The Art of Perfection

With that little furrow between her eyes,
She brings out the disapproval
Of how the dress sits on her curves.
Oblivious to herself how wonderful she looks.

With that cheeky grin,
She teases him,
of all the other boys making a move on her.
Knowing full well, that she desires him.

The sneaky whispers,
She sets off an explosion of emotions.
whatever they may be,
He knows it's only his ears they are meant for.

The tantrums of deafening silence,
With eyes locked away,
and ears tuned to a frequency beyond reason.
They both know it is fear of what can and what may not be.

The look.
Oh. That look from across the room.
Occasionally accompanied with the faintest of smiles.
That's what makes the world turn, he concludes.

As they lie in each others arms,
In fatigued exhilaration from their passion.
Not a word but their souls glowing through the skin.
They've never felt so alive and exhausted and at peace so often.

With distance, they all struggle.
The doubts gather the storm.
The shadows brood.
But, the faith. Yes, the faith tends to prevail.

'Perfection', he says.
'Not so', she says.
Perhaps not entirely, they muse.
But anything this intense, must be doing something right, they accept.

---

A former teacher would always proclaim that 'Perfection is the enemy of a Good Job done'. Personally, I believe the concept of 'Perfection' in its entirety is a myth. After all, how would we be able to appreciate the good without having to experience the bad. And in that sense, every story is perfect in it's own little bubble-wrap shell. We are perfect with all our imperfections.

She.

Lying on her side, a smile playing on those lips,

My gaze imprisoned by that quiver..

I can't seem to turn away,

Nor can I look into the deep blue sea that are her eyes..

The warmth from her lying form,

enough to melt a stony heart.

The glow from the soul,

enough to light a closed mind.

The Sun shines in waves on her head,

The only waves I want to wash my being in.

Freeze, this moment as much as he tries.

The next one always takes his breath away.

He moves in with an aim to never let her fall.

The conspiracy theorists spring their traps,

Hoping for a stumble, a trip, anything for a little fun.

Not giving in, he resolves, Not giving in as he banishes them.

A shadow falls across her face,

One that he does not recognize and yet knows so well.

It threatens a storm but he's been here before.

The rain doesn't scare him for he knows the wind blows on their side.

The Road is winding and The Horizon doesn't exist.

She is my compass, She is my survival kit, She is my passion.

She, the one with the heart so wide.

She, the one with the spirit so strong.

He kisses her on the lips,

Soft enough not to awake her.

Strong enough to blow away the darkness.

It is now. Now is their time. This is the start of their story.

~Fin~

Outro:

"One day baby, we'll be old

Oh baby, we'll be old

And think of all the stories that we could have told."

-- Asaf Avidan

Everything is not what it is meant to resemble.

If only, all donuts were sugary explosions of goodness.
How easy life would be.

If only, all dark chocolate was dark.
How easy it would be to run the rule.

Being of a certain descent and having grown up in a place that draws raised eye-brows, suspicious re-takes and the very rare but still infinitely pleasing exclaim of interest. I think I've come to appreciate the need to re-look inside before gauging which list to put any particular object that draws my 15-minute attention span.

I've learnt that the 'light' doesn't always mean the absence of tragedy and I've learnt that the 'dark' has it's own infinitely vast array of hope to be had. But I am thankful. Thankful that I am what I am. Thankful for the varying degrees of stereo-typing, alleged discrimination and judgement calls by those with a far smaller attention span than I. Very thankful.

If I wasn't, I'd probably not have put escargots in my mouth. Nor would I have probably jumped off a plane. I most definitely would never have met some of the coolest people ever, not to mention have a significant portion of the 'non-mentionables' as my gypsies, friends, loves, adventurers, story-tellers and general mud-slingers.

One such weekend, I traveled to meet the family of someone special. The stacks were stacked against or they were not any better than in similar-ish situations earlier which had better odds and more positive out-looks. Needless to say, just like every good tale, the outcome surprised beyond compare.

I was accepted for who I was and not for what I may or may not have represented (?!). 

'What kind of sorcery is this.?!'  screamed, my confused mind. Maybe it was the bubbly which clouded my perception.? Maybe, it was just all lost in translation.? But the smiles, laughter, twinkles and all else seemed genuine enough and I have been a good judge of those in the past.

I came out of that brief encounter positively refreshed and needless to say, the rest of the trip was just as exciting and full on magic.

In time, the realization dawned, on how I wish this level of acceptance was available more closer to home. I wish the people I learned some of my most basic and important values would be able to acknowledge their pre-conceived fears and let them go. Like that fabled plastic bag on a windy day.

If only, all bad people would acknowledge the evil within them.
How easy it would be to feel safe.

If only, that everyone could be read from a first impression.
How boring, our lives would be..

---

PS: I've been invited for an encore and this time it is a whole weekend. *phew* Wish me luck, some would say but then again, what's luck got to do with it. =)

Of monsters and men

Of monsters and men, they come out from their slumber.
People, oh so many people.
A sleepy head with his face in the clouds
People, oh so many people.

Bright lights from under the door,
Monsters, oh so many monsters.
A battle in their eyes and defeat under their nails
Monsters, oh so many monsters.

Riding their horses, wailing that cry
Children, oh so many children.
Garlic stakes and silver mirrors in abundance
Children, oh so many children.

Of monsters and men, they come out from their slumber.
Stories, oh so many stories.
Emotions galore and morality in denial
Stories, oh so many stories.

The desert penguins make their castles in sand
and the fishes of paradise curse in harmony.
What can we do, say the beasts of leisure.
The burden is not ours to bear but yours to fear.

And, just like that, the sun peeks with a clean slate and an empty heart.

If words that are written on a sheet of paper are unread, does that mean they were never written.?

The Missing.

"I've lost it.!!" she screamed.

"I've lost it and I can't fucken find it.!!" even louder this time. I looked at her with half-awake eyes and a disinterested belief. This was all too familiar and one that I had invariably and voluntarily desensitized myself from.

I propped myself on one elbow and stared at her standing by the bed with a disheveled look and eyes wild as fire. I knew she hadn't lost it but as is the case to each, their 'missing's' are more profound and vast than for the world.

"Look under the rock's or between the waves. Listen to the birds or the laughter from beyond. Maybe even smell the smell of happiness or sadness", I said as I crawled upto her stony posture. She looked back at me with vacant eyes devoid of the fire which had burnt so vividly only a few moments and much of our life together. This caught me off guard. Whenever we got lost, this was what brought us back but not anymore.

Something was definitely amiss here.

I knew it was important to breathe, to sit and to calm down. What I couldn't was to make us do exactly that. Sometimes, the body just has to follow a different route as against the mind. This looked like one of those times.

We did eventually breathe and we eventually calmed down but not before the heavy pall of acceptance had descended upon us. It was missing and there was not a clue to be found on how to find it...


Note: I have heard somewhere that a truly great writer doesn't just write the tragedy around him in the most eloquent way but in fact does that and yet manages to show the glimmer of hope to the reader. That, it was said  is the sign of a truly great writer.

Stormy Seas of Calm.

Crowds. Heavy manic crowded places.


Where, the faces merge to form a blur and sound peaks to a crescendo. Walk till the thoughts fuse to a single circular train of thought and we lose count of where the 'start' and where the 'end' reside.


That's what we need in these times of storm. Like a searing hot shower something to numb the disruptions and drown the confusion. We know what we want even if it is out of stock for now. We know what it will cost even if it is beyond our means.


Let us put our head down. Tuck our hands in. Let us walk. 


Walk without a destination or rhyme till the feet lose the feel. There's hell in between my ears and we need to quieten these screams. Stop these churning wheels. The kind that set in motion a movie we do not want to see and the credits we know only too well.


It's these crowds of strangers that I look for. Where no one knows my name and definitely not my song.


.
..
...


It's been a while and we have calmer tides now. 


With calmness, comes the unnerving realizations that what is, truly is against all belief. And with that, comes the bitter-sweet wave of acceptance, the kind that has been the aim of this journey.

We take a look outside the glass house and the bright golden yolk has emerged from within but it is still grey and shrouded in doubt and faith. 


Things have changed. Things may never be the same. But then again, things have always evolved, as it metamorphoses into something unique capable of titillating the most ardent of skeptics. 


It will take its time as everything does but there must be hope for a better wind. It's all we've ever had, from cradle to grave.