rant of a dream-farmer

i am having a relationship with a plant.  my girl-friend, a chronic vegetarian, is a plant.  damn it girl, you better be an animal than a plant.  i feel like a goat when i am with you.  have to convert her into a believer.  one who believes in meat and flesh that is.  sincerely hope the plants forgive her for eating them.

i am a hidden meaning made to defy
the grasp of words, and walk away
with free will and destiny,
as a living, revolutionary clay.

i cant believe iqbal (1873-1938) wrote it.  he was speaking of human ego (khudi) #%^&@.  i dont like it.  i am sure the sangh parivar wont like it either.  they with their better grasp of history and he being pakistani.   and maoists in nepal, india, and china wont like it either, or their rival counterparts, cuz they are more revolutionary than iqbal anyday.

so the point is, i need some eggs.  to fertilize.  i mean to eat.

so i saved these words from my dream.  a dream i scripted and directed.  not some subconscious bullshit dreams...  which are like potential bestsellers written on water.   no one else has read them, and no one would ever.

but these words i have saved from dying a death like that.  i chose them, especially for you.  saved them from the mortal world of the perishable.

i killed them and lifted them up to cyberspace, the modern alternative heaven.

somewhere in the strange dark expanse of the cyberspace there might be the god.  god, or that eastern concept of nothingness (Mu), or if someone wants to use quantum theory to explain it more scientifically, go ahead.

i am too lost, too defeated, too weak and bored to challenge or question.  i am  not making an attempt to speak of the absoute (transcedent) world that might be the cyber world ? and the real world, though i am always intimidated by both.

but i have to put up, spend sleepless nights long.

sleep, what a luxury for the blessed with peaceful mind.  i drown, suffocate, and not die.  i stare into the darkness.  what must a man with no past, or future, or a present do.

what life is he supposed to live.  ok forget the past, forget the future. 

but present.  where, how, in what space.

for the cursed wretched insomniac, there is no present.

the past is very far behind, out of reach.

and the future just doesnt seem to exist.  such is his fate.

old netizens doesnt have to die, they just lose their connectivity.  when they are suicidal, they log off and pretend they are dead, just like i do. 

i must be old, cuz i always consider age a relative thing. when your girlfriends gets younger, it must be a sure sign that you are getting older.

last week i saw my horoscope written by an old (yeah!) mystic astrologer wrote so long ago in another century, and it says i am quite old enough to rock n' roll.  it makes me depressed, like those cows, not exactly sexually depressed like the farm animals, at least they have a utility value. 

everyone has a purpose, everything happens for a reason.  bullshit.  old school.  there are too many people in this world and it is quite impossible that everyone has a role to fill.  must be a joke.

but in the nothingness of a kiss, i long to dissolve.  i feel a purpose.  when will i have the good sense to realize that its just a primal urge, and only the best sperms win. 

in other words, i love football.  more than anything.   i suspect there is some latin american da-vinci-code in my gene.