And when the foundations collapse Bridges shatter And all the wires snap. When the floodgates break And the tsunami's closing in on us When the ground rumbles And all the talk of office rooms and parliament houses Amount to mere nothings. When all the electric lines burn And all the mobile towers fall And you've got no one to turn to There will come the fairies and ghosts Spoken of in fairytales and fantasies And there will come some magical things You'll see those quiet kids in class outside Dancing and smiling Nonchalantly conniving Looking at empty things Hearing songs unheard of Mumbling away magic to magical beings.
We're escapists. And when the magic comes, It'll come to us. It'll come through us. And we've been waiting a long time for this.
Time for another poetry post * insert doomer face * Was kinda inspired by this picture from Pinterest
Also I just updated the app and I'm loving the new vibe except I miss the grid form of our own works. Would to be cool to have that as an option. But overall it looks much neat and bright and fresh. Anyway. Enjoy the piece. Do give your thoughts.
Ooh ooh aah aah. (Yes we're all monkeys but when was that ever an insult. Insult is not accepting it tbh)
I do not know how many more words I could write before it becomes some bleak lines that barely make sense to any. It is as if they collapse one after another as you try to figure out how they all fit into the two am nights of summer. The world is burning, you can feel it in the air, wind burning everything that it touches. I remember standing at the door of an autumn eve, letting the wind whisper its secret crush on the dandelions. How it kisses her and makes her fly, writing a beautiful eulogy in the end. Things have been different lately, there is too much death when the world falls deaf. The death you can't romanticize about.
You turn off the AC and go back to the familiar creek of the fan from the ceiling. There is a sense of solitude as the world falls quiet for a moment in that darkness, I wish I knew how to write about the world, the world that I feel in that transient moment of solitude. How do you know what it is that you're feeling or the why?
I've read somewhere that, to understand free will you must understand the difference between making your decisions and predicting your decisions. I do not know what it means. But there is something so poignant about it, the helplessness of merely existing. Helplessness when the words fail to fall into the right place as you try hard to fix a few lines to tell a story.
You miss rain on a day like this, the first raindrop splattering on the broken twigs as roots slowly drown into the soil for a new life, a new beginning as if someone just hit a reset button. There is a sense of home in the emanating petrichor from the first rain that hits your skin. I do not know what it carries; sadness or happiness or longing for a familiar touch.
You talk in the strangest times, about things that keep flooding your mind. Of all the seasons you romanticized about, how you always hated the summer. But, I've always loved the way how you talk about rain. Of all the people that you ever loved who never knew how to love you back, I wonder if anyone ever danced with you in heavy rain. Why do you love rain? Is it the subtle sadness it brings on a sunny day? You always had a thing for melancholy, or is it the way it touches your skin in a way that no one ever did? Does it burn when it kisses your summer scars?
The pursuit of happiness is a lie if you ask me, if you want to feel the world, you need to take it all in. From the way the flower blooms, how it gently open its petals to see the beauty of the world, to how it slowly burn and wither away into the soil as if it was never there. If I could I would've told you all about it, about how to feel the world, bit by bit, word by word.
But there are words caught in our throats, tightening its grip every time you try to speak. So you disappear in the middle of a story when the world falls asleep, it is as if you were never there. You wish you could understand this, how everything becomes so disconnected at nightfall, even when it burns, even when it drowns. How you run out of words, run out of sound, run out of places, and engulfed in a melancholy. As if you're wandering through the woods after a heavy rain, barefoot, breaking free of all the silent sighs, not lost but never wants to be found.
You can feel the silence between the lines, around the curls on your favorite book that you keep coming back to, around the edges of the words, a silence someone left behind. But you can't quite figure out why you feel that slight melancholy even when it all feels so disconnected.
There is sadness in the silence, the silence between one word and another. There is sadness emanating from the trees, from the leaves, from the birds, from the chimes of a window where a widow weeps. You can feel it everywhere.
will you stay, near the shoreline of my obsolescence, when the summer bide a little longer?
what do you call a river when it dries up is it still a river or just, another reminiscence?
like a poet without the words, a city without the crowd. dust descends into the voids and it becomes a memory, to history to another story and you forget.
this season will wither away into a bare minimum of existence. you and I will be nothing but dust, drifting between places and time.
but will you stay a little longer for a summer rain? to survive another drought, to drown in another flood? will you stay this time?
This was written for a poetry competition, recently, on the prompt 'fragility'.
It takes a fierce heart to wither a storm; it takes twice a fragile one to watch your Love do that to themselves dilapidate, crumble, leaving behind a heap of eyes and dust, maroon. It might take a handful of rubble to affirm yourself of the red powdery fumes, stinging like sawdust in your eyes the ruins of once a forever home on the ground, lifeless but one can never be so eager to fathom, how it takes another hurtful of a thousand more different shards, over the same wound-- to watch, to substantiate, for yourself, the damage done, irreversible in its own magnanimity preserved in a cultural ether of a marked fragility.
You, a determined trespasser on your own loving belongings to see a part of you, wrecked lying in shambles; gaze unwavering off the show not for the thrill or the drama or milder yet, sympathy but out of sheer helplessness desperation that leads one nowhere; with eyes that look older with every tear, every grimace, and an unmistakable laugh born out of a love for an unrequited attempt at an uncertain hope. Uncertainty ceases to be the scariest, when one's never taught backhanded ways how Hope could've been spelt.
It's comically tragic to imagine what a lone man with a fortune to expend, and a heart, full of giving ends up doing. He holds it dear, but spends lavishly almost as recklessly as a gambler loving the entertainment, though, all-knowing in his heart, how short-lived fortunes leave more lasting miseries. Fragility is only a curse when you're forced to learn it likewise, with courage. That's exactly what's called when you bend down, and sit besides the mud to cup it in your palms bring your face to kiss it, rest your forehead along; a patriotic devotion of the miserable kind. Most often the most unsaid, most often the most felt; as the Love staying as lifeless; corpse veins, with a capped canine still as much in crumbles. There's no one to inherit, and no one to comfort. So what does a lone man has to offer again, you ask? Perhaps, only a father's devotion to an already orphaned fortune.
It's that time of the evening again when you express your dislike, for the same thing sneer as if the watchman let an astray dog piss at your door again, without your permission and I have to hear your disapproval between my invisible sighs and an obvious display of dismay and a not-too-obvious attempt at sarcasm Pardon me, I'm yet to grow as much, to take it to continue smoothly, with the next question about your preferred pizza toppings the very second second, and answer it. But I'm old enough, to realize that I should be wise enough, to do so and hence I do so, with an apparent, and abrupt preciseness that as well you know, you conveniently chose to ignore. I could only wish for it and the things you say you don't believe in to be a non-existent word. I could only wish for you to ask me what I mean, I could only wish for you to enquire about why I feel what I feel, and with what intensity do I feel whatever it is that I feel about my 'lecture' on equity, and how it baffles me beyond my whiny wits, and what rather little my mortal brain permits to discriminate within human beings simply because, they're a certain type of human being. I could only wish for you to see around if not listen to me, once when I say How It Defines Me; an identity you'd have appreciated, too only if you would've cared enough to not colourblind yourself, with the flaming yellow theme of your crush's feed but his unfrequented insta account keeps both your curiosity and heart, burning. While the red alert goes on and off, in this small town past the road, your drawing room overlooks where another one gets hospitalized in a state of emergency; (blue and bruised, visible scars to your visible spectrum of eyes) the in-laws pleading she fell from the roof, in a house with no roof. All your green faces muddy with envy, seeing your friend flaunt the shorts you'd liked on Instagram first but she'd first bought because your mum is a progressive teacher which always denies, and always agrees that people around you rightly tie your character to your clothes and you've to be the best approachable character around. Never say no, because No is never appreciable, and what's not appreciable isn't something for a woman to possess.
I am not salty, or maybe I am. But salt's always good in the right amount; or maybe that's just my taste in the food I'd want to eat. Trust me, it's quite hard to not sound judgemental but how'd you even get an idea about people, without judging their stern judgements. I've tried reasoning; an intelligent lady, sympathetic, and on most days, kind would refuse to acknowledge so? Are you just busy enough? Maybe it's just the college to be blamed, teaching you your management studies poorly. Ping. But the reply for a lame joke is almost always returned, that immediate second --a laughing Daisy sticker followed by three similar memes, (as if laughter is supposed to be the only thing to call for solidarity)-- awaiting me and I'm just left wondering, if you've made your peace with your sore nostril, and with the way your mother got it pierced deceivingly, in a hopeful thought about marriage while still not allowing you to love someone in the hopes of finding a husband. The irony would've almost made me laugh had it not been for your sorer ears, worn out from all the shadow-banning from your own kin when you stay out a few minutes longer without your cousin brother to accompany you, and the monthly 'bloody' isolation. In the same drawing room corner; a primly touch-me-not, with a truly exclusive dinner plate. Is that the kind of privacy you were craving, dearie?
You come to me on days, when your crush doesn't reply, he's distant and probably uninterested and that's okay. I console. You come to me on days, when your mom's never one for acknowledgement she's aged in a household where your grandmother's unpaid, unappreciated labour taught her, that the provider in the house, was her grandfather alone, and that's not okay. I shall still console. You come to me on days, when your beloved, loving father didn't take your side, mocked a mockery, at you made you feel less of a woman, lesser of a human; but darling, all I can do is console. Because you don't believe in a world, that strives to unhinge these shackles, back till the very first key; because you don't want to believe in a word, that stands for this very change, demanding respect and individuality, to be a universal phenomenon; irrespective of whether you carry a gender, or don't. A world, that sets apart disagreement and disrespect; a world, that encourages, teaches, children and adults, alike; a world, that values autonomy, a human right. Where, your favourite burgundy lipstick, only relies on choice and a pair of lips. Where, your favourite peach polish, only requires willingness and a few nails. Where your favourite yellow skirt, you'd liked on me demands only the confidence to flaunt. Exactly the kind of utopia that'd make you laugh your prettiest laugh and scrunch your nose into a prettier W. But it's just another day, and you've turned more than colourblind today. It's partly sunny through the high-rise's corridor, and the weather's too humid for you to not wear a sleeveless top. It's been 2 days since you last shaved your pits, but you still go out the door. Your mum's eyes follow you you despise that look; so much, so damn much. You make your way to the adjacent door, and knock. Your neighbour's cat seems to purr just fine.
Me being dramatic af? Maybe. Maybe not. This was born outta a random (although solicited) conversation with a schoolmate about a recent bookhaul, her showing some interest and then dismissing the same when she found out it was a "feminist" book. XD I was sarcastic, of course. Can't help the habit anymore. But also, gave up on explaining, quite easily. It felt a weird kind of incomplete, not conveying my view; though I know she's not one to listen to my 'pravachan' (as she put it) anyways. This feels like enough of a response, and my point is made. #ContentKeLiyeKuchBhi lmao XD