The problem of ends - 1

He took the letter from his father and started walking towards the post office. That big cylindrical thing wearing a black cap with a gentle expression of "Please come hither" on its face, eyes bowed down in courtesy and partially hidden in the shadow of the black cap, a square mouth in the middle wide open, body painted in kumkum red, standing just outside the walls of the post office always amused him as a kid. He would wonder how the letter reached the person whose name was written on the envelope. And as he went closer to the red box, he saw the hidden hollow eyes lift their eyelids up and greet him. He simply loved dropping letters into the postbox. Sometimes, he just put his hands in and tried to reach into where he dropped his letters, deep. He knew what lay inside was mystery and that his fingers were trying to reach the skies, of another world, where his uncle lived. Afterall the letter was to reach his uncle. A nice, comforting thought, probably like 'Alice In Wonderland' that he watched on every Sunday. He loved Alice and the rabbit that carried a clock, the mushroom and the shape of its underneath and all the green of the woods. "How can my uncle ever live in such a small box?", he asked himself. But he knew things were not what they looked like, something that he forgot though as he grew up, but knew it well as a kid, before his teachers and textbooks told him that a molecule of water is two hydrogen atoms and one oxygen atom.

"The box that I am in must be really wonderful", he thought, when he heard his father shout from a distance, "Have you finished with dropping the letter into the postbox?". 'Alice' was in her wonderland for half-an-hour a week and he would be glued to the TV set for the few years when it was telecast. Slowly he started liking the Science and Maths courses in his school. And in school he was told by his teacher about how the postal system worked. He was convinced about the duties of a postman and of the kumkum red postbox. Nothing was a wonder anymore.


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Untitled 1

I have been in love, for a very long time, with gloomy daylight and downpour. She is back again. As I write this down, the raindrops are already splattering and making sounds outside my window. I wonder what it is that heals my within, the everyday scars of mundaneness, they just disappear when the air starts smelling of wet soil. Everytime the grey clouds come out to play, they play the song that I like the most. They say it's mystery. Just inanimate drops of water, and molecules of air, and wavelenghts of light - no life. What if Someone filled life into these? Afterall, that is what I am - a mystery identifying with another.


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The song of a dead poet

Lost in the world of maya. A path in every direction seems endless, infinite. Where shall I go? To where I see colourful lights like on a Deepavali night? Or where I see an oasis from a distance through a long, dry desert? I can never be sure of the oasis, it might turn out to be an ocean, a mirage. I am not gifted with such far vision. Extraordinary men are gifted with such vision. I am born ordinary and I live ordinary. I sing and that is my only solace. Through desert and rain alike, I can sing. Looking at a bird I can fly on its wings. Looking at the sky I can be the wind. Closing my eyes I can be the King of lands. I sing, therefore I am...

I thought of taking the path of colours and I thought of taking the path of the deserts. But, I take neither. I am not looking at my feet, I am looking at the sky and the clouds are moving. I do not know if they mean I am, indeed. The sky is endless and so is the land. The sky is free, the land is not. There are no thorns on the sky, no lights of fantasy glittering and drawing senses to its bosom. The sky is free, so am I...

I once followed the glitter. I felt I found heaven. I felt I found my home. I saw no direction diverging from my home, the ground was so green, the air was so pure. I smiled in happiness and sang in joy. The next day I woke up. I wondered if the heaven was only a dream. How could the land be so green and the air so thin? The land was cracked with scarcity, as many scars on its face as many thoughts that ran through my bewildered mind. I sang in despair. I looked at my feet and I cried, I looked at my feet and I had smiled. But I sang throughout, equally in heaven and in hell. Equally as the sky over.

Let the infinite directions direct themselves, I shall not be amused. Let my feet burn in the big sands or be kissed by velvet soil, I shall not rotate my eyes downwards. I look at the sky and sing. I see only one direction here. I have no choice to make. My eyes have gained sight here, I can see farther and farther. This is a way that leads inwards. My song takes me one step ahead, inward. My feet are on thorns, but the feet are not mine. The song is mine. I am the song...

I am a poet. And my feet have now taken off.

Please answer...

Going through the first few pages of a book on Neural Networks, I felt a surge of discomforting thoughts in my plexus. Thinking about what neuralcomputers have set out to achieve, I could not further imagine what the world would be like when they were ready. Speculations and speculations. That would indeed take us to the beginning of another civilization. We would be in a different role though, totally out-of-civilization. The role of 'a-one-who-controls', the Almighty. The machines shall construct an universe around themselves(why not?) and start questioning things about it(If I can define an universe as the biggest pattern that an intellect can conceive of). They would start thinking and asking. Let's somehow make an assumption that they cannot feel our presence, rather we design them in such a fashion. They will certainly go nuts about why and from where they came into existence. Given that they are ideal pattern recognizing machines, they would start making sense of things that they 'see' and come up with theories and ideas. They would create knowledge, no matter how big they would, it invariably has to be a subset of the human knowledge. The machines would however be unaware of the fact that they have set out to achieve someone else's purpose, never knowing whose. That would be fantastic, why not? We humans would bask in admiration of our own intelligence and creativity. If it happens some day ... as I started with. But what makes me go nuts about this idea of neural computers?

Am I a neural computer myself? Is there anyone one notch higher up? My architect? Please answer ...
Maybe I first need to finish reading the book.