Suicidal thoughts have made there presence felt in perhaps most of our minds at some point or another. Depression, fear, anxiety, pain or just maybe a sudden desire of a momentarily crazy mind to simply end it all. The thrill, the horror, the terrible feeling of actually, consciously, deciding to take one's own life. The fascination it evokes in certain half-balanced souls. The eternal escape route of the quintessential escapist. But how is it being a coward? How is a suicidee a coward? How is his decision "escaping" reality? How is it pathetic? Isn't it just plain sad? Shouldn't we shed a tear at least after they are dead and gone? Don't they deserve that? Even if they don't deserve it-say it was the guilty conscience of a child molester-shouldn't we force some sympathy out any which way? They are dead you know. It's over. Finished. They won't be around to see, hear, feel, touch, live any more. It's all over. It takes a lot of courage to die. It takes more courage to end one's life than to face life with all it's difficulties and challenges and be a brave warrior who faces things and takes them on. Some say we don't have the right to kill ourselves. I feel that's the only right we have to be honest. Some say those around us will be devastated and broken so we must live for the ones we love and who love us. I feel, that one wouldn't need to commit suicide-to even think of such an extreme thing-if those around them loved or understood them. Now, "understanding" someone is a mighty tricky task because no one can ever actually delve into another person's mind. What if there really is no hope? What you have waited and waited and waited for things to change or get better but they just don't seem to? What if the "little joys" that life has to offer actually start scaring you because those "little joys" giv you hope and hope leaves you and its all gone. Why cling on to hope? What is the point in delaying something that's inevitable anyway? Why is it considered a moral crime? Why is it worse than euthanasia? Why is physical pain always given more importance than the mental torture that one has to feel day in and day out with no solution. Why is it less important? Because the scars don't show as proof of your suffering? This is just a thought that's been on my mind ever since I really started wondering why I am never happy. Those who can never be happy no matter how hard they try, those who can never be of any use, who are not "social animals", who indeed love basking in masochism and self-pity. If they do actually want to die, they should not be condemned if they do gather the courage to really end it. I am not asking every depressed person to go out there and end their lives, but yes, if I do gather the courage to actually end it myself, I will. Nothing can be more satisfying than consciously ending what's most precious to you, if you just can't continue with it. There's a beauty in that.

The Lady of Shallot.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Coldfeetandhands.

Nothing is. Thinking makes it.
A fragmented existence, existing only in parts and inconsequential fractions.
A very futile attempt to be whole. The fractions never adding up. The graph always remaining as a negative hyperbole. But come to think of it, it's beautiful. This meaningless quest to reach entirety.
There are so many parts to us, so many "masks"? or disguises? What is a disguise? Isn't a mask inherent? Can anyone actually ever claim to be unidimensional? Wouldn't that be painfully boring? But wait, it 's not possible to begin with! Slip in from one role to another. The basis of your existence. The social animals that we are or are supposed to be. At times these selves collide and just when you thought that the pieces of the puzzle that you are so desperately trying to arrange, have been misplaced yet again-overthrowing with it, your misplaced sense of judgment about yourself and "the other". There is an idea behind the self. A very carefully constructed fortress that we all build, some consciously, some sub-consciously. For those who create this carefully constructed image for ourselves, it becomes increasingly complicated to hold on to a certain facade for too long-especially when things tend to go unplanned and off-track. Insecurities creep in and you try to salvage whatever little you can of your self-induced embryonic immunity. Steps in self protection and damage control. Re-trace a few steps, erase a few unwanted moments. Moments that lead to choices, choices that lead to moments and so on. But you cannot really re-trace. You can only lament and regret and despair. But you can also put on the mask of indifference and pretend. But for how long?

Sacher-Masoch.

Shiny, shiny, shiny boots of leather
Whiplash girlchild in the dark
Comes in bells, your servant, don't forsake him
Strike, dear mistress, and cure his heart

Downy sins of streetlight fancies
Chase the costumes she shall wear
Ermine furs adorn the imperious
Severin, Severin awaits you there

I am tired, I am weary
I could sleep for a thousand years
A thousand dreams that would awake me
Different colors made of tears

Kiss the boot of shiny, shiny leather
Shiny leather in the dark
Tongue of thongs, the belt that does await you
Strike, dear mistress, and cure his heart

Severin, Severin, speak so slightly
Severin, down on your bended knee
Taste the whip, in love not given lightly
Taste the whip, now plead for me

I am tired, I am weary
I could sleep for a thousand years
A thousand dreams that would awake me
Different colors made of tears

Shiny, shiny, shiny boots of leather
Whiplash girlchild in the dark
Severin, your servant comes in bells, please don't forsake him
Strike, dear mistress, and cure his heart.

The Comforter.

I hate winter rain. The damp gray skies and the fog and the mist. Somehow it's not romantic at all. The dew drops on the leaves on an early morning or the silent drops steadily making puddles on the rather indifferent ground. Somehow, winter depletes rain of all romanticism-a strictly personal point of view. It's a very inconvenient marriage of two very distant clones. Both induce me with melancholy, both can make me uncomfortably nostalgic and both make me day-dream more than usual. But somehow when they are united and surround me in real-time, it takes away half of that charm. When the thoughts cloud up with images that vapourise but never condense and shall perhaps never precipitate. A strange sensation creeps all through, all over, as I hide under my comforter, tucked in, blanketed and warm. Foetal and safe-like. The darkness helps and makes things seem more mysterious. The shroud provides some much needed privacy. I feel at peace. The restlessness goes away for a while and I am finally alone with all my thoughts and feelings and the thousand sensations that I crave to feel and savour but don't ever get to. Imagination helps. But I still don't enjoy winter rain particularly. But then I guess seasons or season changes don't really matter too much and I can feel the same way any time of the year, any time of the day. As soon as i slip under my comforter, it's like a whole new world embraces me and I feel at home.

Time.

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.

One of the fundamental things to capture the human imagination and interest with fear, awe and a sense of inevitability. The race against and with time. Time and eternity. The ultimate and only truth that characterises life.

And you run, and you run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in a relative way, but you're older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

The ancient Greeks divided time into two contexts- chronos and kairos. While the former refers to chronological sequential time, the latter signifies a time in between, a moment of undetermined period of time in which something special happens. Chronos is quantitative in nature-numeric and precise. The nature of Kairos is qualitative. While both are co-dependent and related, Kairos can be considered to be a sub-set of Chronos which is universal and ever progeressing, hence being absolute. Kairos connects time with space and the persona. In philosophy, kairos is "a passing instant when an opening appears which must be driven through with force if success is to be achieved." Kairos was the Greek god of "fleeting moment", “a favorable opportunity opposing the fate of man.” It was a moment which must be seized. Carpe Diem. Then comes Father Time- Chronos, the one who turns the Zodiac Wheel. The serpentine god and his consort, Inevitability, controlled the structure of the universe, the skies and oceans.

Every year is getting shorter
Never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to nought
Or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desparation is the English way
The time is gone
The song is over
Thought I'd something more to say.

Kairos, unlike Chronos, exists outside space-time. the former being metaphysical and the latter being physical. Kairos giving us the leisure to take a brief pause in the eternal continnum of Chronos by capturing the moment which has the possibility to be eternalised.

Home, home again
I like to be here when I can
When I come home cold and tired
It's good to warm my bones beside the fire
Far away across the field
The tolling of the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees
To hear the softly spoken magic spells.

EMILY.

Emily tries but misunderstands,
She's often inclined to borrow somebody's dreams till tomorrow
There is no other day
Let's try it another way
You'll lose your mind and play
Free games for May
See Emily play

Soon after dark Emily cries,
Gazing through trees in sorrow hardly a sound till tomorrow

There is no other day
Let's try it another way
You'll lose your mind and play
Free games for May
See Emily play

Put on a gown that touches the ground,
Float down a river forever and ever, Emily, Emily
There is no other day
Let's try it another way
You'll lose your mind and play
Free games for May
See Emily play.