Where did the inspiration go?

17 03 2009

1 year.  That’s the time since my last post.  It’s more like 13 months to be precise. I think that somewhere along the road, i lost my inspiration. Or maybe i just stopped listening to myself. The latter seems more deemed to be true. A lot has hapenned during this one year, and it would be practically impossible for me to enumerate all those things in just one post (without boring you guys lol). 

The last article i posted dates from the 2nd of FEB 2008. That’s roughtly the period of my last semester at university. I think it all started from there. Trying to focus on my studies, I paid lesser attention to other stuffs. It has been a rollarcoaster since. I have been working freelance at the same time. Mostly as photographer and graphics designer. I helped design some site which maybe you already know : http://www.dbm.mu, http://skr-ltd.com ,and the website for Universal Breweries (But unfortunaltely the company closed down some time back).  Of course there are other examples but i’d prefer not to mention them here. lol. We all do stuffs we are not really proud of. You now wat i mean. The most exciting thing was working as a freelance photographer. That was super cool. Cocktail parties, weddings, concerts… The best hing about being a photographer according to me : you participate in the event as any other guest, PLUS they pay you for it!! lol! You can see some of my works here : 

http://flickr.com/photos/doorgesh

I’ll try to post more of my work here or on my deviantart account. 

Then i graduated from university in Sept 08. That was a cool experience. I guess most people i know never thought i would make it. I  now have my degree in Computer Science and Engineering! YEY!!

Funny thing though, i started working full time since August 2008 as product photgrapher and designer for Ambrex ltd. The company designs and makes watches and jewellery for different european brands. You know Paco Rabanne right ? Well, that’s one of the brands we work for. Hard to believe right ? I mean, i’m sure you would never have guessed that all those Paco Rabanne watches have in fact been designed by mauritian designers! 

In jan 2009 I got promoted as Head of the design department. It’s a tough job but it’s really lots of fun. I’ll try to post more about that later. 

Well with all these new experiences, i kinda got away from the world of blogging. Till recently, Yashvin organised a bloggers’ meeting. You can chek the full story on his blog. It made me want to blog again. and today while chatting with selven on  msn, i decided it was time to make my comeback. lol. I think everyone goes through similar things a some point of their lives. But my Blank page syndrome lasted for over one year. 

Anyway, here i am now 🙂 

Stay tuned for more 

cheers. 





Part 9 – Silence of the Watchmaker’s Shop

2 02 2008

Simple truths can make you more lonely, just like simple lies can change your life. For inevitably, all you are or rather all people know you from, are merely the words you speak, the actions you perform and the opinions you inculcate in one’s mind. It’s funny how the human mind finds it hard to believe in irrational truth but obeys blindly to rational lies. Every being is like the floating tip of an iceberg, for 99% of who you are is oblivious to the common eyes. So, you might as well draw your own picture of yourself, as long as it is not hard to believe in, and others would follow blindly. But sometimes one can fall into their own trap, depending on how subtle they have been. For the flagrant lie finds no hiding place under the hard spotlight of plain good sense. Yet, a fiercer light would result in only fogging out what would otherwise have been obvious.

Life is the roulette table that spins around lies more than truths, you place your bets and hope it doesn’t ruin every single part of who you are. It’s a rather difficult idea to follow, but when you come to think about it really, how many times in your life have you wished you had lied? As the truth had done nothing than betray its own reputation. Truth always prevails they say. In a world made of pure hypocrisies, truth is the hermit in the tattered robe; respected by some, followed by few, but ignored by the rest. These words might sound pessimistic, justifying the contrary would be utterly juvenile, yet the world’s most followed beliefs inconsistently revolve around conspiracy theories and forged dogmas. And the clock tics on the wall are here but to bear witness to centuries of human decadence.

Sometimes he found his own troubles so pointless as compared to all the miseries in the world. Where one is crying over a broken heart while somewhere else someone is running on the frayed streets of a bombarded city like a madman with a dead child in his hands. Surely the level of pain and distress is not comparable, but the facts are unalterable. Much too often we overlook others in moments of our own deprivation. The physics of core human interactions defies all rationality and logic. Even the most endowed man would fiercely capitulate in front of others’ pernicious agony, but would wildly expect a helping hand in return. And funnily keep complaining about the unjust nature of all human miseries. Its purely the behavior of the human psyche; everything we see seems more bound to happen to others than to our own self, specially when the anguish is of a very high calibre, just like he would never have imagined himself in this state, not even in his mildest nightmares.

Being nailed to a hospital bed felt like all the oxygen has been sucked from the air. He was once bestowed with all the gratitude of nature, but yet led a life full of plasticine figurines dancing to the tunes of made up stories. Since his early childhood, he was faced with the undeniable truth that life is nothing like fairy tales, where one shall live happily ever after. We all seem to be in the pursuit of happiness, like an adventurer in the quest of a hidden treasure, but in reality we are all but pirates pilling riches from others. The realisation of the crude nature of the human mind was to the 10 year old kid, what kryptonite was to his favorite super hero. The small twig of his existence cracked under the downpour of reality.

He imagined how would it be if he could travel back in time, and meet the child he once was. He tried to weigh the outcome of such an encounter, thinking about the speech he would formulate to the 10-year-old kid he was. Maybe warn himself from impending calamities of life, or sketch a pathway for a more promising future. But was he really prepared for the violent changes that this would imply? The chances that he would have believed in himself are rather slim, yet the expanse of a 10-year-old’s imagination cannot really be quantified in measurable proportions. Would it change anything to prevent someone from doing something, or would the resulting chain of events only end up in accelerating the whole process?

His life was a painted canvas furnishing an immense dark room. A multi dimensional canvas painted with finite colours randomly picked up by reason from an infinite palette, with his emotions as the only guide for each brush stroke.  We all have a canvas to paint. No matter how small, extravagant,  exuberant, simplistic or irrationally alluring. This natural process of self modeling even if not imposed by nature, finds itself deeply rooted in its mechanism.  But if the final masterpiece does not comply to the expected picture, who is to face the finger?





Part 8 – Of Fire and Ice…

26 12 2007

How does it feel to be imprisoned? At first, all seems so confusing, you fight to keep yourself focused, to adapt, to understand while battling against waves of incoming regret, remorse, endless questions, fear of change, fear of survival, speculations about freedom… Each passing second is an ordeal, reminding yourself of where you are. Then comes the suffocation, the need for more air, the natural need of freedom. A word that been been carved in history by so many blood stains must surely be considered the most fundamental need. But throughout the process, this word becomes barely a myth, an intangible speculation of the mind. Then comes the final phase, survival and adaptation. Where the mind gradually gives in to the new state it is now in. The whole process resumes to the sole battle of conscience against time. You can fight against time, but you find yourself deprived of all means in front of your own conscience.

And who could imagine a worse prison than your own organic envelop. A prison cell does not deny you the ability of speech or mobility. It just confines you to a restricted space. But as he lay there, a prisoner of his own shell, a prison cell seemed more welcoming. He tried to adapt himself, slowly evolving into another sphere. Where he was simply a shadow of himself, living on memories and a fragment of hope; innocent, fragile, naked hope. Hope streamlined to project the vision of a possible future. A future for which life has constantly been putting up challenges to mold each nut and bolt of his being. The world spins fast, but time is a heavy load to carry, and the pressure of each passing second was slowly distorting the integrity of his speculations about a tangible future. Soon, he was just a lifeless robot, programmed only for a confined amount of simple tasks.

The human brain finds its merit in its highly developed faculty of conforming to repetitive tasks. Some find it the haven which helps to escape the harsh reality of their simple existence. Routine induces a weird sense of security. The mechanical day to day routine, in a way, makes you lose track of the time. And this infinite replicated chain of events procures a peculiar assurance inspired by the predictability of each occurrence. You feel nothing is going to change for the worse as each single process has been reviewed, experienced and made obvious through repetition.

As the days passed, each one merely being a crude replica of the previous one, his body gradually capitulated, adjusting to the present scenario. But his mind continued on functioning at double regime, endorsing unimaginable fears and phobias. The psychological pain outran the physical pain till the latter became literally unfathomable. Although the morphine and the panoply of drugs constituting his daily dosage did somehow contribute to his condition, his imagination was a far more helpful instrument to break away from the daily trauma.

Imagination is the undaunted magical realm of dreams and fantasies. It knows no barriers except for that of the mind itself. You can be who you want to, where you want, when you want. It’s more than even reason itself can ponder upon. He described his imagination as the domain where conscience and sub conscience overlapped, reality and imaginary fought in fierce rivalry and at the same time, embraced in humility. His imagination flooded each and every part of his being, it was his essence. Whatever he saw or thought, endorsed by logic, reason or pure fantasy, each and every parcel of his mind was bathed in his imagination.

Sometimes he preferred not to describe what he could see, simply because all the words put together would result in an ineffectually undermining outlook; mere gibberish as compared to the picture sculpted in his mind. His imagination had the most crucial role in his life, and now it was all his life. That’s where he was now living in; a world made of memories and mysteries, a world he himself created to escape the crude reality, which paradoxically, he was the sole responsible for.

Memories can haunt you more than the spookiest of ruins. And he was himself far more wrecked than a ruin, living a life which he knew nothing of, trusting his faith in the one who was writing the script of his destiny. He felt like a coin being tossed around to prove the malicious incapabilities of fate. He had moved far beyond the point he had expected, striving against pain and delusions of a torn mind, fighting against the echoes of his stained past. The fear of of death had long given way to exasperation and sheer disinterest of the present. The only thing he could now wish for, was to hear the clock stop ticking…





Part 6 – Russian Roulette

29 10 2007

Life makes you take paths you were once totally oblivious to. The mere randomness of the chaotic order of events leaves you in disbelief, crushed into a fragment of yourself, trying to solve each piece of a puzzle whose outcome you don’t even know. Yet at each step you try to push it further, with the hope that maybe this time you won’t go wrong. Inevitably, the most predictable outcome results and you find yourself crawling back to the starting point. Situations may vary, but the context remains so depressingly similar. Each of us find ourselves trapped between different worlds, fate and chance, logic and emotions, reality and fantasy, love and apathy.

He drifted by each second, trying to find the right equilibrium, not in order to balance both sides, but only enough to cope with his own delusional mind. He always found himself evolving among those spheres, a wandering beacon shifting through the instability of his emotions. Somehow, the most unstable and disturbingly profound emotion he ever felt, was love or maybe all that follows.

Much too often, he felt like being imprisoned in a bouncing ball, trapped in the ups and downs of life, propelled by the malicious velocity of ever changing relationships. At each fall he braces himself for another collision, preparing for the emotional wreck he was about to encounter. His mind and heart raced so fast that time itself seems to slow down. Time, being a mere variable in the millions of emotional collisions that a single moment can generate. Each heart beat was another acute rush of pain mixed with an amalgam of insecurity, despair, perdition and loneliness. He could live that moment a thousand times, yet he seems to never be getting used to the profound deception it conveyed.

Experience is supposed to make someone more mature, sharp and accustomed to the process. Still, he lived each encounter as a whole new experience. The beauty of the beginning finds itself lost in the dark trauma of the ending.

Love for him was the forbidden fruit that would bring the demons rushing in, triggering a reaction that will finally lead the annihilation of his whole being. Strangely, despite all the miserable outcomes, this feeling was bizarrely still so fascinatingly attractive. What is so compelling about it that drives the mind to lose grip on the handle of rationality?

It all starts like a splendid fairy tale, till one day everything swirls into an abyss widely undermining the most sordid of your nightmares. The worst part, is despite all the pain, we sometimes still hold on, hoping that things would get better on their own. That maybe one day all of this would be over and we’ll get over it. But some seem to forget that life is not fairy tale. The truth is far cruder than that and unfortunately, things don’t really go the way we would want them to be.

Ah… love… that wonderful emotion that can propel one’s soul to the highest peaks or to the deepest abyss in a single breath. The mysteries of a lifetime enclosed in a four letter word. Four letters which have been the subject of considerable debate, enduring speculation, and thoughtful introspection. Some still try to find a rational approach, but most are convinced that love is everything but rational.

Love is the best thing that can ever happen to you, he often heard some say. But is it really? Some say love hurts… or maybe they took something else for being love. Everybody has to go through it one day, but are we ready to face it? We all have a friend who was completely broken by a heartbreak… maybe we were ourselves… but strangely enough, very few can genuinely justify the integrity of their emotions. He was often laughed at while he tried in vain to explain that love, like any other emotion, needs to have a reason. More than often he would ask a friend why he loves that particular girl, his response would be “I don’t know why… I just love her… I can’t live without her…”. That deeply intrigued him. He always thought loving someone was not when two people cannot leave without each other, its when two people choose to be together.

For him, love is a choice, not something being imposed on you. If it is, then you become enslaved to the emotion you nourish. You become dependent on that feeling, on the person you “love”… And dependency kills your individuality. You start to change, sometimes into something you yourself cannot decipher. You become a prisoner in your own prison. It’s one thing to be genuinely in love and another to be only emotionally dependent.

Sometimes you find yourself trapped with a missing piece in the puzzle and the resonating sound of a trigger behind your back…





Part 5 – Lost In The Dragon’s Lair…

8 05 2007

The early rays of sunshine caressed the walls around him like a soothing melody of a 12-string guitar, furnishing the room with a soft tint of yellow. A new day, a whole new boulevard to explore, a second chance… but not for him. “Have faith…” he often overheard doctors tell his rare visitors. Faith… Hope… Like a promising dream megaphoned by megalomaniac, egocentric politicians who care less for your well being than that of their ever thirsty pockets. It’s easy to be compassionate and sympathetic, it’s easy to toss a coin to a starving beggar while driving away in a brand new Mercedes. But, holding a lupus patient by the hand just to bring a little comfort, is a completely different story.

To care for someone is more than formalities, a set of procedures encountered to procure an illusion of being sensitive to what others feel. It’s more concerned with feeling what others are going through. But in a world made of plastic ideas and commercial beliefs, “concern” is simply another word used to please the mind and the heart of the distraught stranger. The more avid minds sought relief in dreams more than from others.

Somehow, the acrimony and bitterness faded. He knows this feeling. He’s been through this before, there was only a minor difference. LSD. This enchanting remedy synthetised the most powerful dreams he could ever imagine. Man found himself chased by the villainous predator he himself created. Those who like to flirt with the realm and limits of the human mind, rarely bothered about the precariousness of the condition. Sure, drugs was something he never ever imagined being involved into. Somehow this word was a resonating sting to his ears. It made things look only worse.

Dextroamphetamine, Methylphenidate, Pemoline, Methamphetamine, LSD, cough syrup, weed, coke… He would have taken vitamin C if it would made him numb. Understandably, these were mere alternatives to flee the reality he found increasingly weighty. This whole perspective is generally thought to be more of an easy way out; a substitute for those who don’t have the courage to keep up with the vicissitudes of the ever evolving topology of life. It’s so easy to say that when you are not the least aware of all that can go through a human mind in a time of complete abandonment. He had heard countless speeches on that issue; presumably highly responsible individuals stressing on the horrifying consequences of drug consumption, but never had he heard anything on the outcome of living in a brainless society. He does not deny the dreadful implications of the former, but the consequences of the latter could be far more disastrous.

Drugs are only the symptoms of a sick society. Curing symptoms wont ever help to get rid of a disease. As the infection always persists at the root. The only proper solution would logically be to treat the source and the core of the illness. That would never happen anyway, simply because society is so used to seeing deprivation that even the thought of perfectness would seem utterly surrealistic. We need a minute dosage of discrepancy around us to subvert the feeling of our own inferiority. In a way, that is what is so appealing with violence on TV. It’s the amount of self-induced illusion of relative well being it procures. Seeing a head decapitation footage undoubtedly unleashes thousands of thundering questions in one’s mind, on the other hand, it’s the most widely consumed drug ever created.

He could feel his mind atrophied with uncertainty. Faith induced more doubts in his brain than the puzzling talks of his room mate. Doubts… Doubts are seeds sown in our own minds by none but ourselves. Others might influence it slightly, like rocks might sway the course of rivers. But as a captain in charge of his ship, we are the sole manager of our mind.

He was nothing more than a pile of confused junk, tied with a string of faith, waiting for the clock to tick the right way.

A new morning… a whole new day to explore… a second chance?





Part 4 – Silent Whispers Under A Crimson Sky…

27 03 2007

Dreams and illusions are mere states of the mind; a cellular exchange of electrical signals and chemical substances. For some, dreams are often thought to pertain to the realm of the supernatural, revealing a sequence of forthcoming events; a window between what is and what will be. Or is it just a crude reflection of one’s sub conscience? Either way, dreams are what they are: An alternate reality generated by the brain. What for?

The question was further more appealing than the quest for an answer. For him, dreams were the only way to escape this reality he now found himself trapped into. He was prisoner of his own body, a slave of his own mind.

He stayed there looking at the ceiling for long hours, dreaming he was somewhere else. Searching for a refuge in his own memories. But the tedious mechanical disturbances around would drag him back, slamming his imagination against the four sterilised walls around him. He then realised what loneliness really means. The frequent visits of his shattered parents only made it worse.

It’s in these moments of dementia that you ask yourself whether it was all worthwhile. Does it have to be this way? Or was it all just a glimpse of your imagination? No matter where you are in the universe, the truth, even the most imperceivable part of it, cannot be denied, as it is what constitutes the reason of your being here. The reason why it all started. The reason that pushed you through the door and made you pickup that chainsaw to cut off all that was dear to you.

Memories are like butterflies trapped in a jar exposed to a disease; some can escape, some survive, and others just fade away, simply because they are too weak. That’s all he could do; fighting to preserve all that was left. It’s been days since he was there, half dead. In a way, the truth was much worse than that. He would have laughed if he could… at the irony of his own fate.

Ah fate! The escape goat of all lazy, desperate, depressive neurosis victims. What’s more easy than putting the blame on destiny? More than once you hear people blaming their nature on their fate. Maybe they should try to see things the other way round. Destiny can be viewed as an immense puzzle which can have different possible outcomes depending on the choices you make. Even the most unimportant event can cast ripples through the immense web of destiny. He could hear Coldplay playing in his head “… we never change, do we?”. Ironically, what makes all the beauty of human nature, is its ability to change, to remodel itself according to circumstances and evolving environments.

He kept thinking about those who won’t stop complaining about the misery of their pointless lives, but won’t ever dare to change something. Maybe they were used to grumble, ’cause it’s so much easier than actually admitting that they were the sole responsible for their failure. It’s easy to put the blame on others, on fate. But when it comes to admit one’s faults, it’s a completely different story. It’s all about games people play… All these contributed to the reasons why he always felt alone. He never seemed to understand the vanity of human nature.

He had made some friends though. The nurse who always wore a blue bracelet, the cleaner with headphones and the patient next to him: a 70 year old retired school teacher. They would talk to him, sharing their experiences, their lives. We always need someone to talk to. It seems that many psychological instabilities and social problems is due to the lack of communication. All that people need, is a friend who can share their pain, someone they can confide in. And who is better suited than someone in his state? It might seem a bit creepy at first. But come to think of it, the coma made him the perfect person for that.

He would not say anything, never interrupt. He would not be able to anyway. Sometimes he had the impression they thought he could not hear them. That made things easier in a way, at least for them. It’s always easier to talk when you know no one is going to judge you.

Days were flying by like cheap ink from a mad writer’s pen. All this looked too much like a distorted sequence from a gloomy soap opera. He just hoped all this would end one day.





Part 3 – One Last Lullaby…

22 03 2007

The white light was blinding. It was invading each and every part of his whole being. He felt so safe, as if floating on a bed made of the finest hand plucked cotton. Muffled voices resonated around like a sweet soft serenade welcoming his arrival. Was it finally it? He still had trouble to focus but the first impression was so tender to his senses that he let himself be carried away. There was no pain… nothing… just pure harmony. Funny, he thought; he felt drowsy, somewhat like he was high, under the effect of a powerful hallucinogen. It all seemed so perfect… till…

Beep. He woke up from his trance with a violent blow on his ear drums, each sequence of that repetitive sound resonating like a million bells inside his head. He tried to scream but couldn’t… he tried to move, in vain… Was it another nightmare? His eyes strained to fathom the blurred outline of the moving objects above. They finally came into focus. Someone had just shone a flashlight into his eyes and was noting something down. The scene seemed strangely familiar. Then it all came to him. The voices, people moving around, the repetitive sounds…

Truths can hurt. And this one did. He tried to recollect how he landed there, but his mind was a mere pile of random scraps of memory. However hard he tried to rearrange all the junk inside, it made no difference. The more he tried to remember, the less he could put his finger on. Contradictory? It seemed that his whole world revolved around that concept. Paradoxical thoughts.

Few could really understand him, and even those who did, were far from holding the answer to the complexity of his thoughts. The world is made of conflicting opinions and paradoxes. People just never bother to get to the depth of things, they never try to analyse all the nuances, taking everything for granted. And in a way, that’s how they interacted with him. He was often thought to be contradicting himself, giving the impression he never really knew what he was doing. But in fact, they never really bothered to understand the extent of his actions. Maybe in a way, they never really could.

He often saw himself like a Rubix cube; with 6 different faces, each with a distinct pattern and colour. You see only what you want to see, one face at a time. Few would try to examine several faces simultaneously. And further less would try to understand the cube as a whole. The more you try to solve it, the more complicated it got. It’s easy to get one segment right, but that would only increase the complexity of the problem. ’cause its never about getting one right at a time, its about solving the entire dilemma as one single piece. That’s where the problems kick in.

For some, life is only a single straight line. They would never bother to look around, to understand their environment, or try to explore the surroundings. That would mean they would have to bear with too many implications. It’s the same thing when it comes to understanding others. He often heard his “friends” claiming that no one could understand him more than he/she did. That would always make him smile. Just because you’ve been hanging around with someone for some time, irrespective of the duration, would that really mean you know him?

Now, he seemed to have lost himself among all these erratic bits of memory. He just kept staring blankly at the ceiling. Those walking around him in white robes seemed to be paying little attention to what he was doing, or to the repetitive hackneyed beeping of machines. That would be futile anyway. He couldn’t really be doing anything. The morphine was meant to take care of that.

They didn’t even notice the small glistening droplets on his cheeks…