Its that day in the year, when I cannot drink… Dry day-October 2nd. Oops, I was supposed to remember the more important things from the day. Wasn’t I? Perhaps I do and reluctantly so.
Every person, who has been to school, has been shoved down his throat, lessons after lessons, for years together, about the ‘Maha’ness and the virtuosity of the man by the name of Mohan Das Karam Chand Gandhi. I don’t mean to contest the magnitude of the role he has played in shaping the nature and form of politics practiced in this country. Infact, had it not been for him, probably, the progressive modern industrialized urbanized India would have conveniently let the rural, backward, ‘indisciplined’ Bharat go to the dogs.
But the man has on more than one occasions made me curious, to look at him as one of us. To be critical of him and not hold him on a higher moral pedestal seems like a task undoable in the face of popularly and staunchly held notions about this man.
I don’t know what his sex quotient was. All I know is, he knew the art of drawing masses to him and convince them about his beliefs and logic. And such meditative men, just very intuitively seem genuine. But I wonder, if he had motivations and had he been successful in neutralizing a natural desire for power? Did the partition upset him or was it watching power slipping out of his hands like sand, that got him insecure? I have not an iota of doubt he would have made a brilliant leader, political or ideological, with or without the lust for power. But isn’t it intoxicating-power? To have such a compelling authority over the sea of people, what would have it felt like, to lose it for once? I don’t have answers to it, I am just imaginative by nature.
I do soften up when I see the image of the old man with the stick, sporting a loin cloth, grinning his way to the hearts of people. But the moment he starts preaching ideals, I start normalizing again. A leader provokes, moves you to action, but that is where lies the very chore of the problem. He makes you dependent on an external source, when it comes to looking for solutions. A leader, in every word that he preaches,assumes and undermines the wisdom of his listener. The leader uses instruments of coercion, by way of speech and logic, to make you think unidirectionally. But I think at the end of the day, the Hypnotic effects of the leader’s karisma, brings your guards of logic down to levels, where you wuld rather follow than aspire to lead or atleast stand apart.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Sunday, August 8, 2010
To create a possibility..of the mind being free
free from what i ask?
why freedom at all?
in this feminine spirit,lives a mighty heart
that heart lives in a weak weak world...
torn down by the blowing wind...
the heart rises to go...
every day it fights a battle...
to know why its so hard to be with me...
why the tarn in the soul so murky to put itself in...
there is a craving to be equals among men...
what this heart doesnot know..is it cannot be..
home is somewhere else..where it d never return..
freedom is never to be...
knowing this is freedom..
free from what i ask?
why freedom at all?
in this feminine spirit,lives a mighty heart
that heart lives in a weak weak world...
torn down by the blowing wind...
the heart rises to go...
every day it fights a battle...
to know why its so hard to be with me...
why the tarn in the soul so murky to put itself in...
there is a craving to be equals among men...
what this heart doesnot know..is it cannot be..
home is somewhere else..where it d never return..
freedom is never to be...
knowing this is freedom..
Sunday, June 13, 2010
In the name of Bombay:The houses and thier people...
I promise, I would not talk about the spirit of this city and how it braves bomb blasts and deluges.
Bombay(Mumbai has its own history,but,we ll get into nomenclature later. Suffice to say,Bombay sounds more inclusive) has, like it does to a lot of people, baffled me. Its an absolutely ordinary city I would like to think. There can be little extra ordinary about a city of trade, that essssentially Bom is.Still, something about its demography totally blows my mind.
Every day on my way to my workplace and back, on the sides of the railway tracks I see these double storey houses(hutments,if You like to call it),each room not more than 10 by 10. Your cubicle in an intercity train is perhaps larger. People have been inhabiting them for years now. I wonder what their concept of space is. Interestingly for a little larger area, people are paying a bomb to live in high rise apartments in the same city with probably a swimming pool and a play court around.
Coming back to the houses on the sides of the rails, these houses have on an average 6 to 7 people living in them.How perfectly is it juxtaposed with the houses in Bandra,where families of four own bunglows with N number of rooms..a room for guests..a room for guests closer..a room for children..a room for childrens’ friends perhaps..room for well..I don’t know who all...
Again talking about the rail houses, If you look at the ethnographic divisions, and the amount of time people have spent in living in these conditions, you would realise, the thin line between a migrant and a local blurs away. People have been migrating to this city for ages now and have agreed to live in these conditions. While some have moved up the social ladder,others continue to live in here, though contented with their destinies perhaps.
I also see these endless stretches of apartments, not in ramshackle though, inhabited perhaps by the middle class and the lower middle class. The apartments look droopy and they seemingly demand repair. The pink has turned to brown from the water dripping from the ACs and the white has turned black because of the rainwater sipping through the walls and also the number of years that the building has stood here. The most ordinary and hard working people live here. Also, those people who have larger worries than people living in those rail houses. Worries not of managing a meal for another day, but worries of the falling prices of stock and the defaulting loan and the payment for childrens’ education, Payment for the car bought a year ago,payment for childrens clothes and books and birthday parties,the electricity bill and the telephone bill.payment for the weekend movie at an ac mall/multiplex, payment for shopping at the same pretty, glittery malls with huge bill boards that hypnotise the inhabitants of these apartments..all these from salaries so meagre that, you don’t know where and how to save for any future post retirement.
For all these reasons and many more, Bombay repulses and attracts me now. Just when I would think,I have figured it out, it throws another color into my eye and blinds me. There is something unusual about its ordinariness. Bombay belongs to the rich and the influential,majorly the political class and the big mill owner,like evry city does and these people make thier ownership visibly clear..be it through the name of the roads or buildings or bill boards or posters on the houses of others.The non-inclusive also live here,with a minor stake in the ownership of Bombay and they are many in number.SO they have crammed themselves in box houses, ghettos and tinned enclosures. They are beguile and the political prey. The right wing and the centre..all jostling for their ethno-regional compliances.
A city that has glaring class differences, that people with rose-tinted glasses like to call Amchi Mumbai...Our Mumbai and One Mumbai and all...is at best a hypocritical city. A city that refuses to look at its own reality that one class rules the minds and lives of the others, without their knowledge, by continuosly selling themselves to the other classes..be it through votes or swanky glass windows and revolving glass doors.
Bombay(Mumbai has its own history,but,we ll get into nomenclature later. Suffice to say,Bombay sounds more inclusive) has, like it does to a lot of people, baffled me. Its an absolutely ordinary city I would like to think. There can be little extra ordinary about a city of trade, that essssentially Bom is.Still, something about its demography totally blows my mind.
Every day on my way to my workplace and back, on the sides of the railway tracks I see these double storey houses(hutments,if You like to call it),each room not more than 10 by 10. Your cubicle in an intercity train is perhaps larger. People have been inhabiting them for years now. I wonder what their concept of space is. Interestingly for a little larger area, people are paying a bomb to live in high rise apartments in the same city with probably a swimming pool and a play court around.
Coming back to the houses on the sides of the rails, these houses have on an average 6 to 7 people living in them.How perfectly is it juxtaposed with the houses in Bandra,where families of four own bunglows with N number of rooms..a room for guests..a room for guests closer..a room for children..a room for childrens’ friends perhaps..room for well..I don’t know who all...
Again talking about the rail houses, If you look at the ethnographic divisions, and the amount of time people have spent in living in these conditions, you would realise, the thin line between a migrant and a local blurs away. People have been migrating to this city for ages now and have agreed to live in these conditions. While some have moved up the social ladder,others continue to live in here, though contented with their destinies perhaps.
I also see these endless stretches of apartments, not in ramshackle though, inhabited perhaps by the middle class and the lower middle class. The apartments look droopy and they seemingly demand repair. The pink has turned to brown from the water dripping from the ACs and the white has turned black because of the rainwater sipping through the walls and also the number of years that the building has stood here. The most ordinary and hard working people live here. Also, those people who have larger worries than people living in those rail houses. Worries not of managing a meal for another day, but worries of the falling prices of stock and the defaulting loan and the payment for childrens’ education, Payment for the car bought a year ago,payment for childrens clothes and books and birthday parties,the electricity bill and the telephone bill.payment for the weekend movie at an ac mall/multiplex, payment for shopping at the same pretty, glittery malls with huge bill boards that hypnotise the inhabitants of these apartments..all these from salaries so meagre that, you don’t know where and how to save for any future post retirement.
For all these reasons and many more, Bombay repulses and attracts me now. Just when I would think,I have figured it out, it throws another color into my eye and blinds me. There is something unusual about its ordinariness. Bombay belongs to the rich and the influential,majorly the political class and the big mill owner,like evry city does and these people make thier ownership visibly clear..be it through the name of the roads or buildings or bill boards or posters on the houses of others.The non-inclusive also live here,with a minor stake in the ownership of Bombay and they are many in number.SO they have crammed themselves in box houses, ghettos and tinned enclosures. They are beguile and the political prey. The right wing and the centre..all jostling for their ethno-regional compliances.
A city that has glaring class differences, that people with rose-tinted glasses like to call Amchi Mumbai...Our Mumbai and One Mumbai and all...is at best a hypocritical city. A city that refuses to look at its own reality that one class rules the minds and lives of the others, without their knowledge, by continuosly selling themselves to the other classes..be it through votes or swanky glass windows and revolving glass doors.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Stephen cOURT WAS BURNING AND SO WAS MY GUT
The least of an attachment with the city of Kolkata was enough to feel a certain loss, when you saw the Stephen Court engulfed in flames.Music World right below on the ground floor and the first, was a favorite haunt, every year that I visited Cal.
But what annoyed me more than the incident,an utterly unfortunate one, was the way it has been covered by the broadcast media and,I wouldnt wonder if, by tomorrow, tales of human losses would have been offered on a platter and devoured by the voyeuristic reader, who hasnt had enough of it from the television screen.
I dont deny the TRP value of these stories, but it irks me somewhere to be a part of such insenitivity certain times. You commercialise tragedies and who doesnt love to cry. Well, if I am citing a problem, I must have the balls to give a solution too.I do advocate censorship. I do support Freedom of Press, but not at the cost of tear-trade as I would like to call it. Its essential to think on these lines, because at the end of the day, tis a victim on the other side, and while information needs to be shared by the masses, I dont know how immediate is the need to tear open the wounds of injury and exhibit it. Today, when I saw the images of the families of People who died in the inferno, I was shocked at the utter apathy with which some of the English news channels handled these cases. I had to make an effort to switch to other channels, after all the voyeur in me wanted its share of pleasure too. But somehow they were my own people.
Its the inherent unresponsiveness in the Channel Policies that has done all the harm. Me, by no means, have the power or inclination to clean this perpetual dirt embossed on thier ethical arses.
But what annoyed me more than the incident,an utterly unfortunate one, was the way it has been covered by the broadcast media and,I wouldnt wonder if, by tomorrow, tales of human losses would have been offered on a platter and devoured by the voyeuristic reader, who hasnt had enough of it from the television screen.
I dont deny the TRP value of these stories, but it irks me somewhere to be a part of such insenitivity certain times. You commercialise tragedies and who doesnt love to cry. Well, if I am citing a problem, I must have the balls to give a solution too.I do advocate censorship. I do support Freedom of Press, but not at the cost of tear-trade as I would like to call it. Its essential to think on these lines, because at the end of the day, tis a victim on the other side, and while information needs to be shared by the masses, I dont know how immediate is the need to tear open the wounds of injury and exhibit it. Today, when I saw the images of the families of People who died in the inferno, I was shocked at the utter apathy with which some of the English news channels handled these cases. I had to make an effort to switch to other channels, after all the voyeur in me wanted its share of pleasure too. But somehow they were my own people.
Its the inherent unresponsiveness in the Channel Policies that has done all the harm. Me, by no means, have the power or inclination to clean this perpetual dirt embossed on thier ethical arses.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
While it lasted
This is probably beautiful..This waiting for a call from you..or in the least a message..where you don’t say sweet things..but you talk, where you don’t say you love me much, but you wouldn’t let me go..where you say, you appreciate my company and I say so let that be...I feel it all right in my gut..Its a storm there...everytime you come around and futile are my efforts to calm it down. The more I wish against it, the louder it roars.. I can hear something beating so fast in my chest, like it would almost wilt under the weight of uncertainty.. and what about the loss of words..I almost grope for them..and when at times I have them in plenty to run me for every breath I take...I run out of them, when I am with you...For some reason, you lose them too...
They say, its beautiful to be loving someone and they also set you limits..The problem with having liked someone so much is that, while it lasts, it expands.. It comes out of the boxes of your mind, when it need not, when it should not.
Sometimes, I feel no love for you. Sometimes, you are shut in those memory shelves and I feel no roar in my chest and feel no discomfort. I am peaceful in those moments..an undesirable peace, so to say. I know not, what I value more-is it you or is it your presence? Your presence is so ordinary and inclusive..I do not feel the need to own it. But you as You and as no one else, in your honesty,rage, saddism, thoughtfulness, discreetness are someone I would love to fall for again and again and again...
(I wrote this looong back...now time deems it fit to be published here)
They say, its beautiful to be loving someone and they also set you limits..The problem with having liked someone so much is that, while it lasts, it expands.. It comes out of the boxes of your mind, when it need not, when it should not.
Sometimes, I feel no love for you. Sometimes, you are shut in those memory shelves and I feel no roar in my chest and feel no discomfort. I am peaceful in those moments..an undesirable peace, so to say. I know not, what I value more-is it you or is it your presence? Your presence is so ordinary and inclusive..I do not feel the need to own it. But you as You and as no one else, in your honesty,rage, saddism, thoughtfulness, discreetness are someone I would love to fall for again and again and again...
(I wrote this looong back...now time deems it fit to be published here)
My Vaginal Monologue...
I just finished watching "My vagina is angry", a part of the series of a theatrical production called, "Vaginal Monologues", where in, women across the age group of 18 to 75 talk about their sexual selves with blatant honesty...
The monologues reminded me of the conversations I have with myself...may be in the middle of the night,or while on a journey, or in a place, where I am a social misfit and out of mere inability to hit the perfect conversation and make people go nuts about me. It is in these circumstances.. I think about myself not just as a being, but as a woman. In those quiet corners of myself, I have had the most sincere confrontations and cerebral love making with my own self. I always thought,or imagined myself to be my own partner.It was a child and a mother, or a mentor and a follower, or a guide and a dissillusioned being.
I would always ask myself-What caused me to live in this inner box of my body all the time?What could have caused me to be so scared of touching another body, when I felt so much affection? WHy would my forehead sweat and my vagina shiver at the sight of someone?
Do I pin the blame on someone else..may be a culture or the environment that I was brought up into or may be the experiences that shape my present? That will take away a lot of uneasiness out of the situation..
Of many instances, I remember this one particularly well, because it remains as humiliating a memory even today.
A man in his mid-40s, from Jordon, tried to abuse my body under the disguise of sexualprogressiveness. He touched my breasts and laughed.He said 'They were obnoxious'. All I could do was place a slap across his face in utter hatred and disgust. Probably for the first time, I hated Man. I couldnot respect men after that, for a very long time. I didnot think they deserved my body or even my touch.It was much later I realised, we live in times when the Man has the strings to our heart, to our body, to our sexuality, to our desires to be mothers..the Man had been given much more than he could be granted.
The man has to be desired as much as he desires us..he has to be loved as much as he loves us...he has to be hugged as much as we need to be...and its beautiful, when its mutual...Man will not be a part of my monologue-
My Vagina is scared to open up to all the pleasure it rightly deserves. It is scared to celebrate itself.It tells me, it needs to be liberated and felt.My Vagina is beautiful. It defines me. Whatever it is, it belongs to me..the smell and the softness..its all mine...
All these years, I did not think I had the freedom to write, much less express this side of my physical identity. What is there to be not proud of it?What is there to not talk about it?I pushed my head first out of my Mother's vagina. I am opening up to who I am...
I respect it..I respect myself..this no man can ever take way from me..never...
The monologues reminded me of the conversations I have with myself...may be in the middle of the night,or while on a journey, or in a place, where I am a social misfit and out of mere inability to hit the perfect conversation and make people go nuts about me. It is in these circumstances.. I think about myself not just as a being, but as a woman. In those quiet corners of myself, I have had the most sincere confrontations and cerebral love making with my own self. I always thought,or imagined myself to be my own partner.It was a child and a mother, or a mentor and a follower, or a guide and a dissillusioned being.
I would always ask myself-What caused me to live in this inner box of my body all the time?What could have caused me to be so scared of touching another body, when I felt so much affection? WHy would my forehead sweat and my vagina shiver at the sight of someone?
Do I pin the blame on someone else..may be a culture or the environment that I was brought up into or may be the experiences that shape my present? That will take away a lot of uneasiness out of the situation..
Of many instances, I remember this one particularly well, because it remains as humiliating a memory even today.
A man in his mid-40s, from Jordon, tried to abuse my body under the disguise of sexualprogressiveness. He touched my breasts and laughed.He said 'They were obnoxious'. All I could do was place a slap across his face in utter hatred and disgust. Probably for the first time, I hated Man. I couldnot respect men after that, for a very long time. I didnot think they deserved my body or even my touch.It was much later I realised, we live in times when the Man has the strings to our heart, to our body, to our sexuality, to our desires to be mothers..the Man had been given much more than he could be granted.
The man has to be desired as much as he desires us..he has to be loved as much as he loves us...he has to be hugged as much as we need to be...and its beautiful, when its mutual...Man will not be a part of my monologue-
My Vagina is scared to open up to all the pleasure it rightly deserves. It is scared to celebrate itself.It tells me, it needs to be liberated and felt.My Vagina is beautiful. It defines me. Whatever it is, it belongs to me..the smell and the softness..its all mine...
All these years, I did not think I had the freedom to write, much less express this side of my physical identity. What is there to be not proud of it?What is there to not talk about it?I pushed my head first out of my Mother's vagina. I am opening up to who I am...
I respect it..I respect myself..this no man can ever take way from me..never...
Friday, March 12, 2010
throwing open the gates to myself
I want to go back to that space,when I dint love him,when he meant nothing to my absurd universe. I am sure the process of forgetting is not dubiously difficult. This time its a lonely battle. Infact,it everytime is.After all, we do run out of eternal patience at some point.
All I wanted was a man's love(Though I make a distinction between wanting something and invariably depending on it). But I never knew, if I was ever prepared to have it. Its funny, to sometimes imagine, how stiffling it would otherwise had been, to have had it. But,does it have to stiffle you everytime? Cant it just be a comfort of someone's presence or at best, the company of someone who appreciates you, if nothing and for no reason,just loves you?Someone, you can run to and say-I have a problem with him,with her,with everyone,with this whole world. I have a problem with myself.I am jealous, I am insecure,sometimes. I carry my emotions on my sleeves.I c are for people, more than a lot of other things.I am difficult to be with.I am disillusioned and lost.
But I know my beauty somewhere. I know, I wouldnt linger around for too long. I ll want to break free soon.Would you still like to come close and hold me in your embrace?Would you still want to rest your head on my shoulders?I would want to.
Its not a crutch that I look for. Its just another hand to hold. Who knows its warmth?I want to feel the palm of another guy..want to stare at those lines.
But...the walls must go down. The million strings that bind me, must be broken down.I probably shall, someday...I ll find someone to walk along with. Come to think of it, its just a little lonely,but I have my music and my curiousity for company. How cool is that? :)
All I wanted was a man's love(Though I make a distinction between wanting something and invariably depending on it). But I never knew, if I was ever prepared to have it. Its funny, to sometimes imagine, how stiffling it would otherwise had been, to have had it. But,does it have to stiffle you everytime? Cant it just be a comfort of someone's presence or at best, the company of someone who appreciates you, if nothing and for no reason,just loves you?Someone, you can run to and say-I have a problem with him,with her,with everyone,with this whole world. I have a problem with myself.I am jealous, I am insecure,sometimes. I carry my emotions on my sleeves.I c are for people, more than a lot of other things.I am difficult to be with.I am disillusioned and lost.
But I know my beauty somewhere. I know, I wouldnt linger around for too long. I ll want to break free soon.Would you still like to come close and hold me in your embrace?Would you still want to rest your head on my shoulders?I would want to.
Its not a crutch that I look for. Its just another hand to hold. Who knows its warmth?I want to feel the palm of another guy..want to stare at those lines.
But...the walls must go down. The million strings that bind me, must be broken down.I probably shall, someday...I ll find someone to walk along with. Come to think of it, its just a little lonely,but I have my music and my curiousity for company. How cool is that? :)
Monday, February 22, 2010
The price of having been a girlchild
The price of her birth-Mom's dilemma of a worried future
The price of her infancy-dad's fatal acceptance
The price of her childhood-the Doll,far more unreal
The price of her adolescence-Fear of staining her dress red
The price of her young-adulthood-Fear of making wrong choices
The price of her early 20s-fear of Losing her virginity
The price of her mid 20s-fear of marriage
The price of being a woman-Drawing the wrath of her family,when she demands her freedom
The price of her career-chauvinistic bastards,she would never have
The price of her beauty-her body,much less who she is
The price of her 'cultured'ness-Wrap a saree,she trips in,
The price of her honesty-discomfort for a society ridden with chivalrous idioms
The price of her Being-fighting for what is due to her and being called a Feminist and not necessarily an egalitarian..
The price of womanhood-Need to produce the cultural I-card
The price of her infancy-dad's fatal acceptance
The price of her childhood-the Doll,far more unreal
The price of her adolescence-Fear of staining her dress red
The price of her young-adulthood-Fear of making wrong choices
The price of her early 20s-fear of Losing her virginity
The price of her mid 20s-fear of marriage
The price of being a woman-Drawing the wrath of her family,when she demands her freedom
The price of her career-chauvinistic bastards,she would never have
The price of her beauty-her body,much less who she is
The price of her 'cultured'ness-Wrap a saree,she trips in,
The price of her honesty-discomfort for a society ridden with chivalrous idioms
The price of her Being-fighting for what is due to her and being called a Feminist and not necessarily an egalitarian..
The price of womanhood-Need to produce the cultural I-card
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
faith found and lost and finding
The problem with blogging is, a lot of finesse is lost in the transition of thought from the mindspace to the blogspace...but,trying to overcome that, I find I can fairly retain the essence.
Its funny, how with age and experience, life finds its colours. I was a believer, a lover of God. I was spiritual(as some of my older posts would say), not so much religious. It was more of a naivette's faith, pretty unquestioned. After six months of coming in touch with people, who had different takes on the idea of religion and spirituality, its nice to introspect on how these discussions overt and covert have changed my faith and in turn, the person i was, or have they at all.
Actually, my experiences, some of them inexplicable, have formed a major part of my faith. Then, the privileges I was born to and the beautiful juxtaposition of things going perfectly well,with what I wanted them to be- All this contributed to the building of faith and then the understanding that events, desirable or otherwise,left behind lessons to be learnt made sure my faith became sustainable.
Today the picture is a little different. Questioning and becoming aware of what religion had done to me, I started becoming independent of its overpowering influences. Today it remains more of a punching bag, for all the injustice on levels of gender,socio-economic positions,distibution of privileges and opportunities, that I see around me. Is it a planned commotion that necessitates prayer?Even, peace of mind seems to be a gift of a few, not just the material riches.
While I write this, I am scared of being reprimanded by the divine(sarc). If it,at all is, it cannot be exclusive of me and my freewill. If it is, it cannot be fear-inducing. If it is, it has to be my friend. it must answer me.It cannot and is not perfect. why do I still feel like not giving up? Why I do want to still be a believer?Its still the beach I seek in distress. Its still the sound of the chimes of the Church and the peace inside it, I crave for. I have given it life and a meaning. It has ceased to be a stone anymore. The idols have come alive, when I have put my faith in it. I have played with them,prayed to them, cried before them. If thats the purpose they serve, they have served it well.
Its funny, how with age and experience, life finds its colours. I was a believer, a lover of God. I was spiritual(as some of my older posts would say), not so much religious. It was more of a naivette's faith, pretty unquestioned. After six months of coming in touch with people, who had different takes on the idea of religion and spirituality, its nice to introspect on how these discussions overt and covert have changed my faith and in turn, the person i was, or have they at all.
Actually, my experiences, some of them inexplicable, have formed a major part of my faith. Then, the privileges I was born to and the beautiful juxtaposition of things going perfectly well,with what I wanted them to be- All this contributed to the building of faith and then the understanding that events, desirable or otherwise,left behind lessons to be learnt made sure my faith became sustainable.
Today the picture is a little different. Questioning and becoming aware of what religion had done to me, I started becoming independent of its overpowering influences. Today it remains more of a punching bag, for all the injustice on levels of gender,socio-economic positions,distibution of privileges and opportunities, that I see around me. Is it a planned commotion that necessitates prayer?Even, peace of mind seems to be a gift of a few, not just the material riches.
While I write this, I am scared of being reprimanded by the divine(sarc). If it,at all is, it cannot be exclusive of me and my freewill. If it is, it cannot be fear-inducing. If it is, it has to be my friend. it must answer me.It cannot and is not perfect. why do I still feel like not giving up? Why I do want to still be a believer?Its still the beach I seek in distress. Its still the sound of the chimes of the Church and the peace inside it, I crave for. I have given it life and a meaning. It has ceased to be a stone anymore. The idols have come alive, when I have put my faith in it. I have played with them,prayed to them, cried before them. If thats the purpose they serve, they have served it well.
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