Dibyendu's WallScript

I have thought of death too often. It feels like waste— a needless script, a sack of rotten thoughts.   A mind sickened, intoxicated. And now this household, so effortlessly ordinary, only its ending appears clear to me.   Or else, from fatigue, a sudden flicker of God-vision rises, blurred and blinding. The beginning was uncertain, but the middle stretch— desire made it bearable.   Pain—yes, throughout life. But wherever joy was found, I took it whole. Only, the place I was meant to reach remained beyond me.   Instead I arrived at ruin— where body decays by law, where illness breeds pandemonium, where disgust, doubt, and despair live. I arrived there again and again, through corridors of regret, with destiny carved on the brow.   Then, for a moment, some moral sermon brought peace. But when will this road end? I wait, hearing the approaching footsteps of death.   This is better: between birth and death, a weary mind, in the middle of the road, asks only fo...

Mature or immature, whatever this body may be— it stirs, it moves, a particular beast. It speaks, it searches for pleasure, it hunts for flesh. Sometimes it slips into the jungle, waiting in ambush. Sometimes it goes with the wild beasts, renewing its ancient kinship. Then it returns— a poet, into the hell of the city, where these lines emerge into poems, then fall silent again in some fearless practice. The body, drenched and empty, crushed by lust, eaten by greed, wasted by disease. And still, movement and passage lay bare its fatigue. It lies on the stale bed, just a little stirring— yet so costly, so dearly built. If it falls still— so be it. Life is nothing but this: to move, to speak. Sometimes it strips itself bare, consuming, wringing orgasm from its flesh. If there is a heart, there is semen spilled, there is vomit of hatred and of ethics betrayed. There is no body beyond the body. Movement and speech— as long as they last, that is how lo...

So many helpless, innocent thoughts— whether they have a vessel or not. In the ordinary days and nights I have surrendered them, offered them into the fire of desire. Whatever was once feeling— pain, fear, labor— again and again they come to die in this temple of the body. Yet steadfast, wherever the path allows, they draw strength from the nest. Restless, tireless, they move back and forth, gathering power— only to grow weak again through the misuse of the senses. Perhaps one day, more helpless still, they will turn only to fate, seeking feeling through sight alone. No one will come to take away our morality. Before fate, time alone must wait. And with a deceitful smile it will take away whatever is left of feeling: the breadth of thought, the hunger for love, envy and hatred. Only feeling is left behind. The innocent thoughts return, passing through nights of shadow— where truth is summoned, where thirst lives— again and again they come to die in the tem...

For liberation I have come, in heroic pride, this far— from the citadel of ego to the frailty of age, from the proud empire to the dimming society.   For liberation I have labored, for death I have spent my hard-earned breath. Meditation, knowledge, the fragile order of self— end and beginning race toward one another like twin flames.   Long I drowned in the rituals of the household, believing life must be fulfilled, the race must be run swiftly. My prayer has always been— for liberation.   The swan of my mind flies into forests, dives in grandeur into the swamp of civilization, caught in the cage of knowledge, beating its wings until the last breath.   When my voice grew strong, it was throttled by phlegm, by bile, by decay. To remember freedom then— what but mockery? Even the “conqueror of death” fakes his path, skilled in hypocrisy.   “ For one who is born, death is certain; for one who has died, rebirth is certain. Therefore grieve not the inevitable.” ...