A pointless quest,
An unplanned routine,
A static rhythm unshaken.
A journey lived,
To earn and run,
In the rat race for mere status.
A greed for comfort,
Sautéed with jealousy,
A result of comparison.
A spectacle lived,
With time running out,
“What is life?”, I now ask you.
She sits by the window,
With longing in her eyes,
The creases unfolding beneath
As she smiles fondly at the moonlight.
A subtle thrum, a lowly hum,
Plays on the vintage vinyl tapes,
She sings along and twirls around,
To put aside the inching loneliness.
Polaroids adorn the wall,
While the creepers climb the roof,
The willow weeds crowd the way to the house,
While the roses now try to make room.
Head to a mirror. Now. Seriously, right now. Too lazy to move? Okay then, picture this. A silver glass mirror now has a face staring right back at you. It’s you or is it though? You haven’t ever seen yourself with your own eyes right? You’ve seen yourself through reflections and pictures. Yet you recognize yourself through this silver glass object. Nice. Peek a little further. Straight into the eyes. Two coloured lagoons of dreams. And a mirage of hope haplessly floating in it. The face seems distant, you’re right in front of it, yet it seems distant. There are a few freckles on that face, some concealed, some out in the open. There’s a dimple lurking out there. Wait one? No, two. Okay, maybe none too. A stray strand of hair making its way to your cheek. You whisk it away. Why is it that your own face feels unfamiliar to you now? Stare a little harder. What are you even staring at? It’s all pixelated now. The deeper you peer into, the blearier it gets. Wait. I have a question. Are you focusing on the unfocused or are you unfocusing the focus?
Forget the face. Stand there a while longer. Read the mind now. A slight tremor wreaking havoc in your mind. A whirlpool of unspoken thoughts. Ambushed now that you’re able to figure your own thoughts out. It’s like you are stepping on the floor barefoot on a scorching hot afternoon. Wildly skipping here and there, tiptoe-ing and prancing around. Your thoughts they are. The longer you try to read them, the more they skip around. It’s like someone’s playing a game of Jenga with your mind. While you’re trying your best to separate one thought from the messy rack there, there’s something screwing up the balance. Now, now, now. Is it screwing up the balance or is it maintaining it, now that you’ve managed to pin point that unsteady thought? Think, think. Another new stack, another new dimension of thoughts.
A palette of colours I hold, I then proceed to mix all the colours just for the sake of it and I notice the mixture getting ornated in black. Something bewitching about that. It’s like watching the world with your eyes closed. Blocking out everything for one short while. A deliberate attempt. Wait a minute, did you almost instantly associate the colour black to something sad? Don’t do that. Yet.
We possess a number of emotions within us. A variety of colours to relate to. A mixture of all of that, wouldn’t that be black? Again, your mind has supposedly already related it to something dark. If not, now that I have prompted the thought, it has now. Why does it do that? Why does it get twisted so easily? Why do thoughts head that way? Are we mere mannequins manipulated by the way someone else thinks? Maybe we are. A shade of all the colours blending their way in. On repeat, all turning to black. Coming back to the point, when all the emotions bring out their streak of element in us, at one point, doesn’t it break the threshold? Too many things and doesn’t it brutally cut the feeble thread holding it all together? You feel everything at once and then, you do not feel anything. Ever happened to you? To me, it has.
A conversation. You’re lost. You’re on a plane with points of reference given to your own self. Selfish? I suppose not. The graph is now straight. An interference of the soul who is attempting the conversation. Meddling with the points of reference on my plane. An unpredicted cluster of emotions to a beserk graph running alongside it. What is happening? I fail to regard an emotion to that. Lost? Maybe yes. Yet again, you do not feel anything. There are times when I have felt detached. Scares me? Not really. Peek into yourself. Aren’t you now detached to something you were habituated to? It fades.Deny it all you want but it does. Like the colours on a painting. Like the prints on a photograph.
A cloudy makeup lined along the gown,
Sequined ocean blue with tinges of lilac,
The sea posed for a masquerade,
Embellished with accessories, all of the shade black.
A mystique aura, she possessed,
That alluded the senses of the flimsy few.
With all her moves played right
She always knew to strut her way through.
She walked past with an air of vanity,
For those who looked at her in disdain.
Her presence was like a drug,
An extremely strong dose of caffeine.
She saw men sail along,
Yachting towards her personality,
She had letters written to her,
Sealed and put in coloured glass bottles.
She would let them float,
On the still waters of her emotions.
A pensive storm it seemed rising,
A whirlpool of her captivation.
Words in his mind,
Guillotined at his throat,
His thoughts were put to trial.
Stuck behind bars,
Of his own unfurnished plot,
Imprisoned to solitude, the old man was.
The door bolted,
The windows shut,
The fog painted them a pale white,
A slight breeze howling,
A cup of coffee in his hands,
By the fireplace, he now sat reminiscing.
A leaf hanging on a lone branch,
Withering to the cold,
To his sunken eyes, it was, indeed, a sight to behold.
The mills of his mind rusted,
Creaked yet ran their regal regime,
They spun a story,
Wisps of your love,
Sweep the dust off my grave,
But bound to the soil now, I am.
You were once like a kaleidoscope,
Brimming with emotions,
So many different kinds,
But now, it felt like,
the glasses were all broken.
I look at you, only to see,
A dull gaze, a teary haze,
Like mist on a glasshouse.
The colours on the palette,
Now all grey,
Like silhouettes dancing
On the watery oceans.
There was nothing I could do,
To stop the dams of sorrow,
From breaking inside. Continue reading
Across the vast expanse of the ink blue skies,
A shooting star cut through the dark veils of moonlight,
Brandishing the black and bleak edges of good – fate,
It painted a picture too good to be true in all its might.
A sliver of hope it passed through,
It ran through the cracks in the sky,
Leaving pieces of itself in trails, it went,
Only to disappear all out of the blue.
An ounce of trust, a leap of faith,
A case of an ethereal gamble for the mortals,
An anomaly flawed in life so well,
Set just right to fall to its bait.
A lone flower on a grassy patch,
Obligated to the tiny drops of dew,
Plucked out of the living to beautify
A soul somewhere in the dense outgrowth.
A migrating bird flies across the horizons,
To a place it sets up faith anew,
The mighty river gliding its way
Blindly trusts the sea to guide it through.
A drop of rain plopping onto the ground,
Believes in the river to acknowledge its existence.
The bird on the peak building its home,
Trusts the tree to keep it sound and safe.
Specks of star dust stoking a fire within,
Under a sky on a starlit night,
Scattered into souls searching
For the wolf under their own skin.
Drops of the ocean mingled,
Under a sky on a starlit night,
Dispersed with the beings,
Shy of their own twinkle.
Stories of the leaves dipped in dew,
Under a sky on a starlit night,
Running in the veins of the people,
Who had their thoughts askew. Continue reading
Lying on the bed, staring at the plastic stars glowing in the dark, something feels amiss.
You wonder, trace a path from one star to another in the hopes of finding a constellation but it’s to no avail. You stare at the ceiling for so long that you feel as though there are vague patterns skimming around in the blank black undergrowth of nothingness. Hello darkness, my old friend. You toss, you turn, still restless. You pull the blanket closer, then you push it away, then you pull it back again and fling your leg outside, then you decide to completely push it away, you give up and let it haphazardly lay across your body. Still wondering. Countless thoughts ricochet-ing off the walls of your mind, there is something in the hazy plot that you can’t quite pinpoint. You want to locate the source, cut through the thin air and figure out what is it that is brewing up the storm in your mind? What is it, you wonder? What is it that is keeping you awake? What is it that has kept you rooted at such a point that you’re ready to gamble the little sleep you manage to get? You’ve gone well past your 11.11 wish, you have now passed 1.11 too, still no signs of sleep.
To build four walls with concrete and bricks,
A shelter from the atmosphere, an escape from the world,
Watch it grow all the way from a house to a home.
To build a home with views and thoughts,
Like the plenty tiles on the floor,
Adorning the layout of the cemented house.
To build a home with unsaid words and heart breaks,
Like clothes on a chair in that one corner of your room,
Noticed yet unattended, existent yet denied of its existence.
To build a home with existential crises,
An attic in the house, the darkest of them all,
Formidable yet a necessity, hidden from the crowd.
To build a home with emotions and feelings,
The colours painted on the walls,
Some light, some vibrant, some textured for attention. Continue reading
I tug my hair in distress,
I pick my nails in pain,
I close my eyes and huff,
Walking barefoot in the rain.
I wave at the people who look like me,
I smile at a few,
Yes, my efforts to get identified.
Ah! This isn’t new.
My mind – a mangled mess.
I just can’t think straight.
Carving an identity,
Is it all a click bait?
I take my identity with me,
Then what do I even leave behind?
A bundle of moments,
To be played on repeat and rewind.
A metamorphosis of dots and dashes,
So unfettered and free,
A manifestation of letters,
On the pages, yet to breed.
Strands and lines twisted about,
Glued together for coherence,
Conventions followed reason-less,
A stereotype is born.
A manipulation of words,
Sentences they formed,
A sense of speech was realized,
A new language it’s called.
Language spoken around,
Conversations it summoned,
Silence shattered in mysterious ways,
Memories is what it found.
I know you’re reading this. You’re just not voicing it out loud. I wonder how you manage to stay so strong. So many thoughts you contain within yourself yet you never lose your calm. That is something commendable. Although I wonder, aren’t there times when you yearn for freedom? To break through the chains holding you back and just scream out loud. Isn’t there a threshold that gets satiated at one point of time? What with the clashing mentalities, the hypocrisies and the ideologies, don’t they annoy the hell out of you at times? Don’t you feel the need to cast your opinion too? Well, I guess you just seem to be patient, but there is red-hot lava waiting to ooze out, isn’t there?
You are like a silent onlooker. You observe everything yet you never let it to be known. Suffice it to say, it’s more like a case of ventriloquism. I’m the puppet, you’re the one who voices it although it seems as though it’s coming from me. Oh yes indeed, there are strings attached. It is really captivating and I’m in awe of how you piece the puzzle together and come up with a solution, each time I land myself into a problem. I won’t deny, it’s also annoying when you put down your opinions unnecessarily or even create instances that weren’t there in the first place and fuel the wheels of over thinking. Honey, do you wish to make scenarios worse for me? Get the hint – yes, your presence is bittersweet.
I know you’re still reading this, in a hushed tone, amidst the thoughts crowding you. But I do agree, you make my life vivid. You have helped me see things that I would have usually overlooked, had you not been there. Thank you for making me observant!
Thank you for being there for me always! And last but not the least, thank you for showing me the silver lining of the dark clouds. I owe you one.