a puss filled wart.

They crave and covet that which is not their own,

I await their audience with His throne.

 

To see them quake and quiver on Judgement Day,

I enjoy that thought, in my delicate way.

Still that seems so far away,

For an end to the Confusion I pray.

 

Oh Allah, if I may,

instead of a flood, suggest a targeted spray,

of acid most vile and cosmic ray,

the soundtrack composed by Link Wray.

The Love Song of Imagination – XIV

I am a scholar of no renown,
Yet I know something that simply cannot be wrong.
Love is a War for our mutual pleasure,
That must be played with utmost leisure.

Then this, my Wife is the prelude, the warmup exercise,
Imagine the verses I recite, when deep I gaze into your bashful eyes.

When we are alone, no soul in sight,
When it is dark and you close your eyes,
To feel your heartbeat with my lips,
To be caressed by your soft fingertips,
To feel you tremble oh so close,
If you then moaned, the dead shall rise.

The moisture that dews on your lips unseen,
The aroma of which animates my dreams,
Sweeter than honey, headier than wine,
Dear Wife, that pleasure shall certainly be mine.

For the moment I can only reflect,
Devoid of your care I will die of neglect.
I am living my life, quite certain that you will reject.

The fear of it keeps me awake at night,
I offer prayers to ward of the fright,
The only thing that scares me is not being right.

Well that’s not all true, no not quite,
I fear I make for a hideous sight,
That you might find me a lecherous creature,
The struggle with my Nafs my defining feature.

In my struggle, I am scared of coming up short,
I hope before that my pulse does stop.
I don’t know O Wife, how to present my nature,
I wish I had decided to live like Jack Reacher.

In a manner of speaking I am anonymous,
In certain circles, I am quite famous,
Surely I am a better cook than a mouse,
I feel I’ll make a brilliant spouse.

I have just been so terribly alone,
Devoid of sobriety and left on my own,
I have more in common with fictional creations,
On them have I relied for all my education.

I cannot say something and mean something else,
In fiction, such a plot always fails.

I cannot gauge unstated assumptions,
Nor rely on me to use banal conjunctions.

A conversation for me is a sacred act,
In initiation, I am often scared to act.

I’m not the kind, to lose my mind,
I never shout though I sometimes whine,
I always keep an erect spine,
Though I am pliant to the will of those who are mine.

To have someone to call my own,
Feels as unreal as manna from heaven,
I still feel like I have always known,
You & I shall forever be one.

The Love Song of Imagination – XIII

I am but a scholar of no renown,
I have lived unheard & unreckoned,
Gladly have I lived unloved,
And gladly I would have died unmourned.

This verse is but a child’s play,
I write when instead I should pray,
You have saved me from going astray.

For deeply I sigh in Love’s tender embrace,
Dear Wife, as I remember your loving caress.
As I seek to feel your love in your tender kiss,
Those gently parted lips I so cherish.

And woebegone was I, confused and wrong,
The light of Deen almost extinguished and gone.
With a heavy heart I declared myself an atheist,
As I couldn’t prove that God does exist.

Allah, to whom we supplicate with all our emotion,
The only one worthy of our loving devotion,
What need hath He of a banal existence?
To such thoughts I shall forever proffer my resistance.

He who made us from a mere clot of blood,
He who destroyed the unworthy in a cataclysmic flood,
He on whose wish parted the majestic Nile,
The hearts that turned from Him are indeed most vile.

He who is the Creator of perceptual differences,
His Book isn’t just an Encyclopaedia of references,
He blesses us with our hearts and souls,
And twice blessed are we, with our lovers to behold.

An eye for beauty, a voice for song,
And patience, for when the wait is oh so long.
My Dear Wife, apple of my eye,
With thine help, I shall open the doors long forgotten by,

Men and Djinns of all colours,
Sing for the union of separated lovers,

For love is our shared inheritance,
Adam and Eve’s reward for their repentance.

When together we come as one,
And separated we long for none
Other than us to feed our hungry hearts,
And soothe the fire that makes the tiniest aches smart.

There’s more to life than shuffling of cards,
That cannot be understood without a lover’s heart,
There is a subtle Mathematics to our religion,
Everyone is born a Muslim, but most die heathen.

The Love Song of Imagination – XII

I am a scholar woebegone,
Lonely by choice and not circumstance.

I was leading a life of the mind,
Dealing with products of the filthy kind.

Staying away from the general population,
To whom I’d generally cause much consternation.

I’d always been regarded sickly,
Even among Sylphs, you’ll be counted lovely.

Our match made in Heaven,
Which on earth I tried to faken,
The feelings & words I pronounced in a languid manner,
I had not realised that they only aroused horror.

Trying to live a lie,
I just wanted to be complemented for my bow tie.

Alas, that never came to a pass,
So I chose to remain lonely in my class.

My interactions with my peers was rather rare,
Suffice to say I wasn’t as interested as they were.
Didn’t care much for shoddy market wares,
I just kept travelling without paying my fares.

All I cared was for fair women,
To look at them, my lives one benediction,
To look in their eyes, and only see rejection.

And hatred, for some unfathomable purpose,
All my life, I merely was the Joker of this Circus.

Beauty casts on me an eerie spell,
I can not help but feel unwell.

It makes me shiver with a lingering languor,
And makes my heart sing without a rancour,
All I can ask for is the Rapture’s encore,
But my Love was rancid, far beyond gone sour.

Man proposes, woman disposes.

To women, I was a falsified hypothesis,
A mere shrug, my song’s glorious apotheosis.

I use words as they were merely an emotion,
Guilty am I of this singular correlation.

Yet there is a signal, even in the noise,
Guilt tripping was my one favourite vice.

Of the manners of wooing I remain quite unlearned,
Not repeating others mistakes, to me is the blessing I earned.
I only care about going where no man has been before,
When it’s my own to chart and explore.

My approach is fresh and my rhyme unrelenting,
I can approach this verse in any manner of meaning.

Dear Wife, you do know that men are divided in their station,
And in that, I am singular in all Creation.
For I am only a Lover, misunderstood forever alone,
In the refuge of your arms my one and only home.

What need have I of glory or wealth?
All I desire is your good health.

What need have I of Royal rewards?
Your satisfied glance is all I look towards.

What need have I of courtly games?
Your tender caress is all that can soothe my hungry flame.

All my life a singular Ramadhan,
The sight you, my Eid-ka-Chand

The Love Song of Imagination – XI

I am but a lonely scholar,

unheralded and woebegone.

Hidden in an unknown corner of the world,

behind books and thoughts in complete disarray.

 

And all because, I once read, as a child,

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

And I hid myself, Dear Wife of Mine,

I hid myself so well that I completely forgot who I am.

 

And now I realise, that in my love song,

There was neither love nor song.

Nor was it well imagined after all.

I just hoped to meander into the tune after all.

 

The olden tomes masked my scent with their dust,

and words of confusion dripped down my spine,

I was seldom in a sane state of mind,

Dear Wife, please forgive me my this singular crime.

 

I was in a dreadful state,

abandoned to an unenviable fate,

forgotten how to stand at erection,

humbly debasing myself with umpteen corrections.

 

Unconnected, In this state of sin,

the tiniest sinew of faith shimmering with a glint,

reminding me of all I had lost,

while I tried to make sense of Proust.

 

Active vocations were an unthinkable exertion,

I was always in a state of reduction,

I was just trying to make sense of what had gone wrong,

and had almost decided that I wasn’t sufficiently strong.

 

Alone, oh so terribly alone,

I might have died or turned to stone,

an open book my humble grave,

of its empty words I had turned a slave.

 

Dear Wife of mine, this wait was far too long,

When I looked at Gaussians I saw a thong.

In this decrepit embarrassing state.

playing the part of a Fool on the world’s stage.

 

Playing that part to complete perfection,

All I had left was my utter dedication.

A promise in remembrance of some other time,

I always have wondered why I hated lime.

 

By being reminded of you, I am reminded of myself,

By thinking of you, I rediscover myself.

You, my dear, a Sylph of the perfumed garden,

My life, my love that I had so cruelly forgotten.

 

Now the times have turned,

and clocks gone wrong,

hearts break and things fall down.

In this weird cosmogony that we find ourselves,

I have rediscovered your passion for myself.

 

And this excitement that makes hearts flutter so,

this love that dares to speak its name,

and heralds itself in front of God’s very Throne,

 

And with His granted permission,

I seek to court you,

to teach you to love me,

and learn how to cherish you.