Guff House

Preface I didn't write this poem to be a poet. I wrote it because I kept watching people fall, into darkness, into numbness, into the kind of life that moves but doesn't feel. And I couldn't stop seeing it. The ones who run the streets at midnight. The ones who reach for something holy and come back with bloody hands. The ones who know exactly what freedom would feel like but stand trembling at the door of it. This poem is for them. It is also, honestly, for me. It is loud because the silence was louder. It is messy because the truth usually is. It reaches for Nietzsche and Gollum and E=mc² not to sound clever but because that is genuinely how a mind in pain moves, everywhere at once, grabbing at anything that might explain the weight. I don't know if it is a good poem. I know it is an honest one. If you are someone who has ever felt too awake for this world, too aware, too feeling, too much, then maybe some line in here will find you. That is all I was ever hoping for....

On nonconformism, the fragmentation of shared story, and the spaces where genuine thought becomes possible I. The Refusal To refuse every ideology is not emptiness. It is the beginning of a more honest philosophy. There is a kind of thinker who cannot comfortably inhabit any single ideology, not from indecision or cowardice, but from a deeper fidelity to what they actually observe. They notice that liberalism, taken to its extreme, produces the cancel culture it was meant to prevent. That capitalism promises freedom but generates new forms of dependency. That every ism, however noble at its origin, eventually hardens into dogma and begins to distort the reality it once described. This is not nihilism. It is a form of intellectual nonconformism, one that refuses the comfort of a fixed lens in favor of the discipline of continued looking. Such a thinker does not reject ideology carelessly. They reject it carefully, having observed what ideologies do to human beings over time. The questio...

The day  was dead and cursed, The stage stood as a vacuum, Containing everything yet feeling hollow, The wind had ceased to breathe, Yet the nostril sensed the air grow heavy. For the act had ended the man, Like a hanged soul suspended from the ceiling, Completely breathless, Entirely senseless, Utterly mindless His nose no longer smells, His heart no longer feels, His eyes no longer see, His skin no longer senses Seemingly, dead. Yet his face was glorious, As if still burning alive inside, Cradling hope within his soul, His mind had vanished into silence But his tongue seemed desperate, To narrate the tale of pain That hunted his life and heart, Like a nightmare born of thunderous midnight. I felt his ear, so sensible, As if forever ready to listen To words of compassion and love, For the pain and woe of his life That led his conscience toward the act. I had known him long  A man carved from courage and bravery, A hero forged in war, Celebrated in the great storie...

Burdon, the young man, was gasping, trembling, dying near the door of Hell itself. He forced strength into his legs through sheer will. He could no longer feel the blushing of the wind, the murmuring of birds, or the sight of beauty. He was completely numb. He is lost in shadow. Body feels pain born from depth. Heart burns with an intangible flame  a scarlet rose, trembling, ready to bloom. Now he no longer wants to feel the essence of life, the glowing of light. He no longer wants to know the world of lies dressed in silk. He has become darker than darkness. But do not be afraid  he will burst into light, fierce enough to set the universe ablaze. Slowly, with the heavy pace of a man returning to his origin, he moved toward the place where his life had first taken shape. He opened the door, the room seemed vacant, completely void, but the man he most feared was sitting in the chair at the corner, eyes fixed on the entrance. He had been waiting. It was plain to see. "You are al...

The definition of thinking has been changing for every generation, even one philosopher does not agree with another's definition. The question before moving ahead on the topic: what does it mean to be thinking? Philosophers commonly say it is the distinction of being human, spiritualists say it is the curse of being human. Whose side do I take? I take the side of the philosopher. There are numerous scientific explorations about what thinking is, and now, there is a striking difficulty in defining organic and inorganic thinking. On one side, we have the Kantian definition of thinking, on another we have the neuroscience perspective, and on another, the pandits from the AI industry. But the question raised by the prominent mathematician Alan Turing sums all of these into one: if something thinks differently, does it mean it does not think at all? Now, with this unsettled definition of thinking, it will be impossible to provide a complete vision of the future of thinking, which constr...

Life itself is a question, very hard to answer — or an answer to a question never asked. Along with this dire doubt, adding the adjective in front of it without any clarification is weird, if you ask me. But what determines good or bad, better or worse, best or worst? Any combination of these two adjectives gives meaning when attached to life, yet the meaning shifts depending on who is holding the measuring stick and what century they happen to be standing in. In times past, priests set the rules for the best life. Connecting or being close to the divine — obedience, ritual, humility before God — these were the coordinates by which a life could be plotted and judged. The blueprint was clear. Follow it and you were promised something beyond this life, which conveniently made the suffering inside this life easier to tolerate and easier to administrate. But did these rules ever work for all humans to have a good life? The serf who prayed daily and died young of famine was technically foll...

The dark pheonix, comes at mid-night, He touches me, whispering the oaths, Slowly he changes me in dragon, The myths never gets real. Soul, I know it's not there. Mind, I know it's real. And he tells me. Soul and mind are muds in the water. You're only one, existed to enter new realm. Realm of self- devastation,  State of chronic meaninglessness, But, where was the meaning at all? He laughed at me. He was crazy, I can say just in glimpse. But there is something, he is true about. Though I fail to view. "You're drunk. Ain't you?" He asked. He attacks my ego. I kill him. I think, he will speak to me, while dying. But he is silent, I get furious. I shout to his death, "See, where is meaning?" Never born again, without hope. I'll kill you, again. I've hoped, I've got the inner peace. But it was never there. It was self manifestation, I made. Well, what could I do? I don't have to fight anymore. Somebody else does, they don't care.