thehemantkashyap

Using metaphors to excuse my lack of imagination.

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  • thehemantkashyap 19w

    It's been a while, hasn't it?

    Dekurui wa Utareru, is a Japanese proverb, and it means, "the nail that sticks out, is hammered down". That is, a person who draws attention, draws criticism as well.

    #pod

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    Derukui wa Utareru

    At times, I hear
    the footsteps of
    a thought in my head, creeping
    through the back door; an
    unwelcome guest.
    I don't think, I just
    exist, somewhere between this
    moment and the next.
    The torrents sink me; they take
    me away. I am not the
    captain of this ship; I might be
    just there to clean up
    the mess.
    The crew died long ago, and I
    alone live; courtesy of
    some loathsome God's spite.
    Like a dream, there is no steering
    wheel, and we might be
    headed off a cliff.
    Little matter. I might get to fly.
    Had I the wings; all I did was
    plummet from the
    tie-die sky
    like a rock chucked from a cliff.
    The wind, too, lies; I lie in a ditch
    dying, and it sings to me
    of a life well-lived.
    When, I ask; wasted
    my last breath too.
    There is an old saying in
    Japan of a nail and
    how it is hammered
    down, for the crime of
    sticking out.
    And I never saw anything
    apart from the inside of the
    floorboard.

    ©thehemantkashyap

  • thehemantkashyap 41w

    Well, good evening, y'all.

    Dramaturgy is a concept in sociology which means that a person perceives their life as a role they have to play on a stage. The term was first coined by Erving Goffman.

    The concept was also put in a beautiful song by EVE, a Japanese artist. You can find the song on YouTube.

    #pod

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    Dramaturgy

    I look at my
    hands and I
    see the ground
    beneath - cracked skin
    like a scorched
    field, with channels long dried.
    I don't know where
    I stand - the spotlight is
    blinding me to
    the surroundings. I
    look at the
    faces in front of
    me - oh, I am
    in an act. Better
    straighten my tie, tie my
    laces, brush my hair,
    but most importantly,
    smile.
    Smile. Yes, good.
    Smile like the coast,
    battered, like the
    wave that dies on it,
    ad nauseum,
    I smile.
    I stand like a
    soldier, ready to be
    cannon fodder, chin up,
    chest out,
    gun at the ready,
    painted red.
    I happen to be in the
    eye of a perfect storm; I
    happen to be at
    the center of
    all the destruction - debris
    flying around, cutting a
    bloody path.
    I watch on - rather
    helplessly.
    But I must smile
    and so I do.
    The applause rings
    and it rings
    hollow; deafeningly so.
    All I wish for is a
    grain of silence.

    ©thehemantkashyap

  • thehemantkashyap 48w

    Oh hey, people. How have you all been?

    #pod

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    Retrospect

    I am no Caesar, nor
    am I Alexander, or Genghis, or
    any of the kings from
    the tomes and tales.
    I will never conquer and I
    will never capture - I do share
    a common ground, however.
    I will walk the
    Earth for an
    infinitesimally,
    abysmally,
    infuriatingly little
    time - a mere blip
    soon to be forgotten
    among the dunes. Just like
    the giants of yore.
    I run my fingers through
    the wind, did it start
    a hurricane somewhere?
    Is that going to be my
    only contribution on this
    pale blue dot - destruction?
    This mere, rather primitive
    act of typing
    away has cosmic
    consequences; I am
    just too mortal to
    observe.
    Or, I could be grossly
    overestimating myself.
    I struggle to cope with
    my own insignificance, as have
    billions over eons
    before me; how unoriginal.
    And I strive to do something new.
    Oh, the irony.
    I am a satire of a human life
    a mockery, a parody,
    living and dying by the ink
    yet to dry.

    ©thehemantkashyap

  • thehemantkashyap 59w

    Musubi is a Japanese word which means "connection", or "union". This is about the first time I met my muse.

    #pod

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    Musubi

    That cold November
    evening the wind was nasty
    but I couldn't have cared less
    of the circumstance - You were
    right in front of my eyes and I
    knew - finally - that you were flesh
    and bone; that you were a
    real, magical, beautiful person.
    I had never been happier
    looking at a human face before.
    You slipped in my arms as if
    we had been doing it
    for an eternity; thinking of it
    still takes my breath away
    and leaves me
    with a smile I
    can't totally explain
    All I do is shrug and say
    your name out loud.
    Your tears were of joy, of victory, of
    union - we had fought tooth and nail
    I was late as midnight and hopeless
    like every young man in love, but
    there you were
    in all your glory, in all your being
    and I found my shore
    my muse, my dreams, my sleep
    I found a reason to carry on
    It was a cruel night that
    fell over us;
    leaving us under the same sky yet
    so far apart.
    You told me that we, we were
    built different - that you and I
    had a bond capable
    of transcending
    distance and time - like gravity.
    You were there for the blink
    of an eye; it wasn't how we
    had imagined it a thousand times before, yet
    all I could see was you.
    You saw in me a reason to
    carry on. It was enough. It was.
    I knew I had someone
    in my corner.
    Since then, I carry on with
    a shard of you buried
    in my chest, keeping me together
    and I know that you do too.

    ©thehemantkashyap

  • thehemantkashyap 60w

    This feels like a long wound out silly thing someone like me would say. So.

    #pod

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    A Requiem

    I apologize, I ask
    too much of you, my friend.
    When all is said and done
    and my eyes shine no more
    prepare to give me to
    the fire I came from
    Do not
    pray for my soul; it is not the time to make
    enemies with the
    demons who I shall
    join in eternal damnation.
    Say that I bid my farewells in
    the most eloquent way, that my
    last words
    were something poetic; something Neruda
    would be proud of.
    I can't bear to face them.
    To my beloved, give my kerchief
    and tell her I died
    valiantly; that I died a soldier's death,
    fighting, standing, on
    my post. Give her my medals - tell her to throw them
    and give her
    a white rose.
    Tell her that she was the reason my lungs breathed air.
    To my mother, say this;
    I was a good son, I did my best
    Tell the same to my father and tell him that
    I had a spine and that I was brave.
    Drown my ashes in the river
    that runs through my town, and ask
    for her forgiveness; I am not worth the honor.
    And at last, you, my brother, forgive me
    for leaving so
    early on; please excuse me for
    not being your
    best man on your wedding day.
    Even so - do not remember me.
    Please leave me to
    the dark, comforting recesses
    of the past, of memory
    of nostalgia. If you somehow
    stumble upon this, while
    looking for comfort through my humble
    belongings; aching, yet still keeping it
    together - you were
    always the better man - please bury
    it in your heart and
    burn this till you can not
    differentiate between
    my words and I.
    For that is all I ever wished for, my friend.

    ©thehemantkashyap

  • thehemantkashyap 60w

    The unthinkable has come to pass.

    On 25th of November, 2020, Argentina lost her favorite son, football lost the greatest player to ever defend a jersey and I, well, I lost my hero.

    Diego Armando Maradona led a life larger than life. Born in Buenos Aires in no extravagance, he was the epitome of the quintessential child; wild hair, a gleam in his eyes and, above all, a ball at his feet.

    And what glory did the ball bring him. What glory. When I look upon the Pantheon of Greats, there he is, the king of immortals.

    Italy and Argentina share a unique bond. They share ancestry, and they share a Godlike reverence for El Diego. For someone born after Maradona had hung up his boots, I grew up to the stories of the little magician, the doom of England and savior of Napoli, and the deliverance of Argentina. He once said, "I have shoulders wide enough to fight anything". And fight he did. He defended every shirt he wore with a childlike passion and determination. Defenders barely had the time to wink with the ball at his feet.

    As is with every fairy tale, his career came to a rather ignominious end. He was, perhaps, the most human of the immortals, as eloquently summed by a eulogy published in the New York Times.

    Demons haunted him for a large part of his career. I would blindly acquit Diego of all the wrongs he did, but that would be a disservice to his astronomical legacy. Diego the person was a troubled one but to his huge credit he never shied away from taking responsibility.

    At the end of his last-ever match, he said, "Football is the most beautiful sport in the world. If one person messes up, football doesn’t have to pay. I messed up, and I paid. But the ball, the ball doesn’t stain". Pero la pelota no se mancha.

    Diego the man was always there to cast a shadow on the brilliance of Maradona the player. That shadow was what made it possible to see him in the first place; he shone so bright. Perhaps that was how we were able to see him for who he was - he never pretended to be anyone else anyway. He was Diego. He was Armando. He was Maradona.

    I hope you find your place in the hands of God, mi idolo. You are eternal.

    Siempre, Diego. You will always be in my heart.

    ©thehemantkashyap

    .
    .
    .
    .
    .
    .
    This is the first and the last time I'll ever use a picture in my post. Rest easy now, El Diego. You will be missed.

    #pod

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    El Pibe del Oro

  • thehemantkashyap 62w

    This is obviously one of the cheesiest things I've ever written.

    #pod

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    Memorabilia

    Yesterday evening, I found a small pocket album hiding in my rusty old trunk. The brown cover of the album was barely discernable below years of dust, just like my memory. It was a fragile thing, thrown aside, forgotten about once its purpose was served. Much like the human condition

    I am an old man, you see, and I cherish every nibble of nostalgia. And thus, I wiped the album clean with my own wrinkled hands, and tucked in.

    It had polaroids. A few. One per yellowed, flimsy leaf. In no particular order. My face lit up though, so instantly one would have been excused to imagine that something divine just happened. But I just happened to catch a glimpse of you. You were clinging to my back like the cat you are, and one of our mutual friends had captured the moment. It never ceases to amaze me that you were able to do that in your wedding gown. Yet, there you were; net astray, arms around my neck, hair awry and a smile so pure it could put angels to shame.

    I flipped through it all. Heartily. So many, so many flavors of life we had tasted together. The time when we went to our honeymoon in Barcelona (that picture of ours, in front of La Sagrada Familia, with you in my arms, is now my favorite). The time our dog, Snoopy, named after the one you had growing up, passed on. The time we had a baby. The time we had another.

    It was bittersweet. It was ours. It was not remarkable, it was not extraordinary. At the same time, however, I wondered. Unfathomable odds were stacked against us, yet we prevailed. I wondered if there was something remarkable about us after all.

    That was when the album ended. With our baby girl in my arms, snoozing, and our baby boy, clutching your jeans and he looked up at his sister.

    The kids have grown up now. They live down the street and visit every Sunday. We did raise two good humans. I am a proud father.

    I brought the album to you, as had been a habit of mine. I would show you the meanest of rocks if I happened to find one pretty enough for you to inspect. You were making coffee for me as I had forgotten to drink my last one, and I handed you your glasses which you had in your hair but forgot.

    I watched you watch the album. It was a beautiful sight. You were happy. You were fond. You cherished the nostalgia. So was I. So was I. So did I.

    Last night, we slept under the stars, with the smell of autumn in our lungs and the music of the night lulling us to sleep.

    ©thehemantkashyap

  • thehemantkashyap 63w

    Well I'm alive and still kicking about.

    Also, if you get huge "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" vibes, that's because I meant it to be that way.

    #pod

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    Homesick

    Here, I tell a tale
    more ancient than the woods that I
    left so foolishly behind; at least I
    knew the way home among
    those trees; the oaks were
    all earmarked, the cedars
    were all laden with flowers
    of spring and the rosewoods carried
    the aroma of home.
    Years and years later, here I am
    in an ocean, bereft
    aboard a raft, adrift
    I had carried some twigs with me
    just to be sure of the way back
    and a rope from the hut in
    the backyard.
    I used my souvenirs to build my
    deliverance, a deliverance that I never had.
    Adrift, I found myself in this
    expanse of poison
    With only the sun burning skin
    off my back and the land that
    only seems a few feet ahead of me.
    Oh what a cruelty; a watery desert
    with no hope of reprieve
    On nights like these I look up to find
    some shred of familiarity; I realize
    that the nostalgia
    had been poisoned
    with an assortment of
    those foreign stars that I
    have nothing to speak of
    Aliens danced upon the skies as I
    watched my own descent
    into the abyss.
    I found no shore for
    a hundred eternities, for
    a hundred more I suffered
    the fate of a marooned mariner
    the only crime I was guilty of was a
    thirst of adventure. Little did I
    know I would be grieving as if
    my town had been
    burned to the ashes
    by some invader of
    the cruelest kind and
    my people slaughtered for sport.
    I wondered if the streets
    remembered me still, or was I
    already forgotten
    as if I was
    buried, six feet deep
    in the warm embrace of
    the earth; alas
    I was destined for a watery grave.

    ©thehemantkashyap

  • thehemantkashyap 70w

    Has been a long time since I wrote something for my muse, so here goes.

    Also, *waves*, I hope you've been good, dear reader.

    #pod

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    Monsoon

    I must insist that
    I am a desert, of rolling
    dunes, singing medleys to your soul
    devoid of any oases surrounded with
    palm and date.
    I usually am a rocky plateau;
    repetitive, old and painfully predictive
    Yet, you get lost in the simplest of domains
    don't you? I lose myself in me. Strange.
    The only monsoon comes around when
    you gaze in my general direction;
    it is as though the wind rejoices
    at the mere news of your existence, the
    gods part the skies down on me and
    drench me to the bone, letting me know
    that my muse smiled that day.
    I truly live for those few minutes, those
    immeasurably precious moments of transcendence,
    of becoming a harbinger of life rather than
    a ruthless suppressor of it.
    The monsoon comes, and it goes, and
    winter rushes in, to claim what
    all had been your gift. The petrichor,
    the warm green grass, the
    cotton candy horizons, all gone, gone
    in place of a stark cold, dry, black winter.
    Winter claims my core and my hell freezes over
    I lay asunder, my mawkishness leaves
    a bitter taste in mouths
    of all who read me, calling it a curse.
    I wait again for the monsoon, oh you
    of a thousand years of rain, and a
    million years of sunshine
    till then, I lay beneath, untouched.

    ©thehemantkashyap

  • thehemantkashyap 73w

    Well this is a totally random post. I was working late into the night when I thought I might use my heavily sleepy brain to compose something. Here it is. I hope it's not too shabby.

    #pod

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    Touch

    I float in a vast
    expanse of space, alone and cold.
    A mass of black coldness
    engulfs my senses, rendering me
    blind, deaf and numb, every
    time I try to move there is a
    pressure on my chest. I
    might be underwater, drowning in
    a sea black as the ink I
    drench paper with a shameless
    frequency. I could
    be drowning in all the wasted ink. A terror
    ravages my mind each time I close
    my eyes, as absolute as a God, as
    vague as one too; leaving me breathless
    and on my toes like a scared cat, unsure
    of what I need to do. I feel
    absolutely nothing, the aether
    I am swimming in, traversing in
    mindlessly, knows nothing of me
    I am a part of a whole, yet
    it leaves a black hole inside my ribs, crushing
    my bones to mere atoms. In ignorance
    of my existence, I have craved
    a touch of knowledge. I want to
    be in the know of how it
    feels to feel, whether I am a sole soul, or
    is there an other human, sharing
    my macabre life and all the monsters
    that I hide within
    just below the surface.
    I scare away the brightest of stars, I bear
    a cloak of night over my shoulders, like
    black wings, shielding the
    entirety of my vision. I want to know if I would
    ever take flight. I stand on the edge
    and contemplate.
    I hope to realize that the hole
    in my chest is a self-inflicted wound, that
    the terror stealing breath from my
    lungs is a mere mark of my mortality. I know, yet
    I unleash unspeakable horrors on a poor notebook, berated
    by my futile attempts
    at salvation, at escaping. Perhaps, a
    touch of sun is all I need, a touch of sun
    some sleep and a pair of arms to pull me
    out of this sea, this abyss.

    ©thehemantkashyap