The First Day.

A borrowed backpack, 
A recurring dream,
A hopeful vision,
And, many a welcome smile.

The sky clouded his lazy brunch but, he didn't mind. Not this time. While, dark heavy weather was usually the precursor to a morose outlook, this time the surroundings allowed him to muse and dwell into the possibility and emotions of all that is. 

A distant voice jingled,
A bird cawed,
A gaggle of children's laughter seeped through,
And, smile at the ensuing solitude, he did.

A book whose back was barely cracked lay next to him. Given by a friend as a good travel read. He smelled briefly of Orange essence, thanks to a slightly leaky wrapping of a gift for another friend as he waited patiently for the hand that would join in the adventure ahead. 

Hello, holidays. 

You've been a long time coming. But I'm not going to rush into you. I'm going to linger here and dawdle and re-discover what it feels like to let time drip down my body as extravagantly as possible.

December Sky VI

I haven't been here in ages. It almost feels new.

An ode to the ever beautiful December Sky. May it be glorious each year than before!

And then came December sky..
With everything that was and why
From the dark to the rising Sun,
Every step was remembered and then forgotten.

And then came December sky..
With it, dreams of a time never gone by
Beyond the colour of these seas I can see
A happy girl, always dancing with glee.

And then came December sky..
The journey is long, but short is the cry
From lit rainbows to dancing rivers
Hope is what answers them prayers.

My Boat. My World.

My boat. It's heavy.

Heavy from the rains of my face. 
Heavy from the waves crashing in my heart.

My boat. It's rocky.

Rocky from the tremor in my knees.
Rocky from the thoughts in my head. 

My boat. It sails.

It sails with the wind from my lungs.
It sails with the rustle in my hair.

My boat. It glides.

It glides with thoughts of her.
It glides with the curve of my lips. 

My boat. My boat. 

If I could, I would.
Turn up the Sail, Pull up the anchor.

It's time to paddle along.
It's time to scoop out the water. 

My boat. My world. 

Say a little prayer for us all.
For we are servants of the deep blue

I look back at the diminishing island,
Hopeful, of feeling the sand on the shore again.
Knowing, the longing of the warmth will always reign.

All I hear is the lull of water on wood.
All I feel is the weight of my decision.

Someday, I will see the cheeky grin again.
Someday, I will know, it's meant only for me.
And this time, I will be able to let it flower like it's meant to be. 

One after the other..

It's been a tumultuous year.

There has been the normal amount of change with varying degrees of impact.

There has been a surprising amount of continuity and evolution - In relationships, perspectives, purpose and emotions.

Looking ahead, there is a faint glimmer of potential highs and shaky ground that seem to go hand-in-hand. Resolutions were never time or duration specific but they came about in certain moments of clarity or moments of complete mayhem and chaos. It was accepted for it is a blowing wind.

There is much to be written and much of it requires a certain level of courage and candidness which probably isn't available at this point in time as it should be. A rant will have to do. For now. Again.

A strong belief exists that a foundation for something truly great has been laid and while that may have been a very difficult phase, the level of dedication, perseverance and belief required going forward is going to be unquestionable and unparalleled since now.

The support system has never wavered, thankfully. While some pillars and rocks may have moved along having played their path in this story, others have come along and supported this journey. Nobody's value or worth or effort can ever be truly encapsulated in words. It is invaluable and one that will never be forgotten irrespective of the state those bonds may currently reside in.

There is a new compass by the side. No questions asked, very few requests requested, no promises made or expected. It's perfect and just what is required. The fear of letting down, still persists. It'll never go away, which may not necessarily be a bad thing. Hope for the best still remains. Perseverance, belief and dedication has got to be the mantra with every stroke of cheek, every kiss and every gaze. It remains to be seen..

Don't be afraid beats the heart. Stay calm whispers every breath.

One step.. Let's deal with each step as it comes.

Trust.

*slip.. sliiiiiiiiide.. KER-RASH*

That damn floor.!!

Waitaminit.

That Floor, it had never done this before. Never, had it ever done this before. Never had she ever had to think twice over its reliability, its assuring sturdy grip on her delicate naked soles. Never.

Never. Ever. Ever. Never.

So, why now. Why would it not grip her sturdy pores and catch her as she lost her footing.? Why would her most trusted floor do this. She had stood by it in times of trouble and renovation and is this the way it pays her back.? Not so. Never so. Not done by any manner of speaking.

Could she write this as a one-off.? Should she.? How could she.? Prudence had told her this is what you do when you're bitten once. Would she want to take the risk of trusting the damn floor and break a part of her next time round.? She would think not. 

Stupid floor. It had been her favorite and now, nothing but threads of doubt and bubbles of dread. Serves it right though, she felt. It will never have the luxury of feeling my naked skin again nor will it have my unwavering support as before. 

This is what happens to those that let the ones that trust them the most fall. Shame on you floor. Shame. Even one with such high esteem and confidence must be made to rue its failure.

No. Now she will advice all her friends, aides, companions, acquaintances, strangers of how ordinary and un-special this floor was. 

And all the floor could do in this time was hope for time. It had slipped in its concentration and it had let her fall. It was sorry but those words don't count for much in this time of ease and impersonal barriers. It's only hope now was to ensure it never let its concentration fail and never drop anyone. It could be possible but it would take time. 

Lots of time..

The Perks of being an Asshole.

Here walked an Asshole.

He probably didn't look like one, but he sure as hell felt like one every now and then. Like a gust of wind, a memory that had been suppressed would flash by making him wince. Of the time, he went incommunicado to a very nice lady after they had gone out for a while. The simple reason being he didn't feel the spark and he didn't want to be around when he told her so. He hoped she was happy wherever it is that she is now.

Or, the times he couldn't help bully the guy living next door for the sheer reason that as per him that guy just didn't know what to take out of life, had his priorities wrong, was too "arrogant" towards other certain individuals that were looked down upon. But, mainly for the simple reason that he could bully this guy and get away with it.

As he increased his pace, and slowly moved to a trot, he could feel a slight stiffness in his knees. It'd been a while since his last trot. Asshole knees. It helped though, to rid the cob-webs, in his joints, in his mind. Someday, maybe even his soul.

He was still an Asshole. A sigh. Another flash. Another sigh. The Asshole continued to trot.

He remembers how he sometimes took others hearts for granted or rather, under-estimated the genuineness of their affections. Much like how his had been taken for granted and/ or under-estimated by the few others.

Made him chuckle that. That thought was ironic and funny. But, he had to focus. Focus on his breathing as he increased his pace. The crunch of each foot on the gravel formed a rhythmic beat that he tried to gain some semblance of routine and normalcy from.

It was a while before he had another thought worth digging deeper.

But, that feeling remained. And, he continued to run even as the nicotine tar in his lungs burned and his alcohol riddled liver screamed. He ran, for this was the purging of an Asshole.

At least, it wouldn't be long before he got distracted. Distracted until the next flash.

*wince*

Strange Love

Strange Love

“Run!” She said.  

“Run like you haven’t run before. Run till your lungs clench your heart and your heart swallows the water from your mouth. Run and don’t stop till your limbs are not yours rather, individual states fighting for independence from the tyranny within and outside their kingdom of anarchy.”

He had stopped trying to make sense of what she said, these days. Literal meaning was never her modus operandi and the more he tried to make sense of it, the closer he seemed to reside within his palace of temporary pleasures and comfort zones. Her presence had always been known to him but acknowledgement of her conversational presence was relatively young. He still remembered the series of first timid steps towards her which snow-balled to colorful missteps of adventures, uncomfortable predicaments pinched with a wonderful sense of rambling bliss.

That. That, he figured was what scared him often. Often enough to run behind the curtains of restricted consciousness at the slightest hint of trouble. This was how he had also handled life for a long time that is, until he met his first band of gypsies. But that’s a story for another day.

These were the kind of private conversations he afforded himself when he felt she was off discovering her secrets around the corner. However, he knew he was not alone, even for those fleeting moments she was always there, encouraging, urging, protesting, rejoicing, exclaiming the sweet release of everything he held sacred and all, which he abhorred.

Chaos.
In my face.
Around my being.
All over my senses.
Infusing, Imbibing, Mutating.
Chaos.

Childhood comprised of corners laced with portals to a multitude of worlds. As he was tantalizingly hooked on the printed words oblivious to the ‘life’ unfolding around him. His Parents always worried that he would ruin his eye-sight, if he read so much under the dim lamp, not that it mattered much to him. There were stories to be told and adventures to be had and he wanted to experience them all. They were however quite glad that this kept him out of trouble and considered him to be so well-behaved with the small but significant exception. These exceptions which were accompanied with earth-shattering tantrums towards the privilege of devouring the birthday cake irrespective of whose it was. But these were aberrations and in this culture of ours, a silent child is a good child. They still looked back at that phase in time with a smile and a teary lump.

She was back. Bounding and skipping with cart-wheels of explosive colors, ideas and wonderful epiphanies. These epiphanies never ceased to excite her irrespective of its scope, depth or implications on life. A life they were not entirely sure as to which shade of grey, it belonged to. It never occurred to her rather, she chose to ignore the fact that she may not have been the first to stumble upon such ideas, or that this was all a process of life. It didn’t matter one jot and he loved this about her, loved that no matter where they were or what they were doing, this was living, this was the world and this was the universe in all its glories and black-holes.

He often wondered of the exact moment when he became aware of her presence. The exact moment when he made that step to acknowledge her; what led him to that? Was he sad, happy, non-committal, bored, apathetic? All he could recollect was her presence. He felt she had always known and had bid her time waiting for the moment, for the opportunity, always believing that while his consciousness ignored, his subconscious knew.

Melancholy.
Cloudy Shiny Rain.
On my once-dusty parka boots,
Puddles of forgotten childhood abandon.
Slip in a hole, a friend to the flood.
Melancholy.

She was a myriad of colour, a kaleidoscope of orgasmic emotions. She was his darkest demon and his guardian angel. She was the music in between the breaks of the story that she whispered and the dance they danced knowing they were one and yet separate.

Life wasn’t always easy with her though. Their hushed conversations, while loud enough to shake the foundations of every belief, tended to spill out catching an unsuspecting passenger off-guard. He could always side-step the awkwardness of that raised eye-brow with a laugh and slapping his forehead followed by a joke of early-stage Schizophrenia or an invisible friend that failed to move on with age. More often than not, it worked and the stranger appeased whilst they laughed in hysterics.

He loved her. He’d had a few bed-warmers in years gone by and there were a few relationships that had completely bewitched him and made him believe of a heaven in this life. All the while, she had rejoiced with him and cried with him as they eventually returned to the soil like a garden of lilies. But, she was there and in time, they knew they would be okay. For, his loss was her loss and her epiphany was his epiphany.

She was his best friend and she was the other side to his coin. She was him and he was her, he had always loved how he could see the other person’s point of view and while it made it difficult to have a point of view at times, it was never considered too big a barrier.

He loved his imagination and it was only appropriate that she grew from residing in a part of his head to metamorphosing into his entire being and loving him back. She would always be there until the moment he breathed his last and smiled that one last smile while they shared a cynically ironic joke that they were convinced, no one had ever thought of before.

Shanti.
The rising sun.
Orgasm of color and splendor.
Everything will be okay,
with New dreams and Old hopes.
Shanti.

But for now, he must ‘Run!’

---

This is the story of a young man not too unlike myself who lived in the clouds, printed words and his imagination. It is the story of a shy young man, who eventually realizes the existence of his greatest gift, how it metamorphoses into an entity (she) and his acceptance that while he may be alone, he'll never be lonely. 

The Words That Never Were..

"There is a method to my madness. A science to my sophistication. Basking in the glorious sunshine brings a guaranteed smile to my face! Long may it blossom!" - N

This quote came accompanied with a glorious landscape cum self-portrait photograph on my news-feed in a popular social-networking site. It came and vanished without my noticing it albeit, not until much later. Unsurprisingly, and even more importantly thankfully, it had been spotted by a number of individuals one of whom was my fellow gypsy bonded and hounded by love, blood and experiences. The Top Kind.

From within, began a conversation between them of mutual respect towards the gift of words. It continued the cultivation of a once-asked request pertaining to us sharing our platform with N, so as to allow her to impart her words, her views, her angst and her rambles.  The gypsy responded highlighting his desire and our excitement to having her on-board while mentioning the general theme of this outlet revolved around our inspiration and marvel towards life, love, the soul and the sky. I could not have put it across any better and I am glad it was he who sowed the seeds.

Things however, didn't entirely go to plan. A week later, as we slumbered out of our beds, some with a glaring hang-over, others with an impending gloom over a long day ahead ore general boredom; trickled in news that N had crossed over. The reason behind or the means to this are irrelevant. All that mattered at this moment was that it had happened and she had passed on.

Elisabeth Kubler-Ross theorized that there are 5 stages to grief and while some of us knew her intimately, and others had just come across in a brief moment, the impact was there for all to feel and deal with however best possible. Some skipped through the stages in a hurry while others lingered irrespective, of who well they may have known N. But, I can fairly ascertain an impact was felt everywhere.

I do not know N intimately enough to wax lyrically about her being, her persona, her dreams, aspirations, fears or the unknown quotient. Yet, it saddened me greatly of the opportunity missed to have shared more laughs, reprehensible ideas, maybe an adventure or just a longer peek into the psyche of another rambler. It is a loss. For all.

It also brought along with it the ever-familiar cloud of mortality which I am all so keen to sweep under the carpet and the dread of not realizing the promise of whatsoever potential. It soon however, gave way to a fantastic euphoria of being alive and still be able to marvel at the ever-present miracles around and within. It helped let go of many restraints and a few regrets which may come back in a darker and more vulnerable moment but for now, it helped. 

This is the one positive I can take out from this entirely dark period and I guess the more I say, lesser the justice to a fellow writer, thinker and provocateur.

"I live each day thinking it could be my last, I so enjoy the blue sky, grey sky, the sun, the rain. I'm still passionate about making a difference someday, small and big. Life moves on and you embrace it." - N

Safe travels, fellow Gypsy. The only solace herein, is that hopefully your soul has found a better universe for your energy to flow.

The Cold Hole of Regret.

I sit here in a cold bed of wet sweat,
I sit here by the terrace wondering a dead beat.
I pace the halls lost in my thoughts,
I race down that endless tunnel in a sea of drought.

Maybe, if he had not lost his patience.
Maybe, if she had kept that belief.
Maybe, if he had seen through the words of doubt.
Maybe, if she had thought just once before putting them in black and white.

The party has died and everyone's gone home.
Empty glasses and torn wrapping paper lie in ruined Rome.
Sunlight peeps through the drawn shades,
Of the promise and reality from which hope seems to fade.

Everything brings back a memory.
Everything brings back a story.
Nothing makes it feel better.
Nothing comes to him like that unwritten letter.

Therein lies the half-eaten cake icing,
with a photo of him smiling in better times a-coming.
He remembers the oncoming "I told you so's ".
He also remembers the feelings of inconsolable loss.

I wish, I could put my arms around a memory,
But that, my dear friend is not a likely possibility.
I wish, I could put my arms around her.
I wish, I could kiss away all that fear.

As I sit here in front of the screen at the break of dawn. Surrounded by awesomeness and love passed out in various forms. The hole is ever more glaring. Not just because of the physical absence, but the possibility of a vanished hope.

"Happy Birthday.!!" the crows caw, as he lights another one for the next decade..

Faith of a Leaping Kind.

He could hear the gravel crunch under the soles of his favorite sneakers, as he fooled himself into believing he was obtaining a foot-hold. He could hear the wind whistling through the naked emptiness of the surroundings as it chimed a tune. Somewhere far away, he could hear the presence of nothing. But, he couldn't feel it yet.

Off came the favorite sneakers and there they lay discarded like yesterday's skin. Off came the dirty unwashed socks that peeled off with a surety. He swore he heard a Pink-Floyd tribute band drum up the rhythm to one of his favorite tunes. The one about a Diamond and a Crazy Man, the one that shined through bright enough to have a master-piece made for him. Yes, he liked to romanticize himself and his predicaments.

He felt the cool sand seep in, in between his quickly drying feet. The tiny droplet of sweat seemed to trickle down the side of his temple, a cool relief to the irritation of fear. He could feel the abyss ahead. He did not know what lay beyond but folk-lore decreed that you either swam or you sank. In this case, an infinite fall to a not-so-pleasant ending. Morbidity always tickled him, how ironic. 

The fog seemed to envelope the vastness that was his surroundings. He couldn't see the end of the current cliff or the start of the valley but, he knew from within, that it was there. A state of mind had to be achieved and the rest would sort itself out, one way or the other. A state of mind. That is all there is to it..

That is all..

The first step was tentative, the next, not so much, by the third, he had lost all fear as with traction came higher momentum. The weight of the world seemed to slip off his shoulders and the fear of crashing and burning seemed to get lost in the chaos. There was no guarantee of what was going to happen, but, there was the belief. The belief of freedom even if it meant an Icarus like plunge. That must be it. That must be freedom, knowing it was all you. You and nothing else.

The prize was too good to not try. The prize which promise a heaven on earth even at the cost of mortality. The prize was that sneaky smile and that look behind the care-free bangs.  The prize. Yes, that prize, he was ready no matter what or how long.

He couldn't see it, though he knew it was near. Could feel it in his bone-marrow, in his pounding heart, his squinting eyes, every single pore on his skin and every single strand of hair on the back of his neck. It was coming near with each thud of a step, it was coming near and all that was left was that faith, the leaping kind.

It was here. It was now. You are fast. You are focused. You cannot see the end but you know it is there.

now..

Now..

Now.

NOW.!!

and he flew, leaving behind a dust trail and a pair of favorite sneakers for them to hopefully write about someday. Someday. 

Distractions.

'Here we are. Again.' he thought, as he lay on the sofa. Chocolate brown in it's shade merging with his naked cocoa brown form but for the black boxers.

These boxers. The one she got him, 'cause nothing makes a man look sexier than a black 'package-hugger'. This amused him. She amused him. He missed nonsensical conversations revolving around sex and times galore. It had been 52 days, 12 hours and 27 minutes since he last saw her walking away slightly embarassed by the sudden out-pouring of what was and what could have been, had the fates conspired otherwise. If only..

Middle of the day and he longed for some companionship. Any companionship especially since the kind he longed for could not be found or rather he was too tired to look for. It always took an eternity for him to accept one and once accepted it took a millenium to stop accepting it. 'What a Catch 22', he laughed suddenly hoping for a distractant.

It had been a while and the distractants had been doing a wonderful job. A job worthy of commendation.

The sun shines brightly now and a breeze tickles as it makes its mind on which direction and answers to take with it. I wish I could put this down in words, he mused. Create a myriad of colors aptly described by words that would make a grown man simper down in tears and a timid man feel so powerful. His ego knew no bounds and his need to be scandalous addictive yet, he was too shy to open that door.

A lady with a voice of purple silk crooned and a lonely cup of tea lay beside a half-smoked cancer-stick. The purpose of either not known but the victims of a whim they all were and, just like everything it was a purpose that had been duly forgotten.

People were expected home and all he wanted before the noise engulfed them all was a lifetime of solitude under a searing water-flow. Even if he hated the rains, he loved being immersed in water. A purging of the soul and an eternal damnation of the highs.

What. A. Rush. he thought, as he reached for the tepid cup of tea and a huge intake of nicotine..

Portraits of a Dream.

I dreamt the other night.
It was a dream of a night,
of dust and angels.
The details were relaxed.

Running on water,
I had the leap of a thousand fold.
The background changed often enough.
I don’t think I covered any distance though.

I heard them call us for prayers,
The songs were of an unknown tongue.
Now, I noticed.
I was running on a road of faces.

Each face brought a story.
Each story was a dream.
It’s a good thing I had my dream-catcher.
I would need reading material for later.

The Road to Heaven was of regret and pain.
Ironic, she said as I hopped on her shoulders.
Hold on, she said as we skipped over the fences.
Go find your dreams, I wish I’d said to her.

They came from nowhere.
She was now gone.
I didn’t know the reason or mood.
She left me with a rhyme and a tune.

Waking up in a sweat,
A dream within a nightmare.
I was running scared,
With my heels left brittle and bare.

Yet, there was a smile on the face.

And, a glint in those eyes.

The subconscious knew.

While the conscious ignored.

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.   

December Sky IV

As the last but one sun of 2011 dawns upon me, I have yet again witnessed a magical december. Maybe now it is magical only coz it is december. I paint another picture on the canvas of this december sky..


As I open my eyes under this December sky..
I listen to two hearts beating a separate cry.
The clouds are talking and the moon is angry, surprising nei?

As I open my eyes under this December sky..
The smallest and mightiest of trees aspire to touch the sky.
The dogs are only staring, seldom to bite.

As I open my eyes under this December sky..
I sit alone as the suspects of time watch me dream underlie.
The need to stay happy is a bet I’m willing to gamble high.

As I open my eyes under this December sky..
I see joy flying around in the air, promising not to die.
To this prolonged moment, we raise our whiskey and rye.

As I open my eyes under this December sky..
I see the moonlight throwing a half smiling shadow, as I sip my chai.
It’s here that lives a lover, hiding as a thief, escaping the spy.

As I open my eyes under this December sky..
I see an old rock star, fallen from grace, trying to get high.
The reality check was a hard hit, but we hope he’ll do it alrigh’

Such a peaceful high under the December sky..
I meet strangers over happy drinks and relish the stupidity and the high five.
Vooohoo, as the chills get into the burning eye.

Such a peaceful high under the December sky..
The stars are traveling on my face, with the breeze, as I eat a humble pie.
A shooting star is the only star, lonely, and wondering kolaveri why?

Such a peaceful high under the December sky..
I never slept, just made food and listened to music, captain wise guy.
I see a father dare to live an old dream, young ‘n gritty without a hair dye.

Such a peaceful high under the December sky..
You ride the road more than the house blues can make you jive.
A mission in mind, a task at hand, a prayer in the heart, we’ll try.

Such a peaceful high under the December sky..
Let’s plug me in and turn you on, till the end of air supply.
I am a sandman and I have to sell them dreams. Aye aye.

Such a peaceful high under the December sky..
When I hear the sound of li’l Aiza’s cry.
Few things are more joyful, than the thought of that picture with generations of 5.

Rage Me.

Rage.

Rage against my mind.
Rage against the situation.
Rage against your words.
Rage against my needs.

Rage against going forward.
Rage against being stuck in the past.
Rage about the uncertain future.
Rage against my surroundings.

Rage against me.
Rage against you.
Rage against them.
Rage against him.

Rage against intermittent hope.
Rage against fast disappearing hope.
Rage against the fear.
Rage against my dreams.

Rage against the lovers.
Rage against the dreamers.
Rage against the optimists.
Rage against the comfort.

and then,

sickness.
sorrow.
resignation.
death.

Rage against Death.

This one goes out to the reminder that, "Life is short". 
Thank you. I'm trying the best I can, I hope it's enough.