For most of us, there is some peice in one art form or the other that really impacts us and the way we comprehend things and grasp on to situations. I was sure of it that nothing really did it for me as much as music. But then, I was hit by this jolt of rude awakening. Since the last 15 days or so, I have been reading ‘The Fountainhead’.
Though I can’t really say how this book has affected me, but it most definitely has. I now understand it when some literature is referred to as ‘timeless’. After each read, I had to tell myself that this book was written way back in the 1930’s!
Since some music or the other is always playing in my head, I remember that the the song that played most oft as I read was, ‘Moonlight Sonatta – Beethoven‘. Go figure!
Personally, I would never say that this book has shown me how to live or anything of such sort. That would actually be going against the entire theme on which the book is based anyway. But yes, it has definitely sparked off a thought process in my mind which I know will eventually affect the decisions I make in my life. It has done to me what art is meant to do. Induce thoughts. Induce debates. Debates with other individuals. Debates with self.
“Anything may be betrayed, anyone may be forgiven. But not those who lack the courage of their own greatness.”
Eloquent realms of the summer stench,
Caress the mind on a seaside bench.
Footprints of fiends on the watered sand,
Reflect the fire never seen on land.
Faint, the sound of the simmering sight,
In cold blood she killed and painted it white.
Flags of the founders fluttered in salute
Her eyes were staring at all that was absolute.
A tear rolled collecting the dust on her face. It settled on her jaw and started to evaporate. Another one followed the same stream. It traveled the distance like it was known territory. Her lips were shrouded. She plucked the withering skin on it with her teeth. She chewed on it and she smiled. The dark toned skin under her eyes, gave her comfort. That skin made her feel alive. Responsive. She was not numb. Not yet.
The scent of blood lingered in the air. She inhaled the stench as she clutched her fists. She wanted to capture that victory in herself. She wanted the smell to permeate her skin and her sweat. Like the smoke of the cigarette that still kept still between the corner of his dead lips.
A table stood partially above the carcass. On the table, a half eaten piece of meat and a glass full of wine lay witness to the pornography. With her calm steady, and in fact, quite pretty hands, she fetched the glass and took a sip. She seated herself on the half sewn chair and bent down; her face, staring at his. With a smirk, she guided the cigarette from his lips to between her fingers. Ash fell on his grounded face. She sucked on the cigarette butt.
Soon, worms shall have a hearty meal,
Serene music will export the feel.
All that you touch
All that you see
All that you taste
All you feel
All that you love
All that you hate
All you distrust
All you save
All that you give
All that you deal
All that you buy
Beg, borrow or steal
All you create
All you destroy
All that you do
All that you say
All that you eat
Everyone you meet
All that you slight
Everyone you fight All that is now
All that is gone
All that’s to come
And everything under the sun is in tune
But the sun is eclipsed by the moon.
There is no dark side of the moon really.
Matter of fact it’s all dark.
The power of this song to posses your mind and calm you, is insane. Just, fuckin’ insane.
All the essence
All the finesse
All the times
All that’s fine,
All that’s yours,
And All that’s mine
All the visions
All the missions
All of those walks
All of those locks
All of your eyes
All of my why(s)
All of those fingers
All of that now lingers
All of those words
All of those thirds
I have chosen the pages I read. I cut out everything else just to be here.
Here. This void. Now, who is to say that this void has to be filled? I, for one, do not wish to fill it. For the cavity, it stands testimony to what building, once stood there.
The creator stands on his own judgment. The parasite follows the opinions of others. The creator thinks, the parasite copies. The creator produces, the parasite loots. The creator’s concern is the conquest of nature – the parasite’s concern is the conquest of men. The creator requires independence, he neither serves nor rules. He deals with men by free exchange and voluntary choice. The parasite seeks power, he wants to bind all men together in common action and common slavery. He claims that man is only a tool for the use of others. That he must think as they think, act as they act, and live is selfless, joyless servitude to any need but his own. Look at history. Everything thing we have, every great achievement has come from the independent work of some independent mind. Every horror and destruction came from attempts to force men into a herd of brainless, soulless robots. Without personal rights, without personal ambition, without will, hope, or dignity. It is an ancient conflict. It has another name: the individual against the collective.
The blood flows off the virgin’s thigh
She savors the movement with an indiscriminate sigh
Her eyes shut. Her breath heaves. Her fingers dig deep.
Her mind, numb. Her face, red. She sees herself, leap.
A vision of your life. When it dilutes inside your mind, like a star collapsing within itself. Next is the explosion. How does it get out? The remains of your dream? Do I want to part with them? Or try and piece them together?
And no one sings like you anymore.
Training the thoughts, not to appear. Teaching the words, not to flow. Taming the sleep, not to dream. Tying the hands, not to feel. -ClockRoots