Wilderness.

Have you ever wondered how monotonous our lives are, the dreary nine-to-five jobs that we don’t even like? Don’t you ever feel like running away from all this monotony? Don’t you?
Most of us would surrender to this monotony, live a life that is well thought-out and keep on doing the same things we do every day. We get so used to this lifestyle that we think we have achieved everything in life.

We are all victims of bigotry, Ignorance, gender discrimination, religious wars, racism, sexism and all the ills of the society that we gradually accept these as part of our lives, we do not fight against them we don’t even budge to make a difference.

Between work-life troubles, family issues and the thirst of getting good grades, we tend to forget to live our lives. We tend to forget that there is a whole universe out there, from tiny exotic plants to the ravenous beasts, from the beauty of a delicate jellyfish to the enormity of massive mountains and from the immaculate beauty of the moon to the shimmering void of the stars.

If we look at our lives we feel like it is an incarceration with endless restrictions. We are controlled by the norms of the society, we have religious and ethnic restrictions, and we are controlled by our own emotions and trapped in our own egotism.

In order to perform our social ‘responsibilities’, we grow out of our dreams and the irresistible impulse to wander off in the wilderness eventually fades away. Even if we are not satisfied with our tedious lives we still go on because taking risks seem like a draconian task and not a passion, we get so used to the conformity that we never try to explore ourselves.

Now is the time, go look for ‘yourself’ in the wilderness, discern the unheard stories of the forest, and unravel the mysteries of the world!

 

Note: The picture was taken in Astore, North Pakistan. (June, 2016)

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Howl by Allen Ginsberg

For
Carl Solomon

I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
ery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
ment roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-
cohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and
lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of
Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo-
tionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook-
lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless
ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine
until the noise of wheels and children brought
them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s
floated out and sat through the stale beer after
noon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack
of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to
pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook-
lyn Bridge,
lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping
down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills
off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts
and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks
and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days
and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the
Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a
trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic
City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind-
ings and migraines of China under junk-with-
drawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the
railroad yard wondering where to go, and went,
leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
through snow toward lonesome farms in grand-
father night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep-
athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in-
stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis-
ionary indian angels who were visionary indian
angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore
gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla-
homa on the impulse of winter midnight street
light smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston
seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the
brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship
to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving
behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees
and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire
place Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the
F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist
eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incom-
prehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting
the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union
Square weeping and undressing while the sirens
of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed
down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also
wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked
and trembling before the machinery of other
skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight
in policecars for committing no crime but their
own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were
dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu-
scripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly
motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim,
the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean
love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose
gardens and the grass of public parks and
cemeteries scattering their semen freely to
whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up
with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath
when the blond & naked angel came to pierce
them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate
the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar
the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb
and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden
threads of the craftsman’s loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of
beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can-
dle and fell off the bed, and continued along
the floor and down the hall and ended fainting
on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and
come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling
in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning
but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sun
rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked
in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad
stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these
poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver–joy
to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls
in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’
rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with
gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet-
ticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station
solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in
dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and
picked themselves up out of basements hung
over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third
Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy-
ment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on
the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the
East River to open to a room full of steamheat
and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment
cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime
blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall
be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested
the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of
Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their
pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the
bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in
their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned
with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty
incantations which in the yellow morning were
stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht
& tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable
kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for
an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot
for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks
fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess-
fully, gave up and were forced to open antique
stores where they thought they were growing
old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits
on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
& the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments
of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the
fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis-
ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the
drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap-
pened and walked away unknown and forgotten
into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley
ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of
the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas-
saic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street,
danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed
phonograph records of nostalgic European
1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and
threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans
in their ears and the blast of colossal steam
whistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying
to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude
watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out
if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had
a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who
came back to Denver & waited in vain, who
watched over Denver & brooded & loned in
Denver and finally went away to find out the
Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying
for each other’s salvation and light and breasts,
until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for
impossible criminals with golden heads and the
charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet
blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky
Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys
or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or
Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the
daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp
notism & were left with their insanity & their
hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism
and subsequently presented themselves on the
granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads
and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding in-
stantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin
Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psycho-
therapy occupational therapy pingpong &
amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic
pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of
blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad
man doom of the wards of the madtowns of the
East,
Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid
halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rock-
ing and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench
dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a night-
mare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the
moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book
flung out of the tenement window, and the last
door closed at 4. A.M. and the last telephone
slammed at the wall in reply and the last fur-
nished room emptied down to the last piece of
mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted
on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that
imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of
hallucination–
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and
now you’re really in the total animal soup of
time–
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed
with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use
of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrat-
ing plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space
through images juxtaposed, and trapped the
archangel of the soul between 2 visual images
and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun
and dash of consciousness together jumping
with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna
Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human
prose and stand before you speechless and intel-
ligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet con-
fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm
of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown,
yet putting down here what might be left to say
in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in
the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the
suffering of America’s naked mind for love into
an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone
cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered
out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand
years.

II

What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open
their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi-
nation?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob
tainable dollars! Children screaming under the
stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men
weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the
loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy
judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the
crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of
sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment!
Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stun-
ned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose
blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers
are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a canni-
bal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking
tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows!
Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long
streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose fac-
tories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose
smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch
whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch
whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch
whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen!
Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream
Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in
Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom
I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch
who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy!
Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch!
Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs!
skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic
industries! spectral nations! invincible mad
houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pave-
ments, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to
Heaven which exists and is everywhere about
us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies!
gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole
boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions!
gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! De-
spairs! Ten years’ animal screams and suicides!
Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on
the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the
wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell!
They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving!
carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the
street!

III

Carl Solomon! I’m with you in Rockland
where you’re madder than I am
I’m with you in Rockland
where you must feel very strange
I’m with you in Rockland
where you imitate the shade of my mother
I’m with you in Rockland
where you’ve murdered your twelve secretaries
I’m with you in Rockland
where you laugh at this invisible humor
I’m with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful
typewriter
I’m with you in Rockland
where your condition has become serious and
is reported on the radio
I’m with you in Rockland
where the faculties of the skull no longer admit
the worms of the senses
I’m with you in Rockland
where you drink the tea of the breasts of the
spinsters of Utica
I’m with you in Rockland
where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the
harpies of the Bronx
I’m with you in Rockland
where you scream in a straightjacket that you’re
losing the game of the actual pingpong of the
abyss
I’m with you in Rockland
where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul
is innocent and immortal it should never die
ungodly in an armed madhouse
I’m with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your
soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a
cross in the void
I’m with you in Rockland
where you accuse your doctors of insanity and
plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the
fascist national Golgotha
I’m with you in Rockland
where you will split the heavens of Long Island
and resurrect your living human Jesus from the
superhuman tomb
I’m with you in Rockland
where there are twenty-five-thousand mad com-
rades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I’m with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under
our bedsheets the United States that coughs all
night and won’t let us sleep
I’m with you in Rockland
where we wake up electrified out of the coma
by our own souls’ airplanes roaring over the
roof they’ve come to drop angelic bombs the
hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col-
lapse O skinny legions run outside O starry
spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is
here O victory forget your underwear we’re
free
I’m with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-
journey on the highway across America in tears
to the door of my cottage in the Western night

San Francisco 1955-56

//Birth of a Star

When you can’t feel anything anymore, when you carry around the weight of your aching soul, when you start doubting yourself and when you feel like you will choke on your own misery- you have this inner voice that keeps telling you that you will get past this. When you start feeling like it’s not enough, it starts to get plenty.

This, darling, is like birth of a star, some kind of a spiritual awakening- a result of reactions and fusions.

Strength and endurance is what I call spiritual awakening. When you start seeing the world through the third eye. When you survive through the storms and ascend the mountains. When you eventually have the control over your emotions. When you can placate the storm within.

That’s when a star is born.

Tick Tock

// You are reading through an article or a book or a conversation you just had with a friend and all of a sudden you stop. Right there. At an unfinished line. You just stop. The clock keeps ticking and everything is moving around you but your universe stops. Something in you just dies and you keep telling yourself that this is all a test and it would eventually get better. But it doesn’t.
You live in false hope that things would get better and you would have your own share of happiness. You keep on waiting for that phone call you will never receive.
And it keeps getting worse.
Your lungs give up. You can’t breathe. There’s a lump in your throat and you keep on thinking. Why me? Why me? Why me?
Over and over again.

25.09.2.16- Rants of a Birthday Girl

I never really had an answer for ‘what do you want for your birthday?’ And ‘how would you like to celebrate it?’ type of questions. I mean, would it be weird if i said may be i don’t want to go out and celebrate it. May be i just want to sit on a bench in a park and talk about metaphysics. May be i want to talk about the mysterious ways of how the world is changing every day. How religion has become a boundary for those of who want to question the existence of humans and a God.
May be i want to spend it watching a mechanic fix my car on my birthday. May be I don’t want the forced ‘HBDs’ on my wall and rather a random unexpected ‘hello’ in my inbox on a normal Sunday.
May be i would want to spend it watching a random kid’s face lit up who i gave my iced-tea to. And the way he sat in a corner and drank it. Not a care in the world.
May be that’s how i would want to spend my birthday. Just being there with a friend scribbling in a journal and watching the sky change colors from pink to gray, then into a pitch black.

A Speck of Dust: The Journey of Self-acceptance

Do you see that dot? That’s you. Yes, you. A speck of dust in the vast cosmos.
Most of us millennials think that we are either extremely extraordinary or extremely worthless. Why? Because that’s how we have been brought up. Since childhood we are taught to achieve ‘something’ in life. Get good grades. Study abroad on a scholarship. Get a degree that lands you a good job. And if you don’t get it easily you are disappointed. Surprised, because you thought you spent thousands on your degree it should automatically land you in a top position. And when you don’t achieve it, you drown yourself in a pool of misery. Because you thought you were extraordinary.
You keep swimming in this pool of misery. Nobody tells you that you are just like a million others. Even your own parents.
Let me burst that bubble of yours that you have been living in. You have the same problems that the others have. Big or small. Complicated or less complicated but the problems are there.
You are never told that you are a speck of dust in this whole universe and if you fail at something it is not the end of the world.
Why are people of our age these days have psychological problems? Because we have been watching too many posts on social media of people through their filtered apps. When we are already feeling insecure we are bombarded with the exaggerated achievements of others on social media that make us question our existence.
Life doesn’t work the way you want it to work out. Nor does anyone owe you anything. I have a friend who always talked about how the universe doesn’t owe us anything. How the consequences are a mere reflection of our own actions. And it would be stupid to blame others if something goes wrong in our life.
What we need to accept in life is that, it is completely normal to embrace our failures. It breaks the hard shell, the facade that we have built to make ourselves feel better and the weight that we had been carrying around on our shoulders for so long.
Life would be less complicated if we accept the fact that it’s never going to be easy.

Into the Wild

“Into the Wild”, based on a true story is a film adaptation of a book by Jon Krakauer with the same title that revolves around a bright college graduate Christopher McCandless, who defies society’s conventions by secluding himself in the extreme weather conditions of Alaska in order to achieve inner satisfaction and to find the meaning of life, freeing himself from the incarceration of the civilization.

The film is a cinematic beauty with an uncanny feel to it, from the beauty of ‘aerial shots’ of the Alaskan landscape, travel hodge-podge to the alluring melodies of Eddie Vedder’s solos. The effect is somewhat mystical like it’s some kind of a 60s’ hippie movie.

In this thought-provoking film, director Sean Penn has portrayed the protagonist as a man who rejects what he sees as materialism in a modern world, by leaving his upper-middle-class suburban lifestyle, abandoning his car and other belongings and setting off on an adventure in search of ‘real’ happiness and freedom.

He abandons the society in search of ultimate truth, to fill the hollow chasm in his heart with joy and to unravel the mysteries of mother-nature but realizes the hard way that “Happiness is only real when shared.” it is not in seclusion, nor is it in living-the-moment but is found in the process of achieving something bigger in life, it is in not in the cars or the clothes that you buy, it is in that pleasure of being capable of ‘giving’.

On his journey of self-discovery, this young nomad changes into a figure of heroism for many people who find comfort in the wilderness. But it is for you to decide after watching the movie if Christopher McCandless was a fearless nomad, a young idealist, or a cynical man who lacked motivation in his life. 

Freedom of Press

Journalism has become somewhat an arduous profession in a country like Pakistan where ‘freedom of press’ has become a myth as it has been suppressed or controlled over the time during different political regimes. The freedom of speech in Pakistan continues to be one of the biggest threats for journalists- threatening journalists both physically and digitally. In this difficult time, the journalist community and private media are fighting to protect their rights and struggling to survive. This hindrance has affected the personal and professional lives of journalists and created barriers in circulating and broadcasting of news across the country.

In recent years we have witnessed that journalists and activists are now worried about secure communications after the disclosure of increased use of surveillance technologies in Pakistan. When an external party gains unauthorized access to a journalist’s information, it could possibly threaten the physical safety of both the journalist and the sources from where that evidence was collected. This could also be used to prevent the journalist from reporting on a story, or worse could put her or him in jeopardy.

Over the years journalists in Pakistan have been persecuted, threatened and killed for speaking the truth, facing many threats from the government, religious fanatics and armed forces for showing the reality to the masses. The increasing rate of persecutions against journalists indicates that freedom of speech is not protected, putting journalists on a perilous path while they struggle to survive and fight for their rights for free speech. It has made it difficult for the journalists, prospective journalists, bloggers and private media to expand and flourish.

Despite the constitutional freedom of speech in Pakistan, journalists still face countless challenges while they report from conflict zones. The undeniable external interference of the religious and various political parties in Pakistan has left journalists circumscribed regarding freedom of speech.

Unless the media in Pakistan is completely unconstrained to publish or broadcast any news, the journalists will always be under some sort of ‘pressure’ from the government, religious parties and armed forces to undertake their tasks freely and impartially according to the expectations of the people.

“The Skinny Love Conundrum”

A couple of years ago I was rummaging through YouTube channels in search of ‘new music’ for my somewhat profound-growing-self, exploring new music to feed this curious soul of mine. I was going through a phase of an existential crisis, questioning my motives of living. There was an unending feud going on within me from questions to confusions and life decisions, it was then that I stumbled upon a few songs including Bon Iver’s “Skinny Love” which was a completely different genre for me back then when I was a dedicated ‘Metal’ fan. Indie Folk was a whole new world for me, from the profound meanings behind the songs, the thought provoking lyrics, idyllically inexplicable album art and the amazingly ‘eargasmic’ tunes.

“Skinny Love” came out in 2007 as a single from Bon Iver’s debut album For Emma, Forever Ago. There had been many assumptions since then on what the song is about, trying to clarify the meaning behind it but music is a not your typical math problem, it is a form of art that can be interpreted in a thousand ways.

Justin Vernon, who also wrote the lyrics of the song, has an unparalleled euphonious voice that is an elixir to your ears and soul. He has a rather sugary Irish touch in his voice that keeps you enthralled throughout the song.

The song centers on how the ghosts of the past can be haunting for the future, you are somewhat stuck in a limbo of fear and uncertainties to fall in love all over again. Vernon seems unable to move forward after going through the misery of love. However it can also be derived from the lyrics “I tell my love to wreck it all/Cut out all the ropes and let me fall” that this is a song about desolation in love yet Vernon is yearning for affection, wishing to live in the moment and let himself fall all over again in the bittersweet taste of love.

The title itself interprets that the lovers/friends are tied by a knot that is too frail to last long and the love they share is too ‘skinny’ to survive and is on the verge of dying. The line “Come on, skinny love, just last the year/Pour a little salt you were never here” defines that the relationship between these two people is fading away but they are still trying hard to figure a way out, to make it last forever.

Skinny Love for me was not a just another song but an epiphany that made me realize there’s more to life than just surviving it. It gave me a different perspective on life when I was torn between the world of illusions and reality.

I recommend this song to all the oddly beautiful souls out there who are always petrified to start anew and live in the fear of making the same mistakes again and again. 

If I ever start writing a novella. This is how it would go.

It was an evening of 1990; she was frantically running around like an untethered sheep gone astray from its flock, bumping into people she didn’t know. It was raining like it never rained before, bringing down all the dirt and filth of the city, with it came her pride that she had been guarding all her life, wearing it like an armor of steel that could somehow protect her from the world. All in vain, for now she felt naked, people stared at her while the blood was dripping from her clothes. She ran towards the hospital, ignoring all the eyes that were on her… 
To be continued.