The Warrior

There he lay on the battlefield wounded,
Scarred, bruised and surrounded.
The enemy glares at him with a cynical smile,
At his broken beaten and succumbed soul,
After that thunderous hammering unto him,
No one expected the warrior to rise,
And rather believed that he has fallen into the failure deep precipice,

None of his comrades stood by him at that time,
For all of them were victims of dreadful battle line,
He barely stood there on with his sword as aid,
Unable to bear the loneliness and silence only filled with the jibes and grins,
Of the enemy who thinks he has won.

He crawls in the mud, bloodied and wet with the war’s carnage,
Whiplashes strike like thunder – Maces fly like boulders crushing,
Arrows pierce his flesh – swords snip past like hungry sharks,
There was muck, there was cold enemy flack and there was dark, there was black,
Gathering from the oblivion that his heart has become, in bits and pieces, courage,
His only savior at a time when god looks away,
Was a bolt of fire and metal that riveted his spirit to the realms of the Valkyries,
Accelerating his heart from sorrow to rage,
Multiplying his every action in pace and merit,
Leaving behind the old heart a sage.

Flaring the blade of his sword into the sun,
Challenging every enemy left on the bloodied soil,
Glaring at every eye he is going to end,
He moves forward in strides, making his legs toil,
Sensing this from a mile, the cowards run.

Every drop of blood in his body charge,
Every other heart in the field convulses,
Every muscle tensed to meet the carnage,
Every armour meeting his sword divulges,

The warrior’s armour does succumb to swords axes and arrows,
Which only does to the body, what pain does to oneself.
The true armour lies in the heart that strikes down the foes
For a true warrior is one from the heart and not from the body.

Courage takes on pain, Rage keeps from being insane,
For a great warrior is one without and with,
the thought of the reality, of the fear of death,
for this world is ephemeral, a warriors ideals are not

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When to start Writing

I have always wondered what it would be like to write a blog. To write something that someone appreciates or something that is worth writing or for that matter just write. There were always times when you are told you should write, you are so good with words, but when you come to think of whether you are an author, or an artist, it all comes down to one simple thing - Intent.

I have had conversations with plenty of friends on why one needs to write ( book, paper, notepad, blogger, newspaper, and any other media that you think you can punch your stylus into). The 'talks' have gone on about simple ideas such as getting stuff off your head(or heart - i don see much of a difference - everything is wired ), ingenious perspective on things (life, science, geeky stuff, philosophy, math whatever turns the bulb on), or be a of literary width and critical posture or just letting go.

There (the ideas) have been quite convoluted and complicated ideas like analyzing ones thoughts in a external forum so that one can introspect(called this extrospect - man was that cuckoo), getting to be a more open person by truly exposing every bit of yourself into a dimension where words are read by every other human on the planet without a notion of whether you(or they) are a serial killer with a knack or just plain computer geek with a automated blog creation software (genius huh). There were also discussions on whether blogging leads to an isolationism , and other freaky sounding afflictions associated with the net (how it would cause brain cancer - some article about facebooking leading to increased depression and brain cancer). There were several more - mentioning more will probably put me off from writing further.

There are always moments in life where we lay fallow - undecided - a spot where you can see what happens when you decide (see the repercussions, how it might go - though this is purely contemplative) and also a spot where you are at without any desire to move away from (reactionary you might add). But all said and done one experiences this in many situations in life - a momentary lapse during a game of counterstrike(splatter - the sniper just got you), a sensual moment during a date with your girl/guy (whatever works for you), a quick moment at the coffee shop deciding on Decaff (might charge you up for the day - or might just turn you into jerky). The same with my writing. There were moments when all my writing was just mere thoughts in my head floating around - getting reiterated to friends - who persisted on it being on paper.

There were times i came up with reasons too - this also with much needed nudging from a dear friend - the whole point of being fallow is you need to kicked in the noggin to get you going. Write to free your mind, free up ideas you thought were too confined that they ll never see the light of day, and also most importantly write just for the heck of it, also write for ladies (please call me).

I guess there was something i always wanted to establish at the end of a session of writing, which most of the times i think never happens(throughout school, college and work) - But in this case i am pretty happy it did. I realized in many ways writing does help me - to start with i am not as shy any more (not that i was - ladies i am only shy with the words) - more importantly writing does help me express myself in my full width - blogging just adds many a dimension to it which i shall discover for myself. This comes off as the first post in my blog - not something i would call a masterpiece but something of a starter upper for my writing - please do tune in when you see something you want to read. So in the words of Porky Pig - abidy abidy abidy thats all folks.

Touche
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