In this present environment, with a round pillow under my back it's tough to come up with a thought or two. The exchange of lips is a serene moment. It's serene only when it's safe and respectful or when we look back we see black dots instead of roses. Drop down your chores and dive deep into this for two minutes. You are supposed to trace your fingers on the contours of a waist and pull her forward, worship her cheeks like your life depends on it. And she would lean forward if she wants to, and if she does, don't let her go for a good 5 minutes. Lift her butt up, choke her neck. Make her sit down and giggle all you want. It could be the last time, you could die tomorrow. You can keep your eyes closed, you can keep it open. There are red wires in eyeballs, those red wires come up when the eyes want to cry. This is a very suggestive text. I want to sound as real as Michelangelo did while sculpting bare hands on soft thighs.
And I wish I could write more on this.
I have got some work to do. Until then, read it twice.
I don't know how many heart to heart conversations does one require to conclude something. What is even a conclusion? Here, as I sit in front of a lit up aquarium, I don't seem to find an answer to so many things that happen while we walk on the presumed borders of a mosaic floor. There is a new article on intimacy, written by this xyz columnist, which says that when we listen to someone we grow so close that we live them. The dangers of being a good listener is that sometimes you will believe what's not there. And listening is intimacy. This is unfortunate and coherent at the same time. There's no rectilinear propagation, or there is, maybe with a hint of centrifugal trajectory. But this hint consumes many, this hint is the reason why people crave a straight line and never deviate. I deviated twice while jotting this thought down on my notepad. Thoughts are sometimes too irrational and intrusive and we aren't our thoughts. If we market our opinions and not embody what we believe in, then what's the point in looking for results? Too many questions and very few answers, the good thing is when I search for answers I forget what sadness bring me to this point. So searching is better than meandering in a pool of salt.
And the columnist is me, I believe we can solve anything and everything if we have the courage and will to sit down and be honest.
I'm wearing a black hoodie, a red tshirt with indigo strips on it and red joggers to match an uncanny feat of silk cushions on the sofa. All this while I have written about what I feel but I am not sure if it's good to write about everything I go through, even though my revelations are only one aspect of a grand scheme of things, and the universe doesn't care about a single burning candle on the table. I'll melt and children would poke their pencils on my chest, one day, with the satisfaction of unearthing a dead wax candle and giving it the salvation it deserves. Whilst the last hours of 2021, I was amidst a crowd of fun loving people who looked everywhere with hope, as the twinkling lights shone on their pale faces, everyone looked happy as if they wanted to forget yesterday and live. I always cook different plans, there is perhaps peace, in another world, for people like me. I hardly smile and when I do I think about the circumstances that would follow, would it be one more year of voicing out pain, or entrapping the mind to believe illusion. I hope neither of it happens, I am looking forward to a good year because my expectations are low, and it's better if something surprises me.
if you see me happily sipping coffee in a cozy cafe, leave me alone.
Everytime I have whispered something I have meant it. Vacant chairs scare me, the ones that are beside me and one that's in front. There is a place where I can never be alone. I feel stuck in this loop of information and everything that sucks me in is enabling it. There are some around who never wish better, and some leave to make it better. There is always this cycle of something never ending. It's like we live in a simulation where kids push and pull buttons to tap into our imagination. Paying bonuses when we act just like they want us to, luring us into believing that we are in control of our lives.
We all have this tendency to feel important, I visit bookstores on Sundays, mainly Oxford. I sit there in desolation as if waiting for something to happen, with my eyes moored to the printed designs that speak, I almost forget everything that goes around. One such day I met this woman who was hurrying her way towards the cafeteria and almost slipped infront of me. She grabbed my left shoulder and sat down beside me, wondering what's going on, I asked if she was okay. She looked at me and and asked if she is looking beautiful. I said "yeah mam, you do, what happened?". She was wearing a black saree with white polka dots and she was actually very pretty. She told me that she was waiting for her boyfriend, whom she hasn't seen in 2 years. And that she wanted to look beautiful today. I smiled and answered that you are really pretty and he is really lucky to have you. She got up smiled and left, then she came back with a rose in her hand and a man standing beside her. She gave me the rose and told me that I made her day. It was so wholesome and so inexplicable that I couldn't stand for an hour. I sat there, waiting for the evening to pass by.
If a bunch of kids were controlling me that day, I am grateful to them. Everytime I have whispered something I have meant it and under my breath I still speak as I write.
I just want to pass by, happily. Even when trouble comes I want to pass by without a fuss, even when there's a fuss I want to pass by with tight clench and stiff shoulders, but I just want to pass by. If there's a loop, please be gentle, I don't want to pluck your eyes out and make you blind, I just want to pass by your side glances and assert what I mean.
I mean that I just want to pass by. And if I don't, then sit down with me, I have something to tell you that next time "I'll pass by".
When you practice gratitude it makes you look at things in a better way. Leaves will rumble when the wind is gusty, wilted ones too. And who says that a dead leaf isn't beautiful. Grey is always associated with Gloomy mood, I have great reverence for people who have decoded what grey is. I have great reverence for people who are resilient. Not everyone can tolerate and not break, but you don't have to tolerate when you have a mouth to speak, you should. Anger, sadness won't subside if you won't treat it. Silence could be an antidote but the hurt won't fade if you won't talk about it. When the grey clouds gather up in the sky they protect you from heat, sometimes the drops are forgiveness for your sins, sometimes the drops sting like nudges from Scissorhands. Many of us are not what we tell others, we picturise how we want to be perceived by others. Many of us don't talk about how we were bad to others but won't stop for a minute if someone does the same. When you get happier, you forget these things. It's so liberating to forget things, to forget how people looked, how they sounded, how they had lit up your day once and how they ended up ruining you.
As I have already said, a poet is a poet only when he is writing a poem. I will be a human again as I go back to have lunch and forget about what I had written.
A poet is a poet only when he is writing a poem. I relay information to my senses and it captivates you all. My words are limited to places. A meaningless thought is still there roaming between the cortex and the stem but bytes don't affect the course of life, do they? A day could get gloomy if you keep your eyes moored on the tip of a leaf until when transpiration sucks out the green from it. But again you slouch like a slob and write about it infront of people you don't know. Things look under control when you aren't alone, but when you sit in a balcony filled with green you can't help but think of rain. Rain isn't a mystery under Science's lens, it spews out acid when it feels violated. Infact I am like a garbage box too, if you keep me full of shit, I stink. When the sky appears orange during sunset the heart is filled with a feeling of longing for something. That something is what people search, if they don't find it within themselves they look for others who have it. They curl themselves on the sofa and make imagination their muse. They paint it, they write about it. The girl on the sidelines of a dilapidated city surely looked pretty, she wore an orange maxi and her lips wore a fluttering anxiety. A photographer clicked her photos and vogue signed a contract. The essence of an incoming Diwali is seeping into the hearts of believers, we left a festival behind and Durga Ma crossed Ganga on a boat, supposedly. It poured down heavily on Vijayadashami, Ma paddled through the junks of the river, thinking about all that there is in the world. I smile a lot nowadays, and it makes me realise the importance of lips. When you kiss someone you exchange saliva, you exchange a desire, you exchange a tune of being in sync. It's a moment when your dwindling thoughts align.
Just this for today, too much for writing, too much of sitting at a place and imagining.
(Note: The Greek God of Pan is the classic origin of panic. He looks conventionally harmless, playing a pan flute or the panpipes but he is mythologically capable of a apocalypse in your psyche. That will sort the title for you.
Eliot wrote "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock" and it's anything but a love song. Give it a read when you can.
This particular piece is about a man who is in a manic phase but relies on that phase for his creativity. If you pay attention, you will note that the psychotic voice in the character hesitates to 'infect' him but with time, the voice gains momentum, just like impulses in a body. I will leave the reader to decipher the rest on their own. )
It's eerily quiet in his office. The only thing I could hear was the pitter-patter of rain against the windowsill and my fingernails tapping against his mahogany table. And the only light that entered the room was from his dimly lit vintage lamp that sat across the room in a corner. Forlorn sans any companion. I resonated with it. It was just like me. Sitting alone with it's thoughts.
Jahoda, a humanist psychologist, once said that one of the factors of imbibing positive psychological mindset was perceiving reality as it is. I think that's where the artists deviated. They read too much into the lines. That's why I quit being one.
He sat across vacantly looking at me in the most inconvenient way possible. I was uncomfortable. But it was okay too, because I put myself in that position. He straightened his twead glasses and reiterated himself as if he wasn't articulate in the first go. I really despised this part of him. Questioning me about things that I despised talking about.
“Well, staying alone with my thoughts wasn't comfortable, so I quit it. What more do you want to know?” I murmured.
“Is it worth it?” he got up, treading across the room, pulling out a random self-help book from his ginormous bookshelf that ran up to the ceiling. I didn't want another one. I already had too many with me, without an iota of motivation to read one.
“Don't worry. This isn't for you.” he said as he came back with it, resuming his stance.
“I told you already, it's scary, the job, living, and now...even you.”
“You run away too much. And the thing is, that you can. It's the worst part. You won't even hesitate to leave me if your fear overpowers you. Regret, people's emotions, reality, guilt, all of this means nothing to you. Does it?”
I had no answer. He went on with his soliloquy on how flawed I am as a person. And I zoned out. The fading glow of the lamp was far more fascinating than his speech. He snapped me out, scolded me some more and got me tea. I really didn't know what to do.
“Have it, you'd rather do things your own stubborn way than listen to me.”
“Do you even know why I stop with my revolting these days?”
I laughed. I laughed till my stomach hurt. It looked like I was having a manic episode. But I wasn't. I was laughing at his hypocrisy.
“you find this funny?” he clenched his fists. his breathing got audibly heavier. It was rare to see him like this.
“you're a hypocrite.” I gasped
“I never said that I'm not afraid. I just don't run away. Why do you love to test my patience so much?” he said as he walked away. He was fuming, but still under control.
I, again, had no answers. I didn't want to hurt him like this. But this was no sappy romantic comedy that a kiss would solve things.
“Fuck it.” he walked over to his cabinet taking out a bottle of whiskey. I knew he'd be annoyed and then he'd cry out of his wits. Which is did. And I hugged him. He does hate me, but not enough to leave me.
When he almost passed out in my arms on the nook of the couch, I whispered in his ear, “I won't run away from you. Don't worry.” And he fell asleep.