The predicament of knowing and its folly through a ventriloquism of treachery!: A poem  

Bertrand Russel says all philosophy started with Thales 

It is only Thales’ water. Western chauvinism! I beg to differ. 

If you can hear the songs of many civilisations screaming  

before the Greeks. And would you say that all psychology 

started with Sigmund Freud? What about Fyodr Dostoyevsky’s 

experience with pain, guilt and suffering? I have just learnt  

that I am neither a philosopher nor psychologist. And where 

did I start my journey with conviction; on which science? 

Is mysticism a science? Or is remembrance a mere illusion? 

No faculty of education understands reincarnation. I am not  

deluded in the past of my being. I know its shapes and forms. 

But my present is like a conundrum. There is an inevitability. 

Like an earth caught in the trajectory of its own demise. 

Is too much believing a catastrophe? Why would I shudder at myself, 

when the contraptions of my defeat are in the devices invented 

by others…when the boundaries between love and hate  

conspire to make each of them my predicament of  being delusional. 

Would I forgive the love that consorts with hate? I always felt confident  

in my ability to discern? How confounding, then is a matrix? Where is the  

glory in loving then, when love is so vulnerable to the fear…? 

We don’t need governments to tell us the law of ourselves.  

Remember, Samson bound and deceived; failing to make the temples  

of treachery come down on the heads that treacherised him.  

How do I wash off the spiders and scorpions that persist  

in the ambience of my television mind, that can only display 

what is broadcast. And even intuition be defaulted by propaganda?  

Would the evil insects drainpipe themselves into the oblivion I prefer them to go! 

Does evil have any conscience, guilt or shame? Then what is redemption; all education? 

Can I see that logic is only an invention, philosophy is only  

a futile practice of sceptical minds, and psychology no 

exactitude to analyse and decipher? There is something more 

pristine…locked in dimensions to be unfurled secretively. 

Would Jubail, Tubalcain, Jabal and Namah leave the wisdom 

on the stella before the deluge, to be rediscovered? 

What is an elite that uses sacred mystery for its own selfishness?  

Those that can see, can see beyond. But even everything  

that I owe to my penetrating wisdom, my self-smart beliefs and convictions 

rustle like fallen leaves to dust at the hands of an imposing treachery that has lasted  

an eternity. What are the swords of God’s knowledge when he  

too is in a blindfolded bondage of an evil tormentor (Prakash Saint Paul), 

who seeks to garner the vintage of God’s miraculous being for his (Saint Paul’s) 

selfish victory and God’s defeat? Must God be backsitting in a car that he alone can drive 

but feel the folly and futility of the GPS that echoes the wickedness of those evil treacherous deceitful minds?!