Conversations.

There has always been a part of me detached from this world. The more I hear people talk more I want to stay shut. Silence. They don’t talk to share. To make my heart feel what their heart would have felt in that instance. They talk to tell. Sometimes they’d even do some things just to be able to narrate it to people later. It makes me upset and honestly, sometimes it drives me crazy. How could they do it? Corrupt everything about a moment in their lives so much that they weren’t even living in there while they made it happen. As if even their illusions are corrupt because they never live the illusions in the first place. The labels they use, the grandeur of their falsehood feeding their hearts makes me shut. And when once in a while I see a man or a woman talk like they’ve ripped their heart open without prejudices, opinions or judgments, I fail to believe the rarity of it. I want to listen more but that’s the tragedy you know, the raw ones, they know when to stop. That’s the thing about people and their talks. The ugliness of definitions, labels and lies and the beauty of unaltered honesty, both would affect you deeply in life.
~P

Image by Joe Alison

7/5/2016

7/5/2016
10:40 pm

I’m sick again. Have you ever met a person in your life who gets sick because of waiting, thinking too much, taking everything way too personally or may be someone who does nothing the whole day, I mean who doesn’t go out to any office or work, doesn’t see the stark sunlight hitting right in the eyes and doesn’t have to taste the mud swirling in the air for no reason and yet gets sick at the end of the day because of waiting for a day. A day. Yes all I know about this day I’m waiting for is that it exists. On a page still left to turn of a calendar, it is written. This one day I’m waiting for. Other than that I don’t know anything. I’m escaping from everything and running mercilessly towards the unknown. Why am I waiting? Because I think something rather everything will change after this one day. And I’m not thinking of any larger than life transformations only: but of smaller ones first. I’ll have money, the air I’ll breathe will be cleaner, the place I’ll live in would be small and decorated as I’d like, no noise of stupid television shows or vendors out in the streets of my colony, I’ll work better, the people will be good, I’ll have things to plan and look up-to, I’ll buy what I like, roam wherever I wish to. This is the deadliest illness of all you might have seen. And I’m suffering from it. I spend my days preparing for this one day when I think my life will get better. Waiting. Waiting so much that it has now become an illness. It pinches in my throat when I gulp my saliva in. My heartbeats are now faster and my body: every space in my body is full of purposeless wants and hopes. I can’t believe. Can you? I was so tired of this life here in this one caged room looking at the worst faces in my life that one opportunity of seeing this one day after sometime has made me a dead body but full of aches. And I have lived enough to tell this tonight that this is the worst of states for any human alive. Dead and aching. While you’re alive and there’s pain, there’s some hope, some satisfaction in being able to survive till another dawn, another morning. And when you’re dead: you’re dead. But these days in life where death and pain sit in the vacuums of my bones, my life is devoid of everything except the pain. Not even agony, anger, tears or those unnamed feelings. Mere pain.
I tried writing again today. More than usual. I ate fine. This house I live in is full of negativity. That’s the truth of all truths. Everyone’s face, when I look at it, I see a stagnation so steep one can’t stand it for a second. Not a single line of love on their foreheads. Not even any want of it. Want of anything actually. I can’t believe my eyes sometimes. That they’re alive. In the middle of all this I want to look for love. Someone who says or does a few little things and I feel the life that has now hidden itself beneath the dead slumbers accumulated in me. But all I can see is even the person you want to love and get loved back, even this person is full of his own fears and pains. Does it even mean anything? To love and expect to be loved back again. Every night saying I love you, does it mean anything after a time? Doesn’t it become a meaningless habit, like life itself.  Am I asking for too much or am I destined to get too less? Why is it so difficult to think and make a day a little better than usual for the people we love? Is it too much to do? A flower, a beautiful long message, a poem to read, a letter, small bit of anything prepared or created only for me, a few hours spent only to think about how this togetherness could be better, a surprise visit, a message that shows how ecstatic my presence makes you feel,  something I would love to talk about other than your work, tests and auditions, a thought you couldn’t forget about me, a song you heard and you couldn’t stop missing me, one night when you wait for me to sleep peacefully, one day when everything fades away and the only thing I see you wanting is me, persistence of giving up on anything but love, you, me. I don’t even want all of this altogether but I guess it’s just a story this paper can hold because in reality life has happened to you like everyone else and it has ruined everything. Everything.
~P

Myself into myself

Why can’t I feel my heart and everything it causes in my body? I fear, I fear the shortness of this life to live these odd hours so numb and rest of my life just dreaming. Those chills through my spine kind of moments, I don’t like the rarity of them. I don’t like the fact that to feel my heart throb inside me I need some settings around me. Only with a man or under a sky full of stars or only with a pen in hand, a poem on lips can I feel that I’m alive. And then I can’t put into words that how does it happen. I swallow myself into myself. Half my breath I curse myself and open my mouth to cry and the other half of the same moment is so lonely , it shuts me and I can’t even cry. Why, I ask why life doesn’t happen as much as we desire? Why is it running so fast and drowning so slow?
~P

Image by Mona Kuhn

Only in your light

What’s more infinite than these long hours of staring into a wall musing on that rain we had drenched each other in, smell of cheese and lilies and fog and clothes and coffee and air and water and you all mixed up, your voice at 4 am in the morning and the warmth that melts me on cold winter nights. Drugged on these no me without you nights. Oh such horror, what animal I was before I met you. And now, I start drawing images of you, I had hallucinated in your absence on this wall that has begin to look like you finally and I have declared myself an artist in celebration. I have roamed enough on the wall tracing your edges with no end to the drunkenness this world around me is so deprived of. Tonight again my dearest, I sleep in your light against this world beneath the moon.

~P

Image Credits

Paradox

That space where my spirit meets my bones
there’s an undying paradox;
to remain whole or to scatter beyond repair.
Where does this space exist?
in coming together or falling apart?
What does this space desire for?
Freedom or self destruction?
Or probably, the space itself is vacuum.
A huge hole that gives temporary hopes
in the name of love but
nothing of its own.
And this foolish I
in want of permanence believes
in redeemer, the healer
feeling the vacuum needs to be cured.
To know nothing at the end
apart from
vacuum is vacuum.
It will forever be so.
~P

It’s a mad mad world

People are people
they can’t be anyone
anyone can be people
and then i see no meaning
for what each of us is,
it’s their in the heads
and what if, it isn’t the truth?

They taught us things
now things aren’t even those things,
they move, they change,
they die,
their masks fall off
and how rapidly,
not even one could I catch.

I would have tried
to be what they say
you can’t ever be,
but life ate me
and I gulped it too fast.

It’s a mad mad world
their voices
they think are sacred chants,
never realized
their temple bells are noises,
they stink of bloodied hands.

Blood of a murderer is fine
but a womb’s blood, a shame.
Blood that cycles
with pain and cramps
gives life to monsters
and men alike,
all they die
the same death,
it’s the blood
that bears the name
of spots, strains and wreath.

It’s a mad mad world
they said God made it
and hence, it better be holy.
Wrote books on God’s behalf,
called them ‘the books of truth’,
named him ‘He’
for ‘She’ was the truth
they die to hide.

If I am to tell you
a secret
I call her She
and sometimes
I forget the word God
I am to say God
and almost it sounds Gdo
or Dgo
like I fell from sacredness
to callousness,
because I love her idea
I love her without the skin
people made her wear.

Every night
in every ‘ness’
I visit the same God
without name
sans thought.

It’s a mad mad world
pinches to live in
they have made homes
say they’re shelters
all false
all false
they’re never ending walls
but all false
If I am to say
for once be at a madhouse
raw and real
in the end,
they build their own dooms
and I wander and run.

and it’s never
going to make sense
born in a fence
they kill you
in the fence,
they always love to
kill you in the fence.

Empty a little much more

Have you ever sat with books all around?
Words of her,
The airborne bird
Or the enveloped whirl,
All that she would whisper
And all that she spoke out so loud.
Things that she said to the world
And things that this world had told her
All her life
All her years.
In words that touch lives today
Product of many other lives,
Speaks to them straight on the face
The sunshine
And the moonlight
She questions it all.
Fires back at those who had once fired her.
Sent myriads of picturesque love
To those who made her the hurricane.
She didn’t apologize for any thing
Only for, she never felt it,
After all, hurricanes never are sorry.
There is no way she could find
Plain and sane.
In the realms of that which constrained her
She was drowned,
Because the way to carefree falls
Was in those conceited walls.
The story of her escaping
Is not for the meager souls
Its for the risers and saviors,
Who on the brim
Still search for the line so thin
That divides love from sin.
I belong to this story because
In her struggles and walks
Agonies and wraths
Talks and mocks
Thundering and throbs
I smile and cry,
And I sew the narrator
In my eyes, with my own heart.
I feel engraved in the words
Like a huge ocean
Blue waves all around
And I float and float and float
And float some more,
For a while or longer
Because I want to drink too much
And I feel empty a little much more.

Have you ever sat around books?
He says he loved and broke.
Before the breeze of love
Had tangled him in her arms
He says he was like a diamond.
Rigid and glistening.
But then, oh then,
Who in the turf of love
Has remained how they had begun?
And he from diamond
Was found bruised to scraps.
And now he plays and plays
Like a toy with his self.
Oh yes, they still shine.
The little pieces,
But in each of that bit
Is a foul smell,
In each of it he finds
A dark and white rainbow.
The pieces still shine
And he still plays.
But he says to his readers
He says to me,
With voice choked with coal
Like a big lump,
Making him heavy.
Like he is not standing
But tumbling down to the ground
More and more.
Like the ground is now
Swallowing him.
Before he reaches the grave
Before he weeps and he says,
I have died not of life
But love.
Tender arms of my beloved
Easily could slay
The life of a man
Who thought every day
To make her happier
Than every yesterday.
He ends it at his grave.
And my thoughts have begin from there
To smile at how he could love
Or to mourn the death of love.
In his tears is their any salvation?
Did he succeed to still say in the end,
Oh you my reader!
Love more and more
Love better each day.
Or did he say to me
Love no more,
For the pieces will shine
But no one will ever again
Look at you the same.
No one will feel your charm
And say,
Oh wow! You are diamond!
In the glitter of the diamond
I lose myself tonight.
Because I want to drink too much
And I feel empty a little much more.

Have you ever sat with books all around?
An old lady courted everything possible,
Her face wears all the lines
She wrote in her diary.
Her hands has a smell
Smell of the food she made.
Her legs still look like
They will begin again
Any journey she would ever want.
Her husband sitting beside her
On a small stool
Holding her hand.
After a century of the living
They made
They stand on the gate
Of their one life.
They didn’t call it two separate lives ever
Wept and swept all together
He whispers something in her ears
“Remember, the first kiss?”
“Remind me once more,
Make it also the last one.”
She said.
In each others arms
They slept together.
Together they went.
Together they were taken.
In the flight of love as this
Can I not just dance.
My footsteps won’t move,
They will sway
Because in will dance on the music
That only they could play
Oh in the light and in the dark
I after reading them
Still find a ray
I walk along this light
Because I want to drink too much
And I feel empty a little much more.

Because I want to drink too much
And I feel empty a little much more,
Have you ever gone through this?
This feeling of being taken away
Away in worlds too many
All together
So much
Feeling so breezy
Have you ever talked to dead people?
Oh, I have!
They tell me tales.
They tell me things
Essential.
They tell me things like
Reader, I married him.
When she said to me this.
I had felt she declared to me
The decision of her life.
The only treasure
The only blessing.
She shared with me her tears and heartbeats
That moment
She gave to me.
Has anyone from a world unknown told you
That you are beautiful?
And I?
I believed only when they had said.
They said to me
To live like no ordinary
They told me to fight
And never get reduced
To stay and yet flow
They had said.
You are strong
And that is enough.
Don’t go for pretty.
She won’t die in hearts.
She would die like everyone
In a grave of cement.

Have you ever felt those humans
They talk only if you feel.
Only if every time you lift them up
You give them birth
And you breathe with them.
This magic will then belong to you.
You will fly away
From all that you hate
Any second, like in those fairy tales.
Make it yours
And try it once,
Once.
And you will die never.
Because lives like these
Even after death are saviors.
With them I swirl, curl, whirl
Like a river
These oceans I seek
In the end I belong to these.
Because I want to drink too much
And I feel empty a little much more.

"….all artists, regardless of degree of talent, are a painful, paradoxical combination of certainty and humility, constantly in need of reassurance, and yet with a stubborn streak of faith in their own validity no matter what."