|A lazy, random guy filled with uttermost curiosity.|
Don't trade who you are for who you think the world needs.
- Assorted Soul
Do people want to inflict the hurt that they have gone through on the people that they love and who hurt them in the first place? Would it make us horrible, horrible human beings?
It has been so long. I've not felt like this in a while. I want to love someone.
I felt that way too once. I thought I had so much love to give. I went around looking for people to give it to. But people don't stay long enough. So I taught myself a better use of that love. I divide it now, equally, between myself and my work.
I said I would never talk to you again. Yet, I did. Again. And again. And again. Everyday. Daily. In my head.
They judge themselves, enough, everyday, daily. Their tragedy is not in the fact that they die or get killed in the end. It is in what they let die between them and what they killed inside of them, while they lived. Their careers are those of calculating villains, but their characters those of penitent, remorseful, conscience-stricken, scared, mad, haunted ghosts of former glorious selves, and oddly enough the two lines can run parallel and even meet.
No, I do not judge them. I am them.
She is fond of me.
Fond? That's such a sorry, meaningless word. So hollow. Do you want to be fond of yourself?
Well, she likes me. I think she does. I think I have seen kindness in her eyes when she looks at me. And tenderness. She is patient with me. She could have left. There's nothing stopping her anymore. But she's here, you know.
No one is there for anyone always. But when I really need her, and when she knows I need her, in those devastating, crushing moments, she shows me she cares. I think she even loves me, in her own strange, weird way.
And how long did you take to convince yourself of this lie?
Who would I be without these lies? :)
You had come, unasked. Knocked on the door, uninvited. You were let in. Given a spare key. Accepted, acknowledged, embraced, fed, nourished, gradually worshipped, and eventually loved. You stayed and healed, bit by bit, everyday, daily. And now you want to leave. Maybe because you have discovered that, that was a magic key which only gets heavier with time. Maybe because you don't want to afford the rent. Maybe because you have healed completely. Maybe because you had always planned on leaving.
Maybe because you are selfish. Simple.
But remember, you had come unasked.
To his Brain: Have you ever learnt to be quiet? Shut Up, please. I've had enough!
Brain to him: You're screaming at the wrong person. It's your heart, silly!
And have you ever allowed the Rain to kiss you and caress you, love you and make love to you? You'll rarely find a more passionate lover.
Have you ever been able to keep track of the shifting tectonic plates of your heart, over cups of shared coffee?
I lost some weight recently: 13 kgs in the last 2 months. It hasn't made me happy. Most people look happy/ feel happy/ pretend to be happy in such a situation but I have only been reminded of how I've lived my entire life seeking acknowledgement. Ever since I was little every time I played the piano or wrote a story or topped in an exam or sang a song or painted on the walls or translated a poem I sought acknowledgement: from mum and dad or best friend or favourite teacher, someone or the other, always. Maybe I was born that way. I realized that I've perhaps never really done anything that has defined my life in any significant way for myself alone. I lost weight seeking acknowledgement...
"Gift me a metaphor", she said.
- "You are a necklace of fireworks. You light from both ends."
But I am not a palace anymore,
Only a housing cooperative with flats now
And their endless claimants.
This one is for the husband,
Those for the children,
That for the old mother-in-law,
The remaining nooks and crannies
Divided among guests, relatives.
I am Draupadi,
Shared, though differently, you know.
I don’t have it in me to give you my all, all over again,
Like before. But I’ll try, I still can –
Roaring rivers do not die at low tide.
You too have aged then, have you?
Submitted to the authority of decline?
In my eyes, though, I still see you wearing that crown,
I still see that royal umbrella spread over your crown.
I see those stars which have kept alive in their flesh
And their bones the wisdom of their ancestors,
Towards your eyes, like sparrows, like mynahs,
Looking to build permanent nests.
What have you not got in life?
Why this hurt, angry pride?
If I could check this wave of destruction
What a woman does at night, whom she talks to, goes out on walks with or eats with or plays with should be her business, entirely and not subject to your dirty judgement. Some day, just for day perhaps, focus on how she employs her time from sunrise to sunset. You'll be surprised to know, there's much much more to her than you are willing to give her credit for..
He: The thesaurus that I have been following lists 'love' as one of the ten saddest words in the English language.
She: I have heard of this school of thought which says love isnt love unless there is a little bit of tragedy involved.
He: I belonged to that school too, till a couple of weeks ago. That's when I realised how I had been romanticising tragedy all my life and that when real pain hits you, all such notions of poetry and being elevated to tragic pedestal collapse immediately.
I will pass through you, my beloved city,
Like a ship with a merchandise of spices passing through a shore
Like a cloud shaped like a heavenly city
Passing through your sky only once
Like a mendicant with a moon-crown
Passing your door for alms
Like a snow flower appearing
In your sun-lit winter morning
Like a soft breeze that fondled your exhausted body unforgettably
I too will pass through you
O my beloved city
Of many joys
Of many taverns with oldest wines
Of temples with forgotten deities of the earth
I will bring nothing to you
I will take nothing from you
Only this fragrance I was born with
That comes with me everywhere
Will I ...
When the sun comes up this silence will melt
And evaporate through our skins.
You, who has witnessed,
And I, who have travelled
And the stories we seek in our dissected
will no longer require the jaded
brilliance of words.
Perhaps even wisdom will be found
at the bottom of teacups
and all other places we are afraid to
Because it is still cold.
When the mist clears a travelogue will
of journeys undertaken in hardship and alone.
And all that we have lost in migration
Will be retrieved by us.
One by one.
Till we find within each other’s voids
What we sometimes feel is lost.
How did you realise that you're no longer in love with her?
I stopped waiting.
Delete chat history?
No. NO. Fuck. Nononono. Goddamnitno. N.O. Fuck.
And with one careless yes, that could not be undone, he managed to undo all the carefully targeted NOs that had been the reason of his undoing, thread by veinlike-thread, over the last fifty four nights.
Our histories, like our memories, are nothing but stories. A new one is only one wayward word away.
We were in love onceuponatime, the writer and I. Some years ago. I still read the letter that I now no longer have, the one she wrote to me on our last night:
Words so beautiful and heartless, the memory of it turns me cold.
I've learnt better than to trust the plans we make/once made will ever materialise; it's time to disintegrate from the "we" that we once were, to the "you" and "I" that we have/must eventually become.
How do you know when you're truly finished with a book? Or, let's say, a person?
And our age has seen relationships reduced from people dearly loved to elusive green dots on social media, till that little light stops flickering altogether.
breathing for no purpose at all.
Yet colours have not abandoned me.
They hold their horses once in a while and then return.
In memorable flashes
of earnest exhibition.
Companions there are too few.
Colours never abandon me.
They stay subtle in melancholy and uncertainty,
they linger in happiness.
I drink alone, at times,
for the sheer lack of friends.
Colours and me.
Rum and me and colours.
I'm standing at these crossroads wanting to taste every direction and be smitten by fragrances unknown, but my feet stay chained to an iron pillar and a post which says 'dead end.'
Sometimes, the rage within,
begins to scare you. For the slightest spark vents out such hatred, the shock resounds through your core. The realization that you hold so much bottled inside and although you do not speak, yet it runs in your mind and then goes back to the corner bigger and stronger for it has won the battle again.
And the last words they utter just before they are about to leave tells you everything there is to know about them.
But listen carefully, as sometimes they speak themselves but on most occasions, a guilty silence will speak for them.
Life sucks, anyway. I met you and it got weird. And, you were so amazing. And I? I just wanted a little more time. So all in all I'd say, you were the worst thing that happened to me.
- Keith (2008)
So, what I have learnt in all these years of mine, Life has gone through highs and lows. Epiphanies guide me towards a much more informed choice than before. As we grow, we come to realise that those curves or muscles won't amount to much after 10 or 15 years. What will matter then? Wisdom tells that it's the mind, the attitude and the heart of a person which will matter after all those years of togetherness. Love, of course, is of prime importance. Without Love life has no colours.
In our epoch, we all have been exposed to stuff that plants thoughts - It's ok to do timepass. It is ok to cheat somebody, everybody does it. What's wrong? You never know the stone you throw into ocean. How deep i...