27 December 2015

Adoloscence and after

A child has a mind that runs insanely. An adults mind is a marathon runner. It might not be as fast and instinctive as a child (read child brain) but it gains more stamina. None of us is new to this, but the issues that accompany this fact are interesting. One of them is our mind clock.

Mind-clock, as I prefer calling it, is a ticking machine right inside your brain that keeps counting moments, with some reliable precision, differing from person to person. It is this clock that makes you feel time. The clock that ticks a long boring hour in a tenth minute lecture before the lunch, and that runs like a Ferrari when you're on the bed or in the ground. As we grow up, especially in schedules and recurring time-tables, run timed goals and life's races, we learn to pace it right. It is a consistent habit you would find with most successful people. The subtle truth hides here.

"Minutes tick longer and days tick shorter."

Consider a simple day. You wake up, get ready to your school / college /office, go out and work all day and return home. Needless to say, the clock races around when you gave a variety of things to do, a large different set of instructions for your brain to handle, and relatively slower at works that repeat themselves in a day. These presumptions considered, we complain of long work days as our brain tunes itself to the recurring pattern. We get tired by the end of such days, postponing most of our activities to weekends. Results being, a large variety of activity towards the weekends which snap off in a blink. The weekdays become longer due to recurring processes and weekends shorten due to variety.

Let us consider this over time. Remember your childhood? Being a child, writing the same date at least ten times over a day, each time in a different mood and thought process, makes us feel the years had been longer. As we grow, in a focus oriented world, we decrease the number of thoughts and increase their depth. As we store these thoughts down a memory lane, you'll be surprised to notice that you remember a twenty x to have been shorter than a Y teen than a z year child. The years run faster.

In reality, you can witness this happen in a child. Pick a baby 4 or 6 year old and observe. The child who's been sobbing about a toy train 20 seconds ago is merrier playing with mud and cake. A grown up? No. The grown up buddy rather sulks around a thought over and over, giving lesser time for others, leaving the mind bored. If boredom and monotone are your complaints with growing older, then, "this" is your problem.

Summing the theory up,

1. Mind clock works based on your moments, it ticks faster when your mind has more areas to explore, and bores during iterations.
2. Mind-clock accelerates with age because of the depth of thought and reduced numbers.
3. The problem with most of us is that we reiterate a lot during the weekdays and mourning shorter weekends. The solution being, doing varieties on weekdays, and lazily sleeping on the weekend. This will reduce the illusive effect of shortened weekends.

7 December 2015

The other side

The poor peasant wants a nine to five, with a cushioned ride.
The urban man, he who flies high, misses the countryside.
The priest wants a new smartphone, one to track his time.
The resource wants to be left alone, to listen to heavenly chime.

The rich man wants his tender son, to walk down to the school.
The poor man shades his son from sun, waiting for climates to cool.
The good boy who carries his lunch, wants a full day fast.
The poor guy wants to see, how many burgers would he last.

The village head flees to the town, to be mister anonymous.
The entrepreneur wants a crown, and craves to be famous.
The urban kid finds the cotton cool, flaunts it off to friends.
The country kid wears jeans to school, the one he lavishly lends.

The bachelor geek misses his mom, and her handmade food.
The homebound guy feeds his tom, as he walks to eat some good.
Oh, the irony, my bitter sweet world, you wish to be a perfect place.
I can bet all my household, utopia hates her own grace.

Around the hill is a circular pass, for the world to ever stride.
And there always is the grass, greener on the other side.

16 October 2015

The Golden Necklace

The golden necklace long and sleek,
sleek as a thread and equally meek, 
meekly subdues to the ups and downs, 
down the desert's folded gowns. 
The gowns bordered in sparkling beads, 
beads that house the perfect meads, 
meads made out of inhumane deeds, 
deeds of the rich and greedy breeds.

As far as the hovering falcon can see, 
the sea beyond being the end to thee, 
the necklace adorns the lands free, 
free from the humanity's selfish glee. 
The glee in the shiny bead is clear, 
clear from the mask of natural shear, 
shear we attribute to our earth dear, 
dear we say though we consciously fear.

Trees we plant along the paths to travel, 
the travel to the shores of fine gravel, 
gravel wherein the stories unravel, 
unravel the tales when there was no gavel. 
The gavel of nature is inaudible tonight, 
tonight when she sings her weakest plight, 
plight to back off from the wildest fight, 
fight that shall end man's glory's flight.

Planting trees in the driest of deserts, 
deserting forests in the richest soils, 
soiling the faces of earth so strange, 
strangest shall be our race to her.

The golden necklace and emerald beads, 
may look pretty on the bride who leads, 
but shall hurt when you kiss her neck, 
and you would be turned off in a speck.

1 October 2015

Rusted strings

It had just been a week, my heart had been rendered weak. 
The long terrible one year streak, of being a single independent geek, 
had been put down by your grace, one more time did my heart race, 
Love was in the air I could trace, I finally lost my regular grimace.

It is too shallow now again, but the feeling is not in vain, 
I realize it's my mistake to train, against the heart over the brain. 
I feel as young as spring, for you pulled the rusted string.
I wish to last longer, this thing, that again made my heart sing.

The fate has decided against me, and my will is keeping the company. 
I wish miracles out of the sea, living in the city that knows no tree. 
I will try to buy one chance, under the table, out of the glance.
I'll be left with my dull single stance, in case we won't do the smoother dance.

You are wasted, spoilt am I, but you're beautiful to my eye. 
Darling, can we dream a sweeter lie, against our fate that's always sly?

15 September 2015

Writers' block

You and I, we try to tell a tale,
we don't know why, it turns out to be pale.
We love and cry, and write it in the ink of tears,
we smile and try, but end up penning our fears.

The devil lives, brooding in the adjective detail,
gloom he gives, with his curly pointed tail,
We try to fake, a world out of a tiny infinity,
we bake a cake, out of brown rice off the city.

Beautiful shall be, the fairy tale of castles and princes,
but you tell me, to believe in such glimpses?
Don't you see, it is clear as muddy water,
Wont it be, your mistake of you falter?

Go get a life, you people with fake stories and smiles,
or I'll get a knife, to let your blood flow the miles.
The crowd aren't fools, though you and I too act like one,
it cognizantly drools, making you believe that you won.

Welcome to the new age, to the smart brainy logic,
stop being a sage, orating like we believe in magic.