There’s an incessant silence, a silence which is a mad mob of thoughts. Passion lives in the body like the shattered images of stained glass. I am always pondering who to think, what to think and why to think? Everywhere I am being bitten by poisonous vipers but I suffer the pain in silence and yet those fangs do not leave me to die. I search for a meaning, a value, a virtue. These are all trash created by fake religions and Gods. Gods empty their books for humans to die. I have to defecate their books, shallow them, their meaningless heavens and hell. Existence you have a frozen a hell to the quest for my search for meaning in life. I am a wounded beast. I have no scroll to open, no divine hymn to chant, no miracle to change water into wine. In my search for meaning, I have reached ground zero. I am a nihilist confronted by a chaotic and senseless universe. Yes I am Camus’ Sisyphus rolling the burden of the boulder up the hill and by the sadistic, purposeless, chaotic God, the chance of happening in an experience rolls it down. I look at myself with temperamental hatred. I feel ashamed and aghast at my own writing. I can’t stop writing. I am forced to write. Pity, you are a bastard who wrings my neck. I am trying to find spaces in literature left by great writers. I am deformed and crippled when I don’t find the chance of a lucky happening. No matter what efforts I make, they all tumble down like an avalanche. Where can I leave myself to make meaning of life? I am sitting down to write. Death overcomes me. My pen is a coffin carrying me. I am prisoner of my own thoughts. Mystery and misery, you are a coward, a bastard who entrenches myself and leaves me in a noisy state of confusion. Where am I? Where is my being? The scriptures are full of lies betraying the self to a deity. Yes, I live in a hell of existence, parchment of sin. My skin is precious and anticipates Dionysian ecstasy. When you left me, I died painfully. What is the world to me, a chaotic sadist who makes me down on my knees to beg for an existence? I am a being when I write; my sores are excavated; my ruins are discovered. The letters become precious signs of language that I create. Why is meaning of love so far away from me? Every day I live in contemplative anxiety to be close to it. Why are space, money and time restricting my being? My self is a whore that is tired by overwork. God, you senseless beast, you don’t have to forgive me, just forget me. I have not gained the world nor lost my soul. I am consoled by Philosophy. Yes, I become a stoic brick, a longing hedonist, and a compromising sinner. You have burnt your theology. You fiend enemy God, you have killed language. You possess language and make the meaning of being a death. Yes, like Nietzsche affirmed, I have to become the Ubermensch. Yes, I am a nihilist, I overcome suicide by authenticating my existence. My soul is killed in the drought of the desert. Soul, you have too many taboos, barriers, obstacles built by the edifice of religion. When I try to exercise a choice, my meaning is already killed by chance. Yes, l live in the meaning of creative suicide. I have to be creative to the chaos and senseless virtue that destiny offers. Where I am I now? I wish I could have found a true widow who needs the meaning of love. I can’t carry meaning to the grave. I have to write in the ritual of killing. Burnt incense, you are a whore that fornicates. God of Judaism and Islam, why do you want to be absolute and authoritarian? When I die I am proud to go to hell if there be a place. Blood is blood, how can it be a ritual for cleansing forgiveness. Even though you resurrected, Nietzsche killed you: ‘God is dead.’ What the fuck is happening to my feelings. Yes, I live in Kafka’s trail of dreary angst. God why don’t you slit my throat? I wonder why all my prophetic dreams turn out to be abysmal wish fulfilling ones. How can love overcome, when there is no love? Meditate? What the fucking peace can you overcome? You strain your body into mental oblivion. My youth was a new born flower, my middle age the cackle of a haggard witch. Tired, go fucking kill someone. I can’t, I am so fucking humane. When will the liberal touch add a joy of a blossomed garden in the meaning of being in life? God, an irony I keep forgiving you all the time. Yes, I should be kind to myself. Go easy man. There’s a lot more to go on in life. Existentialism makes me vacillate between affirmation and negation. Angst is a terrible wound. I am irritated. I grind my teeth in existential agony. I am tired of being a slum, being dominated by women who want to be matriarchs. Torment is a machine gun raining bullets on me. I live in a democracy slapped by a death penalty. Agitation plagues my words like cholera. I am wounded by the sin of not being a becoming. Why have I left myself to be wounded and tormented? I am encountering the brutality of being. I look at myself, I am disgusted. Am I a dodo, out of place in time? Memory becomes chunks of a bicep making the present delusional. Gather my mind in a heap and litter it in the dustbin. Consciousness, you are hypocritical grandeur for religions to tempt and exploit. Have I no feelings any more. I don’t deserve death when I am living, but my life is a haunting death. I have to write and write and I am a nihilist. There’s a philosophical suicide. There’s no death but only authentication.
Darling Mig, I feel so wounded and helpless my darling would be wife, my dearest soul, my loving friend. I have disappointed you many times and I feel sick and tired in myself. I long to settle down with you and lead a life with a person who can understand me thick and thin. I don’t know why it is taking so long a time. I have failed you many a time; I have made promises which I have not been able to keep. I feel like kissing your feet and telling you, how sorry I am. My job in Surabaya was lost, as Jenny took me to the mental hospital by crafty subterfuge. At least in Surabaya, I was able to support you in a small way and that too when I was in Gandhi Memorial School. There are moments in my life, when I long for a pat on my back, a handshake, a hug, a caress, a whisper of love. Yes, my love you have done that to me many times, in our short sojourn in KL. I was so happy when you pecked my cheek, while we were descending down on the lift. Such small acts fill me with so much gratitude. Though, I am rational, I am so much of an emotional body. I need to be filled constantly with acts of assurance. I remember that after the tortuous cyber seminar, you took me to the room and kissed, and nibbled my lips. I felt so loved when I fondled your thighs by uplifting your skirt. Yes, my darling Mig, I feel that life and the cosmos have not given us a chance to meet by chance. There’s definitely a fulfilling purpose to it. Though we have been born in middle class families, we have outgrown the symptom of being middle class. I am so happy that you like me, appreciate the higher nuances of art, literature, culture and philosophy. I am so thrilled that you support my ambition of becoming an artist-novelist. I am so overwhelmed that you a have borne my angst and you have provided succor to elevate me out of it. Even when you become angry with me or abuse me, I like it all the more, and I love you all the more. My darling, KL nights last in me as a beautiful music, as an erotic poem. I reminisce how beautifully we have made love; it’s as if, you know by magic, what my body is, the way my body is, the way it feels and you blend yourself to it in rhythmic magic. Yes my darling, I long to see you in KL on Nov 15 2015 and celebrate your birthday, share with you a garden of conversations, make music in the magic of loving erotica.
I hope I can publish it.
Your loving Anand
My body is an erotic poem, a broken garden of tears. The libido has been fabled into amorous lullabies, sonatas of a sighing Beethoven sighing on a piano. I live in the garden of bewitched desires. My nights have been a lonely bed. I am a lover’s slave. I will reincarnate to her passions in loving desires. I long to lick her flower. I love to be in a submissive position. I am kneeling down with her thighs straddled on to my shoulders. As I lick her melodious orifice, I long to hear her moan. Her moaning will give me thousand poems. Yes, I long to lick her passionate hole, lying in her bottom. My tongue is an infinite orgiastic pansy of cunnilingualizing. Woman, why are you hard hearted like a burning ore in a furnace? Why don’t you agree to the incantations of my passion? Women of the world why do you make me so deprived? I wonder why there’s not a single woman in the world who can love me for satisfying her body. Why am I not finding a perfect woman? I have tried and tried countless dating sites, but the end result was sour grapes!
Thank you darling dearest Precious Honey for those lovely photos….Indeed your lips are a marble of music……Oh, I would love to penetrate your lips with mine, and petal them with infinite kisses…..Oh, how I would love to suckle them and nibble them, taste their music, swallow your saliva, lick, you suckle you and leave with the sweet music of infatuation…..
Darling, your passionate breasts, are so round and flowing like an erotic garden; I feast on their rich roundness, their delicious curves, their grape ripe nipples ….How much my darling would I love to bury my face in them…..Aaaaaaaah, my tongue has become thirsty like a desert….Yes my darling, I would gently nibble them and suckle them like a passionate lover….squeeze them, lick them, suckle them….., I will moan with love…..and whisper many times: “Oh my darling, I love you so much.”
Yes my honey, I long for your flowered garden; I long for the delicacy of your musical fountain….lie on the bed my passionate amorous beauty; spread your musical thighs wide; my love, let me enjoy the way your thighs are occupying space, like a valley in between hills….I look at the beauty of your space ….l gaze passionately at the way your yoni is open to me….Slowly I reach to the crevice of your flavored ecstasy ….I insert my tongue and lips and fondle you there….Moan to me sweetie, moan in ecstasy…Oh how I love to hear the music of your sounds in passionate music… Yes many times I will feed you with my loving tongue and take you a nirvana of sensual bliss….