The night, carbon.
Your eyes and glinting
Starlight, poking needles
And disturbing in their stillness.
Lost, I, in your candidness.
Trailing, you, in my thoughts.
When love bled out
With memories and I, unsure,
Fragile and tremulous,
In your arms lie,
Waiting for you to break me
In your love
And fix me in your dreams.
Take my hand, there’s
No need to tell,
And let us be unthinking.
Sunday, 28 March 2010
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
A week in-sanity
This was written ages ago, one of my desperate attempts at writing prose...
Day 1:
Visions of a masquerade, not knowing, unseeing, dancing… dreams of daggers, tales and of charting unknown places. Desires which inspired to deceive, being caught in a web of lies and randomness. Scared minutes of the home-coming of truth. Earth-calling and running… running away, far away… until annihilation, nothingness and oblivion became one and the same.
Day 2:
They were all resting on the fierce reds and purples of the glade. In a faraway corner, a solitary movement unsettled them all. White, yellow, blue, the whole lot of butterflies rose all at one into the air akin to a brilliant display of fireworks. They didn’t settle down, just flitted on higher and higher until all the colours were splashed against the sky and the diffused painting from an unknown palette was created.
Day 3:
It was the first ray, the early morning sun that dappled on the flowing brook, on the still fresh dew and on the clouds; changing their expressions every fleeting moment. Far into the distance, as the first bird chirped, the world exploded in sounds, sights and business. There was laughter, talks, light hearted banter even as the little one hid the tears from the trauma she went through… again.
Day 4:
The wick caught fire instantly. The candle danced into being as the light cast grotesque shadows on the walls. Flickering images, making stories out of the shapes and hues marking the existence of light, faintly crackling, disturbing the quiet darkness. Steady sounds of the passing time, shifting in and out of focus as the whine of the dogs drowned out a few seconds. Tick-tock tick-tock…
Day 5:
All the landmarks sped past as if they were riding the legendary Pegasus. Every speck in the distance was as fleeting past too quickly. In the speeding glimpses of the passing villages there arose the images of folk tales, of dinner on banana leaves, the girl next door who was married off last week. Lonely looking bulbs, casting a bile-yellow glow in tiny rooms with thatched roofs. An occasional firefly until the train disappeared into the tunnel…
Day 6:
Rain gushing down, on the sidewalk, on the window panes. Water on the face, pelting, blinding, accompanied by occasional flashes of lightning. Rumbling thunder, reminding them all that it wasn’t over, not yet. Tears mixing with the raindrops, screams becoming one with the wails of the sky, words lashing out as the rains were melting everything in their path. How things become clearer when blurred…
Day 7:
Running down a slope never seemed so much fun. Crushing the pale pink blossoms under sturdy sneakers and trying to catch the wind in open palms gave a feeling of much needed exhilaration. The crunch of yellowed leaves and gravel, hurtling past wind, to win, to win, to win over that something… always the desired. Morphing into the wanted, camouflaged in the rush of the winds. Running down the slope and meeting someone else…
Day 1:
Visions of a masquerade, not knowing, unseeing, dancing… dreams of daggers, tales and of charting unknown places. Desires which inspired to deceive, being caught in a web of lies and randomness. Scared minutes of the home-coming of truth. Earth-calling and running… running away, far away… until annihilation, nothingness and oblivion became one and the same.
Day 2:
They were all resting on the fierce reds and purples of the glade. In a faraway corner, a solitary movement unsettled them all. White, yellow, blue, the whole lot of butterflies rose all at one into the air akin to a brilliant display of fireworks. They didn’t settle down, just flitted on higher and higher until all the colours were splashed against the sky and the diffused painting from an unknown palette was created.
Day 3:
It was the first ray, the early morning sun that dappled on the flowing brook, on the still fresh dew and on the clouds; changing their expressions every fleeting moment. Far into the distance, as the first bird chirped, the world exploded in sounds, sights and business. There was laughter, talks, light hearted banter even as the little one hid the tears from the trauma she went through… again.
Day 4:
The wick caught fire instantly. The candle danced into being as the light cast grotesque shadows on the walls. Flickering images, making stories out of the shapes and hues marking the existence of light, faintly crackling, disturbing the quiet darkness. Steady sounds of the passing time, shifting in and out of focus as the whine of the dogs drowned out a few seconds. Tick-tock tick-tock…
Day 5:
All the landmarks sped past as if they were riding the legendary Pegasus. Every speck in the distance was as fleeting past too quickly. In the speeding glimpses of the passing villages there arose the images of folk tales, of dinner on banana leaves, the girl next door who was married off last week. Lonely looking bulbs, casting a bile-yellow glow in tiny rooms with thatched roofs. An occasional firefly until the train disappeared into the tunnel…
Day 6:
Rain gushing down, on the sidewalk, on the window panes. Water on the face, pelting, blinding, accompanied by occasional flashes of lightning. Rumbling thunder, reminding them all that it wasn’t over, not yet. Tears mixing with the raindrops, screams becoming one with the wails of the sky, words lashing out as the rains were melting everything in their path. How things become clearer when blurred…
Day 7:
Running down a slope never seemed so much fun. Crushing the pale pink blossoms under sturdy sneakers and trying to catch the wind in open palms gave a feeling of much needed exhilaration. The crunch of yellowed leaves and gravel, hurtling past wind, to win, to win, to win over that something… always the desired. Morphing into the wanted, camouflaged in the rush of the winds. Running down the slope and meeting someone else…
Musings
“The waves of panic and nausea and faintness that flooded up through a suffocating throat to a mind dark and spent and sinewless, a mind fighting with woollen fingers to cling on to the edge of the abyss, a tired and lacerated mind, only momentarily in control, wildly rejecting the clamorous demands of a nervous system, which had already taken far too much...”
(The Guns of Navarone)
Fear comes in shapes that lunge at you from the darkness. It comes in different forms, in different ways. It means different things to different people. To come to terms with it, is a purely theoretical concept. You can never really curb your fears, especially if they result out of emotional ordeals. Eventually, no matter how much you succeed in deluding yourself, your fears will catch up with you when you least expect them to. You will have been having a perfectly normal day and suddenly something trivial will happen that’ll unleash all those demons and from there on, you will have to flail your rationale to clamp the avalanche of emotions... the jitters, the goosebumps, the cold sweat. Only someone experiencing it can truly appreciate another’s distress. It is thus, only a matter of time before one has to keep looking over one’s shoulders in alarm... and in vain...
(The Guns of Navarone)
Fear comes in shapes that lunge at you from the darkness. It comes in different forms, in different ways. It means different things to different people. To come to terms with it, is a purely theoretical concept. You can never really curb your fears, especially if they result out of emotional ordeals. Eventually, no matter how much you succeed in deluding yourself, your fears will catch up with you when you least expect them to. You will have been having a perfectly normal day and suddenly something trivial will happen that’ll unleash all those demons and from there on, you will have to flail your rationale to clamp the avalanche of emotions... the jitters, the goosebumps, the cold sweat. Only someone experiencing it can truly appreciate another’s distress. It is thus, only a matter of time before one has to keep looking over one’s shoulders in alarm... and in vain...
Thursday, 4 March 2010
To the 'Tea'
There are these coffee vending machines at work which spew tea that has a lot of froth on it. Yes, I like drinking tea. So when I get myself a cup, I find a quiet corner. Bubbles on it... big ones, small ones and all sorts... they keep bursting. It's a beautiful, whispering sort of sound. On some days, it sounds like the crinkle of wrapping paper when gifts are being opened; on other days it's like the rustle of leaves. I weave stories around those sounds everyday, and for those five minutes, until all the bubbles burst, I stay lost. I ended up drinking 9 cups of tea today and heard, with my eyes closed, sounds from the inside of a conch-shell to dew falling in the wee hours of dawn. It was a good day...
To wishes
Smell of moonlight
And memories; streetlights
On endless distances.
Real colours and
Unreal thoughts
Blended and formed your picture.
Who are you, O mad lover,
That came in wisps of smoke?
Like scratches on
The fabric of the night,
You left scars.
One spoke of
Tragedies and mysteries,
All at once, like
Seaside stories of suicidal,
Unvisited beaches.
Oftentimes I believe
That it was real, true;
Like unfulfilled wishes…
And memories; streetlights
On endless distances.
Real colours and
Unreal thoughts
Blended and formed your picture.
Who are you, O mad lover,
That came in wisps of smoke?
Like scratches on
The fabric of the night,
You left scars.
One spoke of
Tragedies and mysteries,
All at once, like
Seaside stories of suicidal,
Unvisited beaches.
Oftentimes I believe
That it was real, true;
Like unfulfilled wishes…
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