when we are born nobody marks our dispositions-whether good or bad,desirable or undesirable,acceptable and abominable. until we grow into priced bones and a concise of possibilities of future yield we don't deserve any yardstick of the being. neither we know what is good and bad until we participate in either of it. the books, the sources, the dimensions-deep,frothy,fragile,inimical help us buy the prevailing. as we nod each time we know there's still some indistinct to us. we are languid then to forage for the further realism and a better meaning as we still reside in the schism between good and bad. we don't reserve any thought for impending vile for we are assured that nothing of that sort has ever besieged the entire of us-'worldhood', if we can say. we are barely assailed by choices and undercurrents. we bore the heavy trudge of the chief giver, the infallible. we break our mind into splinters to be a part of thriving means not finding our own to salvage ourselves if forced prudence gives way.

We have read about scholars and theorists belonging to different schools of thoughts. they don't embrace any chasm or schism. legal theorist Austin accorded authority in absolute one while Rousseau invested people with power.do any of them belong to the swimming area between the deep and shallow water. whether delusion or realism banks on a conflict between a collective perspective and our own shaped,distorted,stimulated by an unbridled pursuit ....but it is still our own...we learn to climb the ladder of evocative and speculative alike ..we learn when we all say 'we beg to diifer' but being presumptuous is simply being overt and a temerity to create glib waves out of clear ripples. those who cash in on situations aiming to act vagrant fly kites in a room with ceiling..is it a wonder or a waste of the seeming wonder..?..what was the great deal or force in rss argument that M.F Hussain's paintings are derogatory to Hindu belief..to me they were maleficent towards Hussain with a circuitous hope to gain political mileage and to gain a mb space in transient memory corpse of public. religion is a facade we live in allowing ragtag to brew their identification-specifics.these are relative contingent upon our personal ramifications. the competitive spirit works in high vigour much to my surprise. all are pitted against each other in monstrous identification rampage..identification is a mere chimera unless supplied with trappings of religion.religion is a primary contour in the face of identification. the latter is a fantasy brought into being by religious rigours. just as the pallid soil deepens with the supplied water so as the identification is reinforced through the religious parameters.

those who classify between good and bad,proper and improper do it so on the basis of their understanding of good and bad,willed and devised.it doesnt by itself render anything good or bad. if it does so by accidental worth it is a delusion of grandeur they live in while we in the myth. the upshot is mirage, an untoward meaning and forthcoming spree of discordance. its us who live like we love to be in oblivion forever.can we afford to subsist in the stale of parochial? can we discreetly cut the tentacles away?are we up for nouveau power of liberalism?

hey this lyric is woven by my all time favourite don mclean,a renowned american musician who was catapulted to fame by the gripping number 'american pie'.and the song is 'homeless brothers'....just swing your eyes through the lyrics and surely you would have a deja vu of a sight so somnolent.enjoy.....

HOMELESS BROTHERS
I was walking by the graveyard, late last Friday night
I heard somebody yelling, it sounded like a fight.
It was just a drunken hobo dancing circles in the night,
Pouring whiskey on the headstones in the blue moonlight.
So often have I wondered where these homeless brothers go, Down in some hidden valley were their sorrows cannot show,
Where the police cannot find them, where the wanted men can go.
There's freedom when your walking, even though you're walking slow.
Smash your bottle on a gravestone and live while you can, that homeless brother is my friend.
It's hard to be a pack rat, it's hard to be a 'bo,but living's so much harder where the heartless people go.
Somewhere the dogs are barking and the children seem to knowThat Jesus on the highway was a lost hobo.
And they hear the holy silence of the temples in the hill,And they see the ragged tatters as another kind of thrill.
And they envy him the sunshine and they pity him the chill,And they're sad to do their living for some other kind of thrill.
Smash your bottle on a gravestone and live while you can,that homeless brother is my friend.
Somewhere there was a woman, somewhere there was a child,Somewhere there was a cottage where the marigolds grew wild.
But some where's just like nowhere when you leave it for a while,You'll find the broken-hearted when you're travelling jungle-style.
Down the bowels of a broken land where numbers live like men,
Where those who keep their senses have them taken back again,Where the night stick cracks with crazy rage, where madmen don'tpretend,
Where wealth has no beginning and poverty no end.
Smash your bottle on a gravestone and live while you can,that homeless brother is my friend.
The ghosts of highway royalty have vanished in the night,The Whitman wanderer walking toward a glowing inner light.
The children have grown older and the cops have gripped us tight,There's no spot round the melting pot for free men in their flight.
And you who leave on promises and prosper as you please,The victim of your riches often dies of your disease,He can't hear the factory whistle, just the lonesome freight train'swheeze,He's living on good fortune, he ain't dying on his knees.
Smash your bottle on a gravestone and live while you can,that homeless brother is my friend.That homeless brother is my friend.

A LOST MARK
When doors are closed
I assured you myself
The exterior so crude and duping
You still looked with earnest eyes
When the words fell
And shattered my writing
The thunder that broke the prisons
So blatant a sight
Before long the echo of silence crippled me
You gloating fool
Believed like a deformed pacified
I never sought the meaning
A stay by the glimmer
Of something,of sliver,of trace
A trail inexplorable,an exhuming so futile
The far away explanation
So less voluminous with shreds of forsaken flakes
The shuddered steps so enshrouded
You will get the pending answer
The day I will forget to write
The day my nerves will rest
The day you will interrogate the glooming vain
I shall leave a whisper by your ear
To calm your insensibilities
The glint of the embers is of scant worth
Like that of horse who never careens off
The moment of retrieving will unlock my pain
That deepened unawares
That would qualify my smiles
That would make those hushes a deafening scramble
That would render the lurked,the stark,
The inflicts of voidness,meaningless
The mires of nihilism a glamourised mist
A moment that shall prove your doomed existence and failures.
After that there would be no harking back.