ColdPlay -Miracles

This song, for some reason, is taking me off what I feel sorry for what I am mainly in the way I see the odds of the world. This is awesome, more, when you pick up the music and muse these lines. I am going to share some of the music stuff other than my poetry that really keep influencing me to be alive, all time.
 Here we go. -Aroon Che

From up above I heard
The angels sing to me these words
And sometimes in your eyes
I see the beauty in the world
Oh, now I'm floating so high
I blossom and die
Send your storm and your lightning to strike
Me between the eyes
Eyes
Sometimes the stars decide
To reflect in puddles in the dirt
When I look in your eyes
I forget all about what hurts
Oh, now I'm floating so high
I blossom and die
Send your storm and your lightning to strike
Me between the eyes
And cry
Believe in miracles
Oh hey, I'm floating up above the world now
Oh hey, I'm floating up above the world now
Oh yeah, yeah, yeah
Uh, uh, uh, yeah, yeah, yeah
Uh, uh, uh

Written by Anthony John Martin, Guy Rupert, Jonathan Buckland, William Champion • Copyright © Universal Music Publishing Group

Watch it on youtube 

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Of love and liberty

No one digs their own skin 
Deep to find a timid angel
Hiding from plays what the body run
To the mind in the race of survival
The caves that our best 
Go dark all the day 
And bright all the night
As dark as what your poems say
Stop by the space between the hands 
Of clock and measure your life
To why we run always
Pumping the greed beyond its size
Give a chance to self
Be the angel that brings you out of this grief.
Be the angel, of love and liberty

-Aroon Che

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The Fearless

 No wonder where you walk in
And who you walk out from
The fear that struggles inside you
To kill itself looks at the world outside
Through the glassy skins of yours
Tells me one thing,about love.
That no one is free
But good enough to be free.
And that no one is a slave
But bad enough to be one.
It is where we are now
Where the mountains want to flow
Like spineless rivers
And where the dying rivers want to reborn
As those ageless mountains
Its not who you are
But who you fear to be
That cuts down most of your smile, inch by inch.

-Aroon Che

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Survive to Win

" With bone sticking physics, and burning eyes as red as some setting star , he spoke his last words of our journey.  We werent big philosophical throughout this last meeting because we knew we are failing, right from the inception of these aged ideologies and meaningless rebel attitude. We burnt down a  railway station last week and a post office the other week. We didnt know the force that chased us to do these things. I was twelve then and now I am thirty.  He was lying before me with a pain of dying truth. He began to resonate his last lines into my mind.
" The one and only truth is survival. Survival is like drinking nature with tumbler made of hunger and rights. Everyone will have one. Now thats where many of us complain. Why do some drink more and why the rest less ?  You have to dig into nature , fight the odds and then dip your tumbler to get this nature. Many of us stay forever poor because they sell their tumblers to the clever and stay lazy the rest of their lives. They sell and work day and night helping the rich to dig nature. They die poor.
Never ever sell your right and your hunger to anyone. It will cost you a revolution.
He died and I left for the town in last bus before it dawned.
The forest died."
- The Wednesday Girl
   Aroon Che

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The Showlight

There is this small guy who , I see daily,  plays the game in the best way anyone would imagine to. But from a little conversation with him I sensed not a trace of happiness. He talked about his ways and norms he created for himself to play the game and what he said is what exactly made him different from other players and this difference or lacuna stuck me point blank when he pointed to me a far away structure, I believe,  which is a stadium.

He sighed that he could never get into it and he had reasons. He said his play is unacceptable.  He constantly contributed himself to street plays and training guys he meet there which, with no second thought, fetched him nothing but those little smiles he never fakes.

Asking why he never tried to play for real audience, all I could get is a good volume of silence from his face with smile still hanging on.He asked me to define audience.

By the time its evening, he left me a note which I got to read in the evening bus,
that said in plain words, " When you move out from your own self,  the world is then ready to lecture and becomes your audience. And you will need to play for them more than what you want to play for your self. I dont need that kind of audience that chase me beyond my dreams."
I folded it back to my diaries and looked onto the setting sun. The guy is there somewhere in the narrow lanes, playing with the street guys and when he finishes it he goes back to sleep smiling.  But isnt that victory? But what is real  audience he is talking about?

Lastly I learnt, a loser is not when he doesnt know the answers but he is really one when he himself doesnt understand the answers he is writing. And a winner is not when he completes his answers he is expected to write, he is really when his answers give rise to new questions.
I just couldn't get him answers.  I feel some make their way to graves too early, too sober.
May be their life expectancies are far shorter than their breakeven points.
Or may be there is never a thing like Audience.

The bus hit the highway and I got into sleep.

- Aroon Che

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One but less

" That moment when the lights go off, the television and phones go mute, when the rooms are empty, and the wardrobe is pretty spacious than you need, when the dining room looks blank and the balconies get deserted. That moment when the roads are empty and the shops are lonely and there is no one to bill your goods. That moment when you visit your school and the teachers find hard to find you in their memories. That moment when you watch movies, smile and jump till you find you are alone in a fantasy. That moment when you drink goblets of beer , feel happy that you achieved the world, and sleep with a prostitute only to wake up in the morning to find ashamed to look at yourself in the mirror. That moment when you find that friends around you get diluted as they sense downfall of your career and money. That moment when you conclude you are not just alone and you feel sad to know this fact.

Its this moment that enlightens you that you are more than an individual and being individual is crime.

The best part of life is mending it, not morphing  it."
- Aroon Che

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Something's out there

Didn't know that the sun out there

Is looking for me to get a little light more

Didn't know that this rain that falls here

Is helping me to find a chance to wipe my tears

Didn't know that these roads are waiting

For me walk them to find myself a home

Didn't know that river that is flowing

Down here to my feet want to clean the mud

Didn't know that the mountains up there

Inspire me to climb up to the heights

When all I was doing is running behind the immovable

Something else outside of me is sliding the ground below

More than what love is to be called divine

And precious than these wars we cheapen

Out there , the world is busy but still eyes

On what we do and what we can do.

To difference the waking inspirations

And the walking influences.

You can be anything

You can be everything

You can be something.

-Aroon Che

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Make our pain triumph

The shady lamps
With oils burning our desires
To ash as black as beautiful eyes
Those shady lamps stand
In the middle of our roads
By the windows of our houses
Under the moon and darkness
Those shady lamps
Are too old like our minds
Too orthodox like our habits
And too strong like our weaknesses
We shall never discuss but fuel
Them everyday and every night
No one wrote about them in diaries
Or even told their children as fairy tales
Those shady lamps follow us
To our cradles and to our graves
The shady lamps
Fill us with love and lust
In relations and loneliness
Like air sniffing the gold dust
It makes blind but farsighted
It makes us dead but alive
It makes us nothing but everything
The shady lamps live
So do we
They soon shall die
So do we.
In the roads of this life
The shady lamps
Walk us to everyday grief
But burn us one day on pyre of bliss
That's the whole essence
Of having the lamps shady but with luminescence
Oh father,
Pour in more oil
And illuminate the darkness
Make our pain triumph
In these essential journeys
Into every corner
Of these spherical minds.

-Aroon Che

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Be not what you do not need to be

To the sky that's limiting
To the night that fears darkness
To the earth that's growing weak
To the day that's distancing light
To the bird that's chopping its wings
To the jungle that's fueling its fire
To the animal that's hiding with fear
I sing to them, this song of despair
I sing to them, this song from everywhere
I want them to look into mirrors
And find out their real faces
Hidden in the dogmatic wrinkles
And layers of illusive powders.
I want them to come out of their places
And walk into the new roads of freedom.
Freedom, my friend, like loneliness, its a choice we make
The world has what you want to take
Be not the sky that limits itself
Be not the earth that's weakening from inside
Be not that bird,be not that animal
Be not that day, be not that jungle
Be not that night, be not a fairy tale.
Be not what you do not need to be.

-Aroon Che

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The World is waiting to kiss you

What's blinding us
Is not the tinted windows
But our weakness
To imagine a little more
Its our dumbness
To not to cry when it pains
But not our language or silence
Its our apathy
To not to pick up the fallen minds
But not our strength or sense
Its our prejudice
To not to stay together and fight
But not our singularity or right
Its not the darkness
That's stopping us to search the lost
But the lights disclose
Our fear to look into ourselves
Fear not ,my friend
The images what your mirrors show
Can be changed
Break not those mirrors to hide your wrinkles
But fill in yourself
Some love and response
The world is waiting to kiss you
Walk out of darkness
Walk out of weakness
Walk into the eternity
Into this journey of humanity.

-Aroon Che

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Cross the Limits of our Skins

Tomorrow's a today
And this fence is a mirage
Nothing binds us
This love,this war but faith
In our mothers and in our fathers
Our fathers fought this battle
Of life ,liberty and happiness
We were born in the middle
Of those blood stained hours
Our mothers fought the riddle
Of time, pressure and darkness
We were born black as coal
We were born weak as a leaf
But what made us shine
And what made us strong
What made us walk the roads
And cross the limits of our skins
What made us stand fearless
Before these ruthless goliaths
I sing to you in this hour of despair
Tomorrow's a today
And we shall find our ways to repair
The time we lost all the way.

-Aroon Che

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The Night's still there

This one has a true mark on me when I painted it last night. I was weak from all the day's work and when this music from Coldplay's song MIRACLES  started singing into my mind I had to show it somewhere somehow and this painting happened. It brought me back where I feared to be.

-Aroon Che

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The Innocence of Hate

How sad it looked
At our faces as we walk on its shores
Mocking at its waves that run
One after another but couldn't touch our feet.
It never tried to reach us
Though it lives around us
The sea has its might
Not in the tender waves that tries to escape to the shores
But deep in the mind where we fear to dare.
Its not that might we try to achieve in us
But the decoration of the weakness in our minds
That makes us criticize great things
When they are happening around us
They do happen
Like the sun that never needs any lift but rises
Like that moon that never needs our light but shines
Like any other great mind
That smiles no matter what others sound.

-Aroon Che
 

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The Train that takes you far away, Art ft.

The train that travels from you to me should bring me happiness but not reasons, memories but not nightmares, ideas but not potholes love but not lust, peace but not war. And thats the meaning of Life. Its always translated as understood.Art by Aroon Che

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No

"Our maps shouldn't make us handicap to try roads less traveled,
Our music pods shouldn't make us dumb to voice out our anger,
Our rack of books shouldn't make us blind to the ever changing meanings,
Our sports and games shouldn't make us sick towards others winning their way,
Our paintings shouldn't make us mask our faces with this favoritism,
Our stories and movies shouldn't make us too busy to visit the other side,
Because we are what our hobbies are,
Because this world is just the magnified version of our minds."

-AroonChe

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Lot but won

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Home

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The Knot

" I still remember that day, it took a lot of me, to translate a pain into this sketch. I dont know why I did this. But then, its real. Its everywhere, here and there. My imagination, for some bad reasons, is real."
-Aroon Che

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Music

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Guild

Those loops in your sense, 

Woven by the hands of your guild , 

 With the finest threads of ignorance, 

Simply makes you little less to a god.

-Aroon Che

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The Inception

Inception is a beginning. A beginning is a thought. A thought is a product of your wisdom. Wisdom is the result of your understanding. Your understanding is your exposure. Your exposure is your living. Your living is your every moment, accountable and idle. And then it’s again an inception. A beginning begins a beginning. And this beginning begins another beginning. So it’s all a beginning after a beginning, a start after a start. A level in a level is what we are in and as a result of this we grow into a thorny reference book. And how far you are into these kinds of things which implicate you to some kind of unreal realities is what defines your wisdom. An unreal reality is which appears to be moving, but in real it is not. Just look outside your window or around now and what do you see? Beautiful scenery, children playing and maybe it is sunny or may be raining. You will find a small score or smears in everything you see from these kinds of tranquil observations. You feel like to take back yourself to some of your memorable histories hiding behind those scores or smears, i mean, i am using the word smear to point out the referable bookmarks we usually store to go back and live with our own times, mostly the best times. 

Subconscious mind is your archive here. It will take you back so swiftly if you allow, to the memories, the memories you like to share or live in them forever. It is quite sensible to say that we don’t forget these memories, good and bad ,as easy as we appear to or we promise to do so. We have them planted deep inside our scaly minds. The emotional fertility of our mind makes them stay alive for years. We bring these planted nurseries of memories to the present world, trying to repair them, hoping to modify them or in the best cases, to enhance them to their best forms. But it never to be forgotten that any kind of past is made of a stone that doesn’t obey chiselling. It is meant to be reused the way it is. And we try to ignore this aspect. Modification has no meaning here, in a subconscious memory. The levels down there are not frozen but open for visits. You can go down to your memories and live in/with them the way you want. You can talk to everyone you see there the same way you spoke to them earlier, or even better. The least you can do is to roam around and the worst you can do is to try to change it. Expectations and corrections add here. Surprisingly none of these attempts work well, because the levels aren’t frozen, but the subjects and their limitations are. How you live in there is as identical as a visiting a museum, where you can talk to things, express your love to them but never can expect them back to be the same. A museum is storage of memories, memories that won’t change forever. You are just a visitor. You shall come and go. But all those communications you do with these museum things can be possibly the result of what you wanted to create in the present level which begins to take in effect the moment you step out of the museum. The memories remain same, sometimes rejuvenated. Resurrection begins. 

While you deeply are involved in looking your inside, some mistakes what you found there happens to get repeated in your present level. We alert ourselves to rectify them. We shuttle between these two levels, past and present to troubleshoot the happenings. Sometimes mistakes take up to new shapes. You begin to wonder how to relate them to your previous one and try to derive coherence. Most of the time is lost in assuming it to be old ones and you end up committing a new one. This is spread to your daily routine. You try to educate others, talk to them about your past, through different media. Writers do it more often. We read their mistakes through their stories and get implanted with a subconscious memory, which might, sometimes, entirely change the reader’s life. I have seen people talking about role models and inspiring stories. These role models who can be your father or a film star communicates their past with you, which though you weren’t part of it ,becomes your subjective past. Subjective past or memories begin at home. Your mom or dad screwing you up to be what they wanted you to be like, is one good example. Their subconscious memory, reflexes begins to affect your present life, in a way like decision making or aims. It is just another beginning. Your father or mother or teacher or friends or anyone to whom you listen to creates a memory that can haunt you for your life, because you are being observed through a window of the past, others’ past. This is something that is unavoidable. We technically die here ending up in someone else unconstructed dream, the limbo I mean what we unknowingly become a citizen of. You grow old with those planted ideas assuming that its your only fate. I know friends who live in the limbo, growing sick and helpless, just because they followed blindly others’ dream. They don’t know the exit of the maze they are in. Change comes progressively as you meet someone who can make you remind all your mistakes and when you look up to see the exit, you will know you are out of limbo and into the reality. You will begin to pass on your lessons to others. And that is how things are incepted into others’ mind. You will begin to resurrect your lifestyle, trying to undo the reality in unreality. Reality in unreality is something like the story of the fire. To upgrade this it is just an assumed reality in an unexpected reality. It is sometimes the helpless situation that takes up the unexpected reality’s position. But the assumed reality stay fit to be lived as long as you march forward in your unreal times. Time fails to mention you when it comes out. It only teaches you lessons that you should prefer to make it an open source to others because you must have started this unreality expedition for your reality on basis of one such open sources. And such open sources are more important and are the only unbiased guides. This leads you to go heights you dream of. You can be what you wanted to be even when you are not young enough for it. You can start a new level or you can join already created levels to help them modify into a better form. 

So ambition never dies. It is just inherited to others. Like in a case of a man who wanted a light in his dark cave passed his desire to his generations. It went on to live like an assumed reality until it found happening in the hands of Edison. And until then it is just unexpected reality. Unexpected reality gives no other choice other than to accept it. It is we you have to step on this dirt to jump to higher levels of our assumed reality. And if you didn’t complete this jump, you better give a chance to someone in the next levels to continue your leap. And what ever you see through your window will be as beautiful as a unit of arranged flower pots. As calm as a retired life. You are not there in the act, even when your reality is happening. That is what a true meaning of life and living all about. It makes your idea a legend. Feel like to start one such inception? You are already in one.

-Aroon Che

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The Deception

 We wake up from our dreams in night and that moment is remembered. We wake up and get down from our beds laid in cellular rooms with no light to see and no space to move. We are never hungry for some reason and all we could sense is the sounds outside. People talking, fighting , loving, waging wars , backbiting and blessing. We somehow find a walk out of the beds to the doors only to open it to find a busy corridor, filled with filth and people of our kind. We look back to see our rooms and then back to corridor. For some reason or instinct , we find the rooms are noisy though empty and the corridor silent though filled with everything. We walk out of our rooms into the corridor , naked and innocent, happy and curious. People busy till then, began to greet us and make friends. Some give food. Some give clothes. Some give money. Some give knowledge. And we join the corridor , getting busy and dirty. Slowly we are lost in the crowd, handful of money and lust. We begin to grow old, old enough to grow mad. Running in the corridor after nothing, for years and years. We form groups, we make enemies, we wage wars , we preach peace, we master someone else and we live as slave to others, we do everything and fall into some kind of natural sleep though awake all the time. We pinch at times to find if its still the dream we woke up from. And one moment we sit down aside, weak and alone, poor and old, by the way getting stamped by the same people. We are no longer a friend or enemy to them. Its then we get reminded of the cellular room. We stand up with blood gathering all the sugars and run with madness in search of the room. We want to get back and resume the dream. We want that noise and emptiness to fill us. And we will find it. A kind of peace hovers over our heads as we walk inside and feel the bed and pillows. We gently rest ourselves on it and begin to hear a lullaby covering our smiling faces. And the dream resumes.

-Aroon Che

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THE WAIT

Nobody is home
When I look around
Where did they go
When the clocks tick wild
The houses are empty
Like temples with gods
The rooms stink
Like grave full of sins
Where did all these men go
They always sang about war
Where did all these women hide
They always danced for peace
Where did all these children sleep
They always dreamed of sharing happiness
And why am I alone
I die not of these medicines
Not of these weakness
But of this loneliness
I ll wait
For a lifetime
To see the gods
Getting birth from this soil and air
I ll wait
With a hope
To see if the gods extend themselves to heal this wound.

-Aroon Che

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The Clowns

Crying on the pile of brothers, in the wall street full of running numbers, with papers falling down to oily roads, his weak limbs shook him a little like some quake born out of nothing like some fall crossing the gravity he knelt down with slowness of apathy the war is growing young and the skies fill with red fog his eyes balls began to slide to the wetness of his inherited tears to the economy of one's greed on to the marx's philosophy of ignorance his shiny tuxedo shone a little more with his weary blood dripping ounce by ounce with a rythm of whore turning him into a singularity of rising in this weak weak life in this mighty mighty death of coins, cards and paychecks of hunger, greed and slaves. fishing in the mirages of this capital circus.

-Aroon Che

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Only to die

The flying birds 

Living in air above all 

Above these trees and cages 

And nests that breed 

The helplessness of greed 

Flying high day and night 

With wings and eyes 

Wide open to darkness and light 

They look never down but up 

They speed never backward but forward 

Soaring high and high with anger 

Of youth over the killing coup 

Down below rotting the little world 

Bartering the respect for every hunger 

The flying birds Look old at young 

And die with a face of infant their hard feet are made of mud 

From mountains and river bed 

Burnt in sun of history of war 

Their hands are smooth 

Like silk from good shepherd 

And kind like sea breeze 

Sailing the empty boats 

To the shores of sailors 

The flying birds 

Never cry at the pain 

Never smile at any trace of happiness 

They fly singing lines 

From some epic war 

That brought freedom and voice 

They fly very far 

Till they don’t hear 

The cries they fight for 

They feel the deafness 

Blinding their own voices 

In the heights filled with nothing space 

Their bodies heat up 

Losing the water 

To singing throats and hands that reap 

The empty fields of governance 

And the deadly crops of difference 

The flying birds 

Soon boil losing their blood 

To the sun that’s nearing 

Growing minute by minute more red 

To these friends of mine soaring 

The flying birds 

Have their flesh torn 

From friction of bulging gases 

Bringing out the new born 

From within the remains 

They soon die In space out there 

For the smiles of world below here 

Their ashes are picked 

Up in the pages of history 

And are made strong but weak 

Strong because they inspire 

Weak because they just inspire. 

The coup never ends 

Like their desire to fly high 

And repair the sun above 

That breed the jungle below 

And their science 

To de-acidify the clouds 

That water the soils here. 

Nature is beyond their song 

And nobody knows what’s wrong. 

May be we shall never fly 

Like those flying birds 

Only to die 

To save the god in us.

-Aroon Che

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Of mind,soul and faith

When you sing aloud 
With this beautiful voice 
Onto the sky above 
I see the clouds gathering 
Flowing in like waves of fur 
To listen this soothing song 
I see them bend a little 
To stretch their arms 
Raining on this plant 
I see this red rose 
Opening its eyes to the whole world 
But why cant you sing all the year long 
To keep the roses as red as they are 
I gently questioned the voice 
I do but, she answered 
But there's my sisters singing far from here 
Louder than me, but beautiful as mine 
One sing of sacrifice following my voice 
She sings of divinity in nature 
Stopping the roses to grow in vanity 
It sings of hands that can hold 
The pride in us, 
 It sings of legs that can walk us 
The lanes of an extrovert 
And that makes the roses wither 
Falling down to kiss the mother 
Taking down the leaves to offer 
This mother a gift of love for her labor. 
And then sing louder another sister 
A song of sustain In the times of essential pain 
She sings of tolerance that can hold 
One's ability to live without everything 
She sings of silence that can weld 
The gaps of survival and living 
Covering the plant with its blanket 
Of snow and pain 
The roses die soon 
Before the song ends 
Just when this makes me cry 
My elder sister sings of anger 
She sings of revenge and fury 
And when she sings louder than anyone 
The evil clouds run away with fear 
Letting the sun hit the soil hard as ever 
The blanket tears down into pieces 
And the grief hides behind the rocks 
The voice cries with great responsibility 
Like of a father towards child 
Like of a teacher towards student 
It wakes up the inner souls 
Waiting to die in the corners 
Of mind,soul and faith 
But as the voice is heard 
They come out for its warmth 
Breaking down the soil hard 
My angry sister would only listen to me 
When I urge to calm down 
As I begin to sing the song of happiness 
She stops and listens to me 
And smiles forgetting the revenge 
She dances to me and gifts me a ring 
Everyday in colors of blue,red and orange 
I wear it everytime it lets the sun kiss me 
To show it bliss as the roses come back 
As I sing day and night with torrents 
The roses dance to my voice 
Like a war that bow its head to a peace 
The voice ends its answers 
And wait for me to decide my choice 
It says there is no end to this fight of songs 
For every pride should see a fall 
Every fall should endure the pain 
Every pain should teach a lesson 
And every lesson should give us happiness 
The voice continue to sing 
As I open my face to every drop 
 It rains on me 
Like it does on those red roses.

-Aroon Che

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Happiness is

The sails I look for 
On the tides of red sea 
Through a glass, broken out of fight 
Between the deserved to live 
And the strongest to survive. 
I look for them under the dim lights 
Of the free moon and luck 
The sails ,as the books say 
Shall come to take us shores 
I am broken alone with this little dream 
With nothing in hands but the glass piece 
I shall believe in their return 
From the sands of time 
So it was written in every story of hope 
And when they come 
I ll board the helm 
And steer to shores 
To The shores of carefree minds 
For All I wanted is a little peace 
Enough to wake up from my pain 
Come with me, my brothers 
To sail these waters of misery 
Onto the beaches of humanity.

-Aroon Che

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Centre of a Wreck

The kitchen's in fire, 
And the streets are bare, 
The men walked in with guns 
Breaking the white walls 
Killed my father 
With bullets from their guns of hate 
Burnt my mother 
With the fire from their matchsticks of rage 
The kitchen's in fire 
Fuming with cries of my mother 
And the streets are bare 
Filled with carcasses all over 
They said its peace 
In the televisions and radios 
They said its to protect rights 
In the newspapers and promises 
But what I see is the blood stained face 
Of a child searching for his arm 
In all this pile of blood and flesh 
But what I see is the smudge of the cake 
Of some birthday party of someone's love 
All over the broken table in the center of this wreck. 
I see only this and many but not peace 
I hear only cries and agony but not democracy 
Where is this happiness and who defines it for us 
The guns from the west or the slaves from the east?

-Aroon Che

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