To Time it never seems that he is brave
To set himself against the peaks of snow
To lay them level with the running wave,
Nor is he overjoyed when they lie low,
But only grave, contemplative and grave.
For there was never yet philosoper
That could endure the toothache patiently,
However they have writ the style of gods,
And made a push at chance and sufferance.
Why is it that so many of us persist in thinking that autumn is a sad season? Nature has merely fallen asleep, and her dreams must be beautiful if we are to judge by her countenance.
We've learned a lot from the great psychologists. Wilhelm Reich wrote about the relationship between fascism and sexual repression. Freud rediscovered the underworld of consciousness that European rationalism had denied. But when you have a nation of people in therapy and counselling, "support" groups for every kind of human condition, where, in the clichés of that milieu, people "share" and "heal," the question, "What for?", "What now?" is no longer asked.
And some of your elders remember pleasures with regret like wrongs committed in drunkenness. But regret is the beclouding of the mind and not its chastisement. They should remember their pleasures with gratitude, as they would the harvest of a summer.
There have been summits of civilization at which heretics like Socrates , who was killed because he was wiser than his neighbors, have not been tortured, but ordered to kill themselves in the most painless manner known to their judges. But from that summit there was a speedy relapse into our present savagery.
A Boy sends a friend request
to a
girl on Facebook :-
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Girl - kaun ho tum ??
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Boy - Hasrat tumhari
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Girl - Chate kya ho ?
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Boy - Mohhabat tumhari...
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Girl - Pachtaonge tum
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Boy - Kismat hamari
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Girl - Married hoon main
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Boy - Toh status single se
hata
manhoos naari :
Sabhi Ko Sabhi Kuch Nahi Milta,
Nadi Ki Har Lehar Ko Sahil Nahi
Milta, Yeh Dilwalo Ki Duniya Hai
Ajeeb, Kisi Se Dil Nahi
Milta To Koi Dil Se Nahi Milta!