|A lazy, random guy filled with uttermost curiosity.|
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...
Only just a ship on desert, denied waves, froth and salt; these oars, like broken wings of a bird.
Take your time to get over. There is no rush to forget anything so soon. But when you do move on, when you do forget, make sure it's absolutely clean: no dirty trace left behind.
And he became a painter
in the hope that as he splashed
the bleak world with colours,
the world would spatter
back onto his faded soul.
I love people who are unafraid to get drunk, love sitting down with them and hearing their drunk stories. There's an honesty in their tears, a vulnerability in their loves, an indiscretion in their warmths that the even best of us have to fake in our best composed moments.
He sits staring at the window, tracing the frame covered in rust, as his coffee loses warmth, and his dreams gathers dust.
There is a numbness in the air and his heart, terribly cold, or maybe he is dead and they forgot to collect his soul.
On the blank canvas of my heart,
I paint a picture of you, with a muted tone of misery...
Look! I have brought the sun and the sea to heal your sorrows. I can not make any offering to your grief, for I have not an ounce of genuineness left in my words. I can only grab this nature in my hands and pour its radiance upon your grief. As for me, I have a few pebbles left from my last trip to clifton, a glass full of water, chirping birds and a mouth full of love. There is nothing here. Go away and climb your own sunshine. Be free, be very very free.
So is this how it's going to be now?
Day after day after everyday?
We'll both forget our sun. You'll find warmth in the grey
and I'll learn to say,
That's all right, quite all right, we'll survive.
Feel lost but not less, you are always more. He said -
Never were our souls so strangled,
nor were those paths so entangled,
for what stopped us was
not your ensnaring 'bloom',
but those fiery glory,
those dawning gloom.
As there are days when infinity feels finite, commas appear full stops and when 'the end' is just not the end. This is exactly where the hope, the power enters into the arena and will flood you with new beginnings. 'I' will row and will make you flow in my veins. I will come and yes, I will remain.
A girl's outlook on what freedom means to her:
Sometimes I imagine taking a walk alone at 1:00 am in the night.
Moonlight bathing the dark tree tops and the road, a winding silver strip.
I imagine walking under the yellow light of lampposts into the dark shadows beyond, without any fear.
And sitting at a deserted bus stop, counting the trucks and lorries that whiz past on their strange journeys. Strolling by empty bazaars and empty shuttered shops.
Maybe even spending some time with that friendly dog in that market place.
I imagine that at 1:00 am, I will see how the city sleeps and commune with it.
And then I imagine returning home.
Safe. Enriched. Unscathed.
I am just another girl and thi...
Whoever says Time heals all wounds is bullshitting you; Time ain't no doctor, not even a quack. It doesn't heal; you simply learn to bear your hurt better; and even when you don't, you learn, at least, to hide the hurt and the hatred better; you learn, sure-as-hell, to carry your tissue papers and first aid box around without flaunting either these appendages or the injuries.
I deleted the pictures, deleted the messages, burnt the letters, put away all the gifts.
I thought I had finally succeeded. Then it whispered, "I'm still there," said memory.
"She kept saying that he belonged to her
I asked, when has Krishna belonged to anybody?
She said, Krishna is dark, dark like the night,
He must have had Dravidian blood coursing through his dark veins.
I asked, whose little finger was it then, that held aloft the Govardhan to save the mankind from the wrath of gods?
Who must it have been then, strolling in Vridavan, high up in the north?
She said, she loves Krishna
And the one she loves, belongs to her.
Does Krishna love you too, asked I He does, she sighed.
I am Radha.
I am the one born with the combined love that each gopini ever had for him.
I am she.
I couldn't deny her assertion.
In my myriad loves and lusts
In my bone and...
'In your absence
I converse with you
When you are there
I converse with myself'
The hills do not sleep. They bear the burns of late night readers, mothers waiting for sons at dinner, lovers on blasphemous walks of passion. They wait patiently with the old watchmen in front of doors, beneath yellow old bulbs. They stay awake all night, watching over those unable to sleep, until, one by one, every little light is miffed, every waiting soul is satiated, until the morning arises with the sun in its lap. And the hills do not sleep. They wait. Patient and ancient.
Her body was a guitar, an old unused guitar.
His fingers, those long, endless fingers, the plectrum.
Breathing life into her body.
Whispering her melodious existence.