Monday, January 27, 2014

Rhythm of Sin

I, the little thoughts in me. I , those DNAs playing around each cell. I, they call me a man. I, they used to call me a boy, a kid, a baby, a hope, nothing. I was eaten by my father a long back. Who knows from where the first compound of carbon in me had come. Perhaps, from a lettuce, or a mammal that my father ate. Or perhaps from the air he breathed from some remote Indian village, accidentally squeezed through his esophagus instead of bronchus. I am air, I am water, I am carbons. Now, they call me a man, a sinful man.

By will and hope, I squeezed through the egg of my mother, escaping the heat of lust. I , thought it was an escape, but O' nature, am I me? I am me now, a man, and food for the weeds and worms, soon.

Tears have no meanings, it is the sorrow in my tears that has meanings. It is the curiosity of hope, that shines out of each drop of tear. A hope to find myself, they call me a man. Oh, my feeble fingers, how slimy you are. Would break apart with a single blow, yet you live, you write, you eat. O' my feeble finger, I love you, but you know, those hungry worms waiting in the grave. Should I be Pharoah, or should I die in arctic. By any means, O my feeble finger, look at thee -  my dear finger, I can not save you. I can not, for I don't know who am I.

They say, I ought to find the path, a path for my pleasure. Where is Kant now, for your philosophies though flying high above the west, you have already been into worms. These words, may be read by someone, and I am not sure who he or she will be. 

Who trained man to eat, who trained man to breath? She was like my soul, I saw my image on her face. She was so different than me, but that face, those eyes were the simple pleasures deep inside. It was another sin, underneath my skin, deep inside. It is gone, all over, the way it was written on my fate, I do not know how two could be one. 

She lost her Dada, a part of her, the man who gave her the first carbon. She was eaten by her Dada. Who knows from where the first compound of carbon had come. Perhaps, from a lettuce, or a mammal that her Dada ate. Or perhaps from the air he breathed from arabia, accidentally squeezed through his esophagus instead of bronchus. She is air, She is water, She is carbons. Now, they call her a woman, a sinful woman.

She might not like this philosophy, she might get hurt. So am I, I am hurt by he, I am hurt by her deceased Dada. I am hurt by the birth, this mysticism of birth and death.

Love you O' my feeble fingers, love you O' my bloody heart, love you O' every single part in my body, O' every single cell in her body. Those neural networks, I love thee, you say what you want, let people call you insane, write my brain, write, your writing will be perished just like you. Someday, if you are born again you will hate your sins more than how much you loved your cells.