I sent this out to all my lady friends, but no one seems to realize that she’s bieng cynical.

Furthermore, when I try to explain, they shut me up claiming that I can’t set the rules for poetry interpretation.

Wasn’t it Mark Twain who said that stupidity and confidence are the only things you need for success. I’m pretty sure all my lady friends will “succeed” in life.


Warning: This post contains graphic violence and hate. I assure you, there will be blood.

I wait in line patiently at the gas station for my turn, and all of a sudden this orange buggy car comes from the other side and grabs my place. The retarded pump boy doesn’t give a shit and tries to pump petrol.

I screech my horn showing my rage and when the car doesn’t seem to budge, I jump off and walk towards the buggy. I was ready for a fight. I saw three men/boys from where I was standing and I reminded myself that I’ve fought a larger crowd.

But when I come near the car, I see a robe. A monk happens to be there so my initial rage is subdued to some extent. But the anger in my voice clearly showing I yell out that I was here first.

“Ithin thamuse mokkada karrana kiyaane,” the monk growls back. So what do you want us to do?

“Car eka passata ganna,” I scream back. Take the car back.

“Meka bouddha ratak oi!” The monk growls. This is a Buddhist Country oi!

Great, the fucker played the sinhala-buddhist card.

By now a couple of three wheeler guys were watching this. And I knew the truth behind what the monk said. If I wanted a fight, I’d had to fight not only the spineless bastards in the buggy, but also the rest of the crowd who was watching. My unoccupied car was also at risk.

So I backed down, and went in search of another gas station. But my mind was not still. My heart was racing. My blood pressure must’ve sky rocketed. I was not only angry at the stupid monk. I was angry at myself.

I was angry at living in a country like this where individual liberty is compromised for the sake of the pleasure of the majority. I was angry at not ridiculing the banal sinhala-buddhists more often and their lame pathetic excuse for a livelihood. I was angry at letting myself be educated in a sinhala-fucking-buddhist school, and never questioning their absurdities. I was angry of the fact that my father and mother were born buddhists and they didn’t have the guts to do anything about the senseless extremism that they put up with everyday.

I went home, and took out my sandbag. And I let all hell loose. With every roundhouse kick I crushed the monk’s skull in my head. With every punch I broke his rib cage over and over again. With every back-roundhouse kick I dislocated his fucking jaw and disfigured his bloody face. With every elbow, I broke his ear drum and with every kneekick I slammed his groin up his arse.

I killed him in my head. With my bare hands. Not once, not twice but thousands of times over. Everytime using a technique bloodier and gruesome than the last.

The blood ozzing through my knuckles, I sat there for a while and I waited for my mind to clear.

And suddenely I felt free.

I understood that if my brain and body was in the same pathetic circumstances of the above stupid monk, I would’ve done the same. I realized that my rage was directed at myself in another life. And rather than becoming a part of the solution, I was becoming a part of the problem.

I have what it takes to breakaway. Not only from this hell-hole of a country, but also from my own anger. Not only do I have the power and independence to escape the bounds of my race and religion but I also have the intelligence to destroy the memes that try to take control of my mind.

I felt Joy. Compassion. And oneness with nature.

Mirror Reflection

June 8, 2009

A speaker is only as good as his audience. A teacher is only as good as her student.

It’s amazing to notice that the people we interact with are as only as good as our judgment.

I hate that word – judgment. It’s as if we humans are not able to perceive anything without judging. But it’s true, we can’t. The things we see, the melodies we hear and the sensations we feel are interpretations of the tyranny of conscious thought. We are forever fools engaged in a cycle of illusion.

Once in awhile however, you meet someone who’s capable of a mirror reflection. The things they say and the passionate calmness in the way they say it forces our thoughts inward and we look at ourselves in the process of judgment.

It’s times like these you really learn to appreciate the company of another human being.

They’re all gay I tell you. All of them.

Everytime I go to work I can’t help but notice the way the guards stop in mid-conversation and check out my arse. I offer a good morning to which they smile or mornin’ me back, but they still seem to hold the stare till I walk out of sight. I can only wonder how the women feel at work..

I think part of the voyeurism is the cause of the utter boredom of the job. I mean they quite literally know that they won’t be able to do shit if some armed guy walked into the place. It’d be like taking candy from a baby- or more correctly from a malnutritioned teenager who has trouble figuring out how he fits in the world. And in an unconscious level (and perhaps even in a conscious level) they know that they’re getting paid to sit around and just mark the attendance.

But that usually doesn’t hinder them from feeling that they own the place. And if you let them talk to you, they’ll pour you over with conspiracies against national security and their role in protecting peace and harmony.

With time, even the female security guards figure out ways to establish authority and fuck with your mind. When I visited the TT services across Holiday Inn yesterday, the guards stopped me in mid motion, and asked me to switch off my cell phone. I was like WTF?!? It’s not even the embassy. But of course they had the upperhand since I was not familiar with the place. I’m sure they were laughing they’re hats off while I was fumbling with my phone trying to switch the damn thing off.

In retrospect of course, the interaction with Sri Lankan security guards is humbling. It reminds me that freedom is just an illusion and that authority and discipline are merely shields of people with large inferiority complexes.

The Pleasure in Pain

June 1, 2009

is sometimes addictive.

It’s been two years since science figured out that dopamine is responsible for instigating both pleasure and pain. But I guess we humans understood that in some level perhaps even before we could put it into words.

I had my first heartbreak was when I was about 8 or 9. I distinctly remember the feeling as a spear piercing my heart again and again, but I also remember that I craved the feeling much more than love itself. Well, perhaps as equally as love.

I played professional basketball for awhile after I left school, and I remember every ounce of the physical pain that we all endured; 1000 skips a day, 100 pushups, 200 situps, 200 crunches, and a whole heap of running on the beach. We waged war with our bodies for profit and principle, but we endured the pain for its pleasure.

I had a part time lover who was also an athlete. And at times I wondered whether she was testing me or whether she really was into these fantasies of non-consent.

It’s hard to tell really, whether we enjoy the pain, or whether we enjoy the “high” that is left afterwards. The universe divides itself whenever there are two poles. We feel happiness better if we know unhappiness. We feel intense joy, if we are aware of the condition of depression. A simple unadulterated glass of water feels like heaven if we put our bodies through hell before drinking it.

So I don’t know. Is it pain that I crave? Or is the pleasure that comes afterwards?