Wednesday, June 26, 2013

Mirth in Murk.

The clouds blind the covetous eyes
Together, we spotted the old willow from afar.

As darkness wrapped our souls
Numbed fingers held out seeking shelter from the frosty deluge
And, neither of us wished for incandescence.

The clouds continued to hover over our fragmented selves
Hoping to devour all that we have,
" Pity", cried the ominous bird, "they cannot see through the dark"
In agreement, the wind gusted past our blinded selves.

"Murder", cried the kind hearted fox.

Through the hours of murk,
Little did the pleasure of bleak vicious fervor dampen my spirit
As the broken willows entwined his crumbling marrow.

Monday, May 13, 2013

Ode to Melancholia

"It is a restless moment. She has kept her head lowered... to give him a chance to come closer. But he could not, for lack of courage. She turns and walks away."

Some stories begin where they should have ended.
Some people set eyes on each other and instantly realize how they had been looking for each other all along.
Some people fight off their feelings for each other - proudly proclaiming their inner strength and independence.
But, all the while, feelings creep in. Like a writhing worm, out of a muddy terrain, feelings find their way into our minds - jeopardizing all that was left in the name of sanity.

Upon that restless moment when you cease to remain as only the "self" - everything you had ever known about life appears to have changed.
Falling into an endless abyss of unknown melancholy stops seeming problematic anymore.

Love becomes an anchoring quintessence.

There are some who fight through their whole lives to end up together - to break away from the shackles the society imposes upon their lives. Some win, some accept defeat before reaching the concluding part. 
Does that make them cowards? Does that mean they do not care?
Probably not.
Each of us wishes to look at love differently.

Our ideas of love differ. While some find love in holding on, some find it in nothingness - and some in letting go.

Love is blindness - the worst part being, this time, you would not want to see through the darkness. You shun away from the light - for fear of losing all the beauty that exists in your pantheon of darkness.

Therefore, lets start from the darkness. Lets start from the restless moment and rush to the end - begin where others are known to have ended their's.

(Dedicated to the most wonderful woman in my life. Life may not seem hopeful at this moment - but, to feel this wretched and morose in love, for the first time, is worth living for. Just this minute, just this second - is this not enough? )

Friday, March 22, 2013

Remembering : Cascando.

Why not merely the despaired of occasion of wordshed
is it not better abort than be barren?
the hours after you are gone are so leaden
they will always start dragging too soon

the grapples clawing blindly the bed of want
bringing up the bones the old loves

sockets filled once with eyes like yours

all always is it better too soon than never
the black want splashing their faces
saying again nine days never floated the loved

nor nine months

nor nine lives.

Saying again,
if you do not teach me I shall not learn
saying again there is a last
even of last times

last times of begging

last times of loving
of knowing not knowing pretending

a last even of last times of saying

if you do not love me I shall not be loved if I do not love you I shall not love

The churn of stale words in the heart again
love love love thud of the old plunger
pestling the unalterable

whey of words

Terrified again
of not loving

of loving and not you

of being loved and not by you

of knowing not knowing pretending
I and all the others that will love you if they love you

Unless they love you.                                                                                           
                                                                                                     - Samuel Beckett (1936)
( In memory of the person I was once upon a time )

Monday, January 28, 2013

Twisted Chasm

Derek was a curious little boy.
Darkness and looming negativity interested his young mind, as he found solace in occasionally scribbling his words of penance.
A discolored penny did he chance upon the rusted tracks, one winter morning - and with that he gave wings to his over fleeting fancies.
The gloomy flea market across the town did he rush to as the rain pelted down on tired heads. The air reeked of stale fish and carcasses lay strewn upon his way.
In a dark alley across the market, Dory sold antique vases in her dilapidated store and it was here that Derek's wide eyes fell upon her dying piece of art.
Huddled between the most beautiful artifacts in the room, lay shattered pieces of ceramic and something silver, carefully placed on a blue velvet cloth.
Derek's eyes shone with confusion as he looked at Dory - puzzled at her strange indecision.

He placed the "lucky" penny upon the counter and walked away as Dory looked on awestruck.
Derek ran through the rain, which was falling rather heavily then - and looked up at the growing darkness that seemed to consume everything around him.
Once home, he took out his bag of treasure and looked at the broken wonder with the same enthusiasm as he did when he first set eyes on it.
With clay and hours of patience, he put together his sharded amphora.

Seven years later, on an oak table, upon a blue velvet cloth, stood a dark grey vase - with twisted silver arms and a curled neck.There were gaps across its body - empty in several places as Derek didn't have the missing pieces. For years, it stood there - incomplete. Broken still.
Every morning, as sun rays passed through its vacuity, Derek would look on awestruck at the beauty of its incompleteness. Beauty of the emptiness that stood before him in all its dark and twisted glory.

He named her Caligo - after the dark clouds that welcomed her home that winter afternoon.

Thursday, December 13, 2012

Old Walls and The Piteous Pneuma.

Makers of a pseudonym look back in hope.
The doors of regret have closed upon their minds,
And the ghosts of the past outshine the darkness.

Death dealers stand over the edge with their forks of hell
I look around and smile at the familiar whiff of death -
as the doors of regret close shut upon their minds.

Pitchers of water are now empty
as squarling gashes appear upon the fray.
She has folded the memories in petals -
twirling them in isolation.

The doors are now ajar in complete melancholy,
Diluted thoughts seep into the amnesiac brain.
She stands on the edge of its entrance -
running her hands at scratches upon the carcass.

For the makers now feed on her hopes
Her dreams are now savored ambrosia.
And the old walls reek of reminiscence -
as the silver limbo cries out his name in vain.

Thursday, November 15, 2012

Solitude and A Crowded Existence.

Solitude is a funny concept.
From whatever little I've seen of life around me, I believe the list of candidates opting for this concept can be divided into two categories -
  • those who willingly choose to take to it, and,
  •  those who are forced to take to it.
I believe I'm suspended somewhere in between these two polarities.
Somewhere in the ruddiest corner of my mind, I may crave company - occasionally.
But, through and through, I'm a loner.
Not because I'm forced to be but I choose to be. The concerned 'mishap' did not take place in the present, but somewhere way back in the past.
I look around this room full of steel tables and old plastic chairs, and i see faces whose pretentious grins never seem to fade. Amongst these faces are some who are lost in the beauty of the charade- lost because they choose not to grin.
I sit across a girl who is busy smiling down at her blop of disgraceful dinner as her friend goes on about glitches in paper correction. There is a faint little lady sitting on my right- her smile is almost painful, for you know she has no interest in her neighbor's agonizing innuendos.But, slowly as the lights go out, the croaky voices fade out in the dark.
The night is stormy outside- the rain is pelting down on our tired heads as we walk back to Auschwitz. From a distance you can see huddled heads under the shade of an umbrella but you miss out on those who walk back alone without one over their heads.
I was caught wondering how people care so less. You wonder if tomorrow you're found dead in your room, with a razor that has unabashedly cut the veins of your hands, which were once throbbing with life - would anyone care?
The phone across the hall never seems to ring. You catch yourself staring at it and at the empty cell you are sitting in.
You tell yourself if it doesn't ring tonight, you shall let go - but do you, ever?

We're all clad in striped rags - carrying load for our masters down the pitch black stairways.
Margha lost her ability to hear for she mis-delivered a package to the wrong department. Her cell mates looked on in silence but none offered a word of kindness.
Tonight when she lays her empty self to rest, she would stop to wonder, "Is that how less they care?"

7.30 and the knell is heard.
We rush to the corridor holding buckets of water to clean our sinful selves.
I look around in wonder to see how similar walks around the clock bind us together- then in an instant I'm reminded of how alone every one is in this camp of circling death.

Maybe this is what Foucault was aiming at - sanity and insanity are relative terms.
I may be insane to the world. A recluse, perhaps.
But, what I deem as sanity is true to me. And only to me.

Even today the phone doesn't ring. The clock strikes 11. Then 12. Then 1 - and before you know it, the guards are beating against the gates. Gutturals of abuses are hurled at your futile wait and you close your eyes in the hope of never waking up to the hell that surrounds you.

But, you do wake up. Every morning. Every day.

The only difference being, you're never tired of telling yourself,
" Alone is the last place I want to be"

Saturday, July 14, 2012

This Is The End- My Only Friend.

I prayed for some rain this morning.I prayed for the sky to turn pitch black with grief.

Today is a day of bellowing silence.
I wake up and look around my room to soak in as much of it as I can -
because I knew I'd miss its humid comfort.
The rusted window panes, the blurry mirror, old mugs with faded photos - what else was I leaving behind?

I took a last glance at the neighbor's dog - his furry pair of brown ears drop down sadly as though he was resounding
my inner thoughts.
Empty bookcases and rows of empty shelves looked on as I walked past them in denial.What else was I leaving behind?

I wish I was better with words or atleast, sentiments.I could then tell every one in my life how much they matter and how this is an inevitable change I knew I had to go through someday.

Thus, I stagger to the end of road - only to step on to a new one bending in sight.