Sunday, August 13, 2006

Jim and me

If you live in Delhi -- and have been to Turquoise Cottage -- you would see a bunch of head-banging idiots who swear by the name Jim Morrison. I look at them and always nod in respect, albeit I can never relate to them -- even though I presume they're undergoing the time I lived, suffered and glorified. Now quite a few many moons back, when I was young and impressionable, Mr Morrison's spirit came and taught me a whole lot of things my parents would not like to divulge.
But I wasn't like the idiots now. I mean, I was a serious fan, or maybe a disciple or maybe him. You know a reincarnation. I had read every book written on him. I heard every song of the Doors, and every poetry written (last or found) by the Lizard King aka the American Poet. It was a Faustian deal I had struck with the devil to transform me into the subconscious of the unknown. The paradise that was built by the Morrison for occult. His every thought and words made a path for me to self-destruction and then the quench to build and lose.
What more, it was cause of him I read all the writers that Morrison was influenced by. Blake, Kerouac, Rimbaud, Nietzche, Mailer and amazing amounts of Greek philosophy amongst a whole lot of things other.
And it was then that everything around me deepened, I could relate and peneterate and glorify this uncanny world. My search for literature took over from there. Besides I indulged, and fell quite gladly into this abyss. This dark tunnel. This room, this world which turned into a party that you and I could only wish to be in.
Then the war begin. It was all over. The dream was lost, the hope vanished and the religion was eaten by dogs. I walked on the desert and who did I find. I find the little girl standing besides a well. A well where there were a million of morals but none to spare. Here eyes were sad with the tears that had fallen into the well. She said its time now, and its getting late.
I woke up to find the shaman dancing.
As you can understand it was chaotic. It was being lost in the Paradise. A paradise that was built to be lost. It could've never been regained. It was always feeding on it self. It was the sacrafice that all great men took and submerged. An affair that would've caused great scowls of discomfort in the circuit of highly established aristocrats and likelyhood.
It was madness. That's what you'd call it. But you'd still believe it. If you'd sense of that cry almost deafening?


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