Klak Tik - Reborn (the Samsung Galaxy Camera ad song)

unadulterated awesome at so, so many levels!

lyrics (unofficial):

i thought i knew at least
what freedom really means

a job that i hate
work everyday
i could be wrong

i tried my best to tame
the wilderness inside
every thought
not thought out
i pretend
to be over

now i've finally woken up the the beauty of the world through a love song
through a love song that i heard from the rivers and the birds

...

{instrumental + chorus vocal streams that are awesome to listen to, but inane to spell out}

...

in the end there was the sound
i found city life too loud
so away i walked to the urban scroll
ears to the ground
trying to find myself some peace of mind

now i've finally woken up the the beauty of the world through a love song
through a love song that i heard from the rivers and the birds

...

{instrumental + chorus vocal streams that are awesome to listen to, but inane to spell out} - continue to end

**********

so many layers of so much
to be seen, felt and embraced
sans sight, touch or love though
a pure, unthought perception
of the infinity of naught.

*

PS:
http://klaktik.blogspot.in/2012/12/reborn.html
http://www.facebook.com/KlakTik
http://in.myspace.com/klaktik

KKL@GOW2OST

The walls they come tumbling down
As the structures collapse
As does meaning known
A silent darkness rises

Bemusing is the circus everywhere
A cloud of noise and frenetics
The beast finds its target
Loafing about the sinking ship

Charge it does, horns and all
Shaking the earth underneath
Smiling wist a farewell due
One begins to feel the beat

And in the blink of an eye
The song has overtaken me
Flowing through all directions
No space for words or meaning

The horns be hardly felt
The blood sweat distant pale
For the self has found its place
Accepting the maze for home

One smiles emotionless
For there is naught to lose
In these fleeting eternities
When one has found the void.

Comebacks to Don Giovanni

"These gentlemen are from Salzburg."
"Salzburg? We were just talking about Salzburg..."
"Wolfie... Your father is dead."

***

Terrifying, and wonderful to watch, it was.

The sound alit, a fire bright
There is a gap in the mind
A question that remains ever open
Till the point one realizes
That life would be incomplete
If replete with answers
The question is not a part of life
But life itself it is.

 

Arambath

Firstly, Arambath.

We start out, knowing little of what it is to be, of what is to come. There is no conception of things, entities, or even of the self. The universe is one fluid, homogenous ocean of stimuli, in which one finds oneself floating, sinking, and swimming at different points in time. ‘Who am I?’ does not ring pertinence in this epic drama as yet.

As knowledge & intellect gradually nestle into the consciousness however, one begins to look at what was only seen thus far; listen to what was only heard – intelligence, choice and logic grow into demigods. The pursuit begins, clearing out the paths ahead bit by bit; one begins to see beyond the here and now, deriving basis what has been and is, to gain some sight of what is to be.

And as one proceeds on these paths, staying the course with oneself, one grows... in confidence, self & social worth, and in general well-being. The world is all one wants it to be, clockwork set in motion... An efficient system of reinforcing causes and effects, most of which interfere positively with one's evolving state of being.
One is, by all accounts, happy.

Then, one notices a voice.
It is faintly audible at first. The words seem to tumble into each other, on a slippery-sliding path of unintelligibility. Intrigued, for intellectual integrity sits close to one's being, one tries to listen carefully. The voice seems to pay heed to its newfound audience, almost moving closer to one’s outstretched ear. The message is still rather blurred, taking its time to dust off the still heavy strains of incoherence, when one sees a light flash in front of one’s eyes. And as if in sync with that apparition, the voice amplifies into a deafening wall of white-coloured noise right in that split second.

One’s eyes are still, and ears in deafening silence, inhabited only by a quaint ring left behind as an after-shadow of that flood of elemental sound. One now no longer sees, hears, or even thinks. One only floats.

And for the first time since the dawn of meaning, intelligence and knowledge, one sees the waves underlying everything that have comprised one’s universe thus far. These waves, of essential void, are at times gentle, at times rough, but unfailingly constant in their integrity and truthfulness. Looking at the universe with this perspective hollows out all that is around and within, leaving very little matter of consequence.

There remains only the energy that is the self, balancing a raft on a slow-motion waterfall, along with all the other incidentals that fill up time and space.

The paths, the rites, meanings and purposes have all faded away. One exists, to paint a canvas that exists only for oneself, with colours that one alone creates.
One is free, in the void that fills the universe. One, is back to where it all began, where all things begin; where nothings remains the same, and yet nothing changes.

Arambath erambath arambath erambath arambath erambath aaro...

Foeditatis Veritas

This is the result of a rather random tangent the mind chose for itself a few days back... as are most new-ish ideas I guess... Escaping that little logic-trap auto-set by & for myself, I shall proceed onwards.

I, am tired.
(Speaking of which, you may want to figure what this is up to)

Digressing back to the point at hand.

I, am tired... of many things around me.
Actually I'm not really affected on those lines at this point, come to think of it. So yeah.. what were we talking about?

The world...
We have always found it most natural to appreciate that which is beautiful; pick the flowers most perfect... gorge on food that is most appealing to the little tastebuds (such poetry laden on a word named with such prose!)... appreciate the most picturesque of sunsets... you get the idea.
We have in fact not fallen short of downright worshipping the very conception of beauty. I shall link back to Scott Adams when I can, for his views on this.
But that is where this thought train commenced its trip.

The sunset today did not feature a perfect circle of orange; nor an amber lining in purple; nor anything one would associate with such perfection. But it was a sunset nonetheless - the king did still retire for the day; the sea still opened up to its most faithful companion; the birds still took the sign to fly back home.
And these very routine, very ordinary, very matter-of-fact brush strokes must also suffice for the artist's eye. They don't owe us anything at all. Beauty must exist in the infiniteness, and the potential inherent in every single instance of every single thing. It is by virtue of their very existence, or the lack of it, and the place that holds in an endless opera of endless roles, that their beauty comes alive.

I am thus, in effect, just bored of the obsessively unilateral perception of beauty that the world seems to hold. Bored, to the point of taking up the cudgels for the countless other flavours to 'beauty', made even more beautiful, to me, by their quaint, calm, unaffected silence. Not that they need an advocate for their existence, but more to open up myself and my people to that which is scarcely seen, heard or felt.

When this sentiment had first come to me, all I could make out from the haze, was a rather odd sounding signboard saying "War against beauty!". That it was still rather dust laden from all the chaos all around, gave me some hope for further clarity to emerge, for confusion raises the chances of rising towards understanding, no?
The other day, the sign seemed to have morphed into "Affirmative Action for Ugliness". This seemed a bit more palatable, and perhaps closer to that which the elements wished for me to gauge.

And from there, we are gathered here today, as we round off another day in the office.
And where do I find myself today?

I know for sure, that this particular thread isn't over yet (when does one ever get 'over'?!). But the best I can put it just now would be...
Beauty is not the result of supernatural thought or effort... It is the thought and effort itself. Beauty does not confine itself to that which the senses perceive to be 'good', for words mean nothing in the endless cloud of consciousness (which incidentally hovers over a bottomless ocean of the unconscious)... Beauty is in the essential nature of everything. An artiste approaching perfection at his art, a crow picking away at a rat that was killed the previous night, a child realizing the rudimentary meanings of being, the 64.3% moon singing listlessly to an audience too caught up in dying...
Beauty, is a limitless force that weilds its power only with consent. It is far beyond, and far above anything one can grasp, for it is everything, and some may say, thus, nothing. A benevolent dictator it is, that charms us with its frills, not caring to ever revel in its glories... Glories that we are ill-equipped to even comprehend, let alone sing.

Beauty... is such a thingamajig... My words are too, too frail.

"Na shaakh judein, na jadh pakdein"

First things first.

The air went cold a yonder night
As the stars searched on
The crescent blending into song
Writ in ink and blood

The eyes clenched for a pain
Which played to hide and seek
Standing in the mirror tall
One knew not what to say

One longs to be free afar
Even if on the other side
These molten sands that grow about
Out of the void one breathes

Torn is the heart of the thinker
For there is everything yet nothing
In the lanes of his fancy
Swaying to the music that he alone hears

Who is to say if I sink or rise?
The light is only for me to be
The night won't know me the morrow
As I won't you

I need answer one voice alone
Which knows all there is
Whilst muted still to passers by
Singing to my every thread

It is that night once again it seems
The air it wisps by me
Not smiling, cross, high or low
Just listening to its song
As do I, as do you
As do all who care to be
In the closing and the ending
Must await the waking sun king

--

Good night.

No Comebacks/ The Night

As the eyes well up for the second time tonight; as I sit listening to this unassuming little track by Indian Ocean; as, well, the universe proceeds onwards with its continuing existential journey, the night slowly grows, indiscernible to the lay eye. It is not a moment of joy, sorrow, angst or surprise. Nay, it's the fabric used in dreams. The night plays with my longing being, revealing little bits of her mysterious, alluring self. It plays along with a tune known only to her. I don't know how it will end, but know only of the path we've crossed thus far. And such windings have never been cast forth before, as what have been treaded upon these last few existences; for in this short span, I have relived every instance of magic ever encountered thus far, a coming together of all that I have seen, heard and been.

The night, I have realized during this journey, is at the heart of my idea of human life. The day, with all its activity, hustle bustle and streamlined energy, must end in the night, criss-crossing through the straits of twilight. Thus, for all its life and living, the day with its inevitable retreat to darker hinterlands, stands out as the very epitome of mortality. All that begins must come to an end, however grinding, sudden or stretched it may be. The human spirit, though awakening with the Sun, finds itself alone with the setting of the star, for it is not yet prepared to let go of the strings. And it is in that moment of part helplessness part exasperation, that one is greeted by the gods of darkness. At first unfamiliar, and then pleasantly affable, one soon finds oneself sharing with the night spirits a spirit or two of the old Scots.
The night takes one in her unthinking, uncalculating arms, and gifts each thinking eye it's daily dose of immortality. Indeed so, for the night never really ends, and even if it must, it does so with a dignified sense of duty, purpose and meaning. No matter how hopeless the hour, one sits, stares, thinks, wakes and sleeps with the continued anticipation for an extension ad infinitum to the blissful inertia of the night. Nothing is impossible for the night. Man comes out of his envelope, after all the stamping and passing on of the day, to finally reveal oneself to all concerned; not excluding his Creator, Destroyer, and all the elements in between. Perhaps most importantly, he reveals his self to himself, or perhaps his shadow in the all edifying moonlight does the needful. For it is the stillness that lends meaning to the blinding pace of the mortal self; the silence sings songs that bless the artiste with his colours, notes and beats. What is, what isn't, and all that is dreamt, hoped and aspired for, take wings in the infinite expanses of the night.

We welcome the Sun, bid it goodbye, and then welcome the night. Rarely is it that we find ourselves in the distinguished position bidding the never-ending night farewell. Perhaps this adds to the mystique surrounding the little beauty. Further, whenever it is that the night passes on the baton to the still waking day, the overwhelming sense of creation and awakening overarchs and overwhelms all thought. Thus the night never dies, it only makes place for the Sun King to arrive, bringing with him the seed of all life. Sleep and demise remain as muted in their countenance as they had been thus far. And the human spirit prepares for another long trip away from the self, kissed on the cheeks as it gets done with its packing for the journey.

In the night, as one welcomes back the spirit, the song plays again; at times concerted, at times whimsical; at times speaking, at times listening, but alive, breathing at all times! As one breathes in the scent of her flowing tresses, the embrace feels like an eternity. One closes one's eyes unable to contain the myriad creations, disparate yet united, bursting into existence. Time and space reduce themselves to words on paper, like the misconceptions of a senile mind, and I, I find myself alive... at last.

The night shall take me
Where life takes birth and sings
As I sink into my own void
As a wisp of smoke slowly fades.