To see from where the sun comes, from which lane, behind which building to see what's exactly the first thing on which the rays fall, so I defeat it, and become that first thing to know what the first ray tastes like. With the hope of waking up before anyone else existing, I chose to stay up all night till I see where the night goes when it goes, where it's home is, to what address, and what train it is, of which the whistle is heard but no light seen, that only the darkness boards and leaves with no sign of leaving.
There is no whistle for departure of things like people, poems, love, and nights.
Managing to become the 1005679th person to witness the location of the unknown address of the dawn and 3977th person to witness how the moon dies with the least people to mourn, and place a flower on the surface where for the last time the light fell, A death known to all, forgotten by all, leaving a set of stories, a set of songs no one to write, to sing, to hear, to tell.
Why do they fall from such height? Isn't sky a safer place if not a home?
I wonder how we all are falling on the same land, departing from the same land, vanishing somewhere, where again, everyone is together and yet living in minds and hearts of others, as if, as if it's a journey, a journey from appearing - becoming a habit - and then significant - and then departing - and disappearing like ashes and memories, just to appear in eyes and on lips that tells how much love there was, and how much more it could have been.
Grief Isn't that much in departure the way it is In not understanding the presence.
I took 29 trains and 32 buses to various places finding fewer homes and everytime I leave, I leave a part of me in the bricks made of air, in making of another home for another version of the same person who wouldn't know what and why and where they are before they depart, but when they do, they're going to whisper the wishes of staying for some more time, or an hour, or even minutes, or anything that is more than what is given. Though, it pass, it departs and no one is stopping but there is grief to it, so much of it, when it's gone.
Departure is the stamp of identification and realisation that tells you of all the things and people and love that was supposed to get recognised.
-Shruti, you took 29 trains and 32 buses but that's not enough, listen to the whistle, the train is arriving again, on platform two this time.
Close your eyes again, again for maybe nth time now? Close because you don't want to see bad Close because you fail to identify what's good Close because you cannot find or create peace, and love, and hope, and faith. Close because, no, just close, as you should.
Cry for one more night, curse the night for not waiting for the morning, curse the morning for staying way too long. because O you poor heart, you just cannot let anyone and anything stay, you never knew you're blind, so blind to find stars in day.
How many more songs to play, with this damaged headphones you carry like your crown, a crown just to ignore the mad crowd? What song do you listen to? Where do you find yourself? In which verse, in which tone or line? You liar, you liar, you liar telling everyone how you breathing happily in a world so fine.
Who expects a sad poem from a clown, not even you, my damned soul, for what purpose you're here, What you are playin' is not your role. Who's in the poem that everyday you write, Who set the battle, who's here to fight? I heard multiple cries, it's definitely not just you, your problems are common in fact, the same with few. There's no solution, they said it's an illusion, life's an unhappy story and happiness, a hallucination.
Someone said - you're not alone Why? Why? let me make it a home! staying together in shattered homes isn't safe, or happy, or a matter of pride, it's like a roof with no walls, no rooms, where everyone's lying, everyone's crying, indeed home is big but where to hide?
Another evening, another sad poem I don't even know if it's called sad even. Isn't anything that's repeated becomes a habit you fail to recognise, like that of breathing, you don't know when you breathe and when you sigh. Come on, me, and you, and other few, let's tell everybody once again that nobody's alone, everyone's sad, there's a huge crowd together, going mad. No one's afraid, but everyone is in fear laughing their heart out, eyes full of tears.
-Shruti, you're not here alone, there inside, is a huge crowd, yet no home.
Poetry makes me write about life while I hold death between my lips, in the smoke of which I see scars and hear cries and give attempts of turning them into words and verse so that people understand what's sad and where's pain, but oh I see them with bags on shoulders and weight on empty palms, with false hopes kept on lips, they're here to make it home.
Poetry is a woman who's not chained but there are bricks all around her, painted into the colour of sky and flowers and river and soil, with no sun or moon. She thought of it as liberation, extending hands to touch the pseudo sky and whisper - the sky is concrete.
Poetry is blind, it just gets to visualise things in the dark clouds, and it tells about a world in the same dark cloud where people walk with hands folded, eyes closed, lips quivering, whispering - May I never lose the blindsight, may I never lose the blindsight, to see a world where invisible is blood in the soil so poisonous, with dead bodies breathing in the air that smells of plight.
Poetry is an orphanage where verses don't know about their dead parents and therefore it just comes out from numb throats of poets, as their voice.. somewhere still hopes of getting heard. But does the poems know that the only voice of any poet heard is - silence?
So like that of the lost souls, the poems too, unaware of their dead parents, end up becoming guardians of the poet who talk about life, holding death between lips.
Ones who get reposts in line as straight as arrows! Ones who get reposts whene'er they write no matter what! (community just finds them as 1913 Liberty Head Nickles) Ones who get some instant blue moon reposts and then are left like Tundras of Canada, you can include me in this Ones who only repeat old chestnut lines and get reposts Ones who write brillant and brassy and hardly get reposts! Ones who just jot down clichè liners and get reposts! [ Plus comments :) ] Ones who copy others and coat their posts with syrupy & sugary synonyms and get reposts, but you still find them Ones who write singular but don't even get worthy reads! [ And then repost is a big thing :( ] Ones who... [ Drop in the cmnt section and I'll add here •=• ]
And one thing I just noticed many a time, community just reads the posts above or below your post and flies under the radar keepin your post aside like sewage from factories;-;
If I am actually the person "I am" when alone, and a different version with same face at your home, then what I am finding all night, for what existing all time, and what exactly I've lost with the end of morn. Not even sure whether I've lost something, or I am the one who's lost, because all I carry is the piece of paper, that they handed over to me, with thousands of address, taking me to everywhere, where I wasn't supposed to be. I take a break then, then it rains, I see someone running to me with an umbrella, I smile thinking - home is coming, and shows me a piece of paper with another address, asking, "you know where this address will take me to?" I smile thinking - someone else too is running.
If I am actually the person "I am" when alone, and a different version with same face at your home, then when am I supposed to apologize for always keeping you with someone who's like me but not me, receiving all love and hate and pleasures and pain and everything one can give, which vaporizes later and all I am in the end is nothing but a void. A void where I cannot live so I shout, cry, beg, breathe, sit, think, over think, wonder, wander, lost, and I forget why I am here. I forget I am here. I forget, I am. I cry.
If I am actually the person "I am" when alone, and a different version with same face at your home, then who's there in love with you, thinking you are too? and comes to me with brightest smile and shine in eyes, says words of hopes, hopes are lies. I ask - "oh you, a version of mine, how do you think that's love everytime? maybe that's something like that of love, like pseudo smiles resembles with the most beautiful curve, oh version, so innocent you are.. where you live, from there, love is far." My version leaves me like a shadow then, curses me, for staying alone in every lane. Forgets I'm not the part of it, but it definitely is, so where do you go to when away from home?
If I am actually the person "I am" when alone, and a different version with same face at your home, then who's the third person in the mirror, an image or mirage or someone like me? I pity for its existence sometimes which is identified only when I'm there. So whenever I stand in front of the mirror, I make sure to greet with a warm smile and it smiles back at me too. Definitely we're there for each other, that's my reflection to which I'm the image.
If I am actually the person "I am" when alone, and a different version with same face at your home, then who's lost and who's finding, if everyone can see laughter and capture it too, from where then comes the sound of whining? who's the person when with you, who's the person under umbrella and dew, who's the person in mirror then, who's the person crying but smiles in every frame? who's the shadow, the body or reflection? where's the address taking you to, for adoption or for abduction? who will save and who will die, who will come to say stories made of lies?
If I am actually the person "I am" when alone, and a different version with same face at your home, then where am I running to, or running away from something maybe? Maybe I'm not real when alone or at home, Identity is a fallacy, fallacy I own.
-Shruti, who are you if nothing you assumed to be? in search of something that was never lost, maybe?