times, when we check ourselves, our damnedest desires and dilemmas of life.
relishing in the conquer of the denials, gaily going in the drawn lines of discipline.
times, when the wind changes, and arises the need, to question, these very self restraints
give them to the wind, smash them, upturn them, those patiently counted days
let them stumble, like a card castle, that breaks down in a flutter of light paper strokes
laugh now, loud, in the vile pleasure at the castle's fate, that came swiftly at a single piece's plight
sleep, in the smug satisfaction of undoing, only after reminding myself the onus of reworking
maybe, to remind me, that i still have the control? of doing, undoing, and reworking?
maybe, to remember again the steering is still with me, to go forward, reverse or apply a break.
PS : a thought, on d day i broke an unnecessary diet i had embarked on, only to restore it from the next day onwards.. :D
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
the umbilical cord
A friend is writing somewhere. And me, I am writing as well,here. It is amazing, and curious, the way people are connected, by some line of thought, some similar gestures, some dreams shared, or even strangers, by an inexplicable unknown connection. The way I worry about having not met a friend for a year, and keep on planning, when unknowingly somewhere else she says the same thing, and shares the same emotion. The way we pick up the phone to make a call, and the screen flashing with the name of the one we were about to call.
The connection between two living souls, that starts with as real a thing as the umbilical cord. The yellowish-white coloured, slimy and slippery, thick thread like thing, that connected me to my mother's womb, when I dint have a name, and was simply called, an 'embryo' or even dull, a 'fetus'. My sense of belonging to her, sweetly, yet scientifically established and let known to the world, by a slime cord, through a well known doctoral reason of nutrition. My life growing, inside her, through the nourishment, passing to me from her, through that narrow passage way, with all the love and prayers she said for me since the day i was recognized inside her. The cord, the beautiful connection, set up perfectly by the nature, the palpable, long thing, that was cut, the day i was out, but ever since re-established in unknown forms and ways, through our getting to know each other, as life passes by between me and my mother.
The one, that started from her womb, and started growing, like a seedling that sprouts, grows leaves, gets size and spreads outs in infinite branches, making me reach out to the world, and life around - connections, between living souls, between people. I thus believe in them. As, something that passes between you and me, without ever worrying to lay by the rules of the world. That exists, without even a touch, or exchange of any arbit thing, the sense of something that hits the same notes in the mind's music instrument, at two places at once, in each other's hearts. That harmony, which generates the same emotions, pleasure and peace, helping us get a better light in the path to go, or someone to go with. A joy of having found a mirror, that reflects the picture, just the way it is. The relief of having a brother or sister, or having found a friend, or a kin, or even a stranger, a fellow to go with even if only for one quarter of the journey, who makes us feel belonged, even for that minute time.
The things that are afloat, all around us, like a fine movie scene in which innumerable colourful butterflies fly around the beautiful girl. To open our mind and hearts, and see, and accept, as long as we are blessed enough with the fine and refined gift of one of the five elaborate senses. Like those light waves that meet somewhere in the back of your eyes to give you the splendid vision of the splash of colours in front of you. That which you do not always see working its way out, but which was always there, giving you life.
The connections that are unspeakables. Or in other ways, are intricate and unfathomable in ways that it defeats you, in your endeavour to put it in a sunken case of carefully created definition,or of christening. Those deeper connections, which are best left unsaid and are "let it b"s. Those which you acknowledge, in subtle ways, through a quick and awkward hug at end of a term together. Those which had never been justified by the guarded, and slow exchange of carefully chosen words, in a pathetically failed attempt of acceptance. Those which you sometimes, first realize accidentally and learn to cherish for a lifetime. Those which are at times, foolishly gratified by a quick node of the head, a slight fleeting glance, a rough grunt of the throat or a sly smile. The connections, that seemed heavenly and perfect, but had been left to abandon in the way of the world, as you decide that life has to gone on, but by obediently following the strictures. And those promising others, that lets us fly, soaring in the sky.
And as long as we have this, as long as this exists, this sharing, this brotherhood or kinship, and belonging, to anyone and anything in this world, we can't give up.
The connection, that holds us back, like the indefinitely long thread of a sky bound kite,fondly linked to the child's playful hands. The child, who sees the world beneath it that the kite sees, the same world from a view high up above through the kite's own eyes, and who runs on the beach, in his childlike enthusiasm, to let it fly to its wanted unknowns of the limitless skies. As long as I have this child and I can be the kite, or as long as i could be alive in the child's eyes vice versa, the world, is thrilling, and so very beautiful that I can never give up.
The connection between two living souls, that starts with as real a thing as the umbilical cord. The yellowish-white coloured, slimy and slippery, thick thread like thing, that connected me to my mother's womb, when I dint have a name, and was simply called, an 'embryo' or even dull, a 'fetus'. My sense of belonging to her, sweetly, yet scientifically established and let known to the world, by a slime cord, through a well known doctoral reason of nutrition. My life growing, inside her, through the nourishment, passing to me from her, through that narrow passage way, with all the love and prayers she said for me since the day i was recognized inside her. The cord, the beautiful connection, set up perfectly by the nature, the palpable, long thing, that was cut, the day i was out, but ever since re-established in unknown forms and ways, through our getting to know each other, as life passes by between me and my mother.
The one, that started from her womb, and started growing, like a seedling that sprouts, grows leaves, gets size and spreads outs in infinite branches, making me reach out to the world, and life around - connections, between living souls, between people. I thus believe in them. As, something that passes between you and me, without ever worrying to lay by the rules of the world. That exists, without even a touch, or exchange of any arbit thing, the sense of something that hits the same notes in the mind's music instrument, at two places at once, in each other's hearts. That harmony, which generates the same emotions, pleasure and peace, helping us get a better light in the path to go, or someone to go with. A joy of having found a mirror, that reflects the picture, just the way it is. The relief of having a brother or sister, or having found a friend, or a kin, or even a stranger, a fellow to go with even if only for one quarter of the journey, who makes us feel belonged, even for that minute time.
The things that are afloat, all around us, like a fine movie scene in which innumerable colourful butterflies fly around the beautiful girl. To open our mind and hearts, and see, and accept, as long as we are blessed enough with the fine and refined gift of one of the five elaborate senses. Like those light waves that meet somewhere in the back of your eyes to give you the splendid vision of the splash of colours in front of you. That which you do not always see working its way out, but which was always there, giving you life.
The connections that are unspeakables. Or in other ways, are intricate and unfathomable in ways that it defeats you, in your endeavour to put it in a sunken case of carefully created definition,or of christening. Those deeper connections, which are best left unsaid and are "let it b"s. Those which you acknowledge, in subtle ways, through a quick and awkward hug at end of a term together. Those which had never been justified by the guarded, and slow exchange of carefully chosen words, in a pathetically failed attempt of acceptance. Those which you sometimes, first realize accidentally and learn to cherish for a lifetime. Those which are at times, foolishly gratified by a quick node of the head, a slight fleeting glance, a rough grunt of the throat or a sly smile. The connections, that seemed heavenly and perfect, but had been left to abandon in the way of the world, as you decide that life has to gone on, but by obediently following the strictures. And those promising others, that lets us fly, soaring in the sky.
And as long as we have this, as long as this exists, this sharing, this brotherhood or kinship, and belonging, to anyone and anything in this world, we can't give up.
The connection, that holds us back, like the indefinitely long thread of a sky bound kite,fondly linked to the child's playful hands. The child, who sees the world beneath it that the kite sees, the same world from a view high up above through the kite's own eyes, and who runs on the beach, in his childlike enthusiasm, to let it fly to its wanted unknowns of the limitless skies. As long as I have this child and I can be the kite, or as long as i could be alive in the child's eyes vice versa, the world, is thrilling, and so very beautiful that I can never give up.
Monday, February 13, 2012
the forest, an excerpt.
I get jealous of this glorified thief, when Henry Gilbert writes like this.. "They travelled following their leader through the leafy ways of forest, winding in and out beside the giant trees, across the fern - spread glades whence the red deer and the couching doe sprang away in affright, wading across brooks and streams, skirting some high cliff or rocky dell.....
....Sometimes across the glade a flash of jewel - like light would come. It was a dragon fly, and in the rays of the sun it would hover and swerve before the bushes, like a point of living flame. The forest seemed to wake up, bird called to bird across the cool deep of the trees, the evening wind rustled the leaves, and a great stir seemed to thrill through the woods.."
(- Robin Hood)
I so wish to travel, when i read lines like these, to explore a forest, to see those blades of light playing with the shades and seeping in through the leaves, to listen to those birds, to wet my feet in the brooks, to feel that irreplacable and alluring beauty of nature, to go with that backpack, do some camping, and what all and what not...
....Sometimes across the glade a flash of jewel - like light would come. It was a dragon fly, and in the rays of the sun it would hover and swerve before the bushes, like a point of living flame. The forest seemed to wake up, bird called to bird across the cool deep of the trees, the evening wind rustled the leaves, and a great stir seemed to thrill through the woods.."
(- Robin Hood)
I so wish to travel, when i read lines like these, to explore a forest, to see those blades of light playing with the shades and seeping in through the leaves, to listen to those birds, to wet my feet in the brooks, to feel that irreplacable and alluring beauty of nature, to go with that backpack, do some camping, and what all and what not...
Saturday, January 7, 2012
About my world of long back.
I was always looked down at home, because of my ‘getting-lost-in-books’ reading habit. I remember amma doing test dose at neighbours’ places, where I would be immersed in some book i picked up. She will ask the neighbour aunty to call my name or ask me about something, which I will neither hear nor reply, thus proving to aunty, how irresponsible I was at times when amma needed me to do something, only because I had this book in hand. I do not remember Deepthu anywhere in the scene, and this one so vividly framed in my memory happened at Ganga aunty’s place when we were at Mamkoottam. So I am guessing she must have been left to sleep peacefully in the house – being so small, and with Rama aunty there to look after her, myself, not more than 8 years at that time. I would recognize the drama unveiling behind the sofa I was sitting on, when I get distracted by some loud noise, of either amma calling my name in a yell, or the sound of laughter that must have resulted from everyone’s reaction to my strange devotion to comic books. I would then feel so awkward, and would get up and give a feeble smile to all, leave the book and join the mainstream activity or conversation.
Thus, I consciously cultivated an awareness for the surroundings whenever I was reading a book. Sometimes I thought it just killed the fun in reading. But it took a long time to develop that. Coz, books were a reprieve for me from the outer world, which back then, at times looked blank and uninteresting. If books make you an introvert, I had all chances of growing up into just that, but strangely enough, I grew up to become the best chatter box anyone could ever find. I loved the sunny, bright and colourful characters more than the melancholic one.
The books used to beckon me from the shelves. I got sheer pleasure just from the thought of me immersed in those books all day long and getting to know the characters more. I imagined myself as a writer, who would someday write books like these, which will come in beautiful and elegant bindings, with penguin for a publisher may be, which would someday line the shelves of a carefully collected library of some book lover. I fascinated more about Penguin books, cos they stood in a neat queue in my book shelf, either when I arranged the Bernad Shaws or the Somerset Maughams or because their symbol stood out the most among publishers. There were strange dilemmas that I had somedays. I could not choose as to which writer I want to become like, from all the people in the shelf. In English I decided to choose between Maugham, Pearl S. Buck and R. K. Narayanan. In Malayalam my choices were mostly M.T. Vasudevan Nair or Pottakkadu. I toyed with Madhavikutty also for a while, but her daring writing in “Ente Katha” gave me jitters, and I decided against it. I knew I could never even think of writing sarcasm like Basheer or Sanjayan did. Those were not just my forte. Or I tried hard at imaginig situations the way they did, and to my surprise I did have an innate nature in me in finding humour in life’s simplest things, but, I just couldn’t understand how or when I will ever learn to put them into words. And that was one of the genre I wanted to try the most, satire. I could never be that poet or writer who would use the perfect alliterations, similies and metaphors to commit a theme to paper. I was never that good.
When I first got the internet, that was what I searched more about – authors. I tried picturing what their day will be like, wondering whether they will be writing all day long or just some time in between. Some stories about the writer – people’s solitary life bothered me. Some said, that they liked to live a life of their own, and never came out into the real world. And I got scared at this. I loved the colours of the world, the people, friends, and my sister and achan amma. There was an article, which I read, which talks about all the background works behind a book. It talked about how one author went in search for a character. I just sat and thought about it and the more and more I thought, it was turning out to be even more alluring. First thing, u get to travel, which was one of number one things in my bucket list, and second, even more than meeting your ‘wanted protagonist’, you will get to see more life and people, which thrilled me. It was just like what I read about the directors going in search for his equal – to – the image – in his mind type of hero or heroine. Amazing, I thought of that journey, as a search for your own story itself, for the soul of your story. I had always been a fan of travelling, though I had not travelled much myself. But the memories of every weekend journeys to Alleppey, had a lot of fun and happiness in it.
Thinking back, we were like Gypsies back then, always travelling, except that the routes were the same, the names of all the places etched forever firmly in my mind. But the people – the fellow travelers were different. Me and my sis, used to remember jokes and used to tell it to the people who travelled with us in train, giving them a hearty laugh. But she missed maybe the early parts of the journey, which we did in buses, before switching over to trains. Those parts had a special quality about them, the rustic buses, the dusty routes of the crowded city roads we passed by, the view of the streetside shops, the different houses with its courtyards and beautiful gardens that I loved to look at from the raised view of the bus windows, and much more such sweet sights. I still remember some of the friends we made, who told me stories of all sorts. There was this girl, whose house was on one side of the canal, and she had to take a boat to reach there. Wow, I was so thrilled and she promised to take me there. But ofcourse, I never met her again, and then I grew up and I forgot. There were these bus stations that stood alone in the middle of nowhere, just a big ground but no buses parked, standing there sadly like a poor but naughty kid denied his fair share of chocolates. There were also others like a chirpy one, where me and dad used to get down for a round of quick roaming about and also to make me go to the loo. Such places had lots of shops with umpteen amazing items, out of which dad always brought me chocolates and fruity. I always preferred bus journeys to trains as a kid, coz it meant more sight seeing in terms of the towns, the roads and people, though my parents would any day prefer the train. And I totally fell in love with the wind then, blowing so relentlessly on my face, making me beam with happiness, looking out from the window seat. I thought, this was the best.
And I imagined I will be travelling a lot if I become a writer – well, I needed stories, dint I ? And again, I dwelled on the lives of writers and their follies, wondering if they had any social life and all those fun times. But none of these reflections ever came to be of any use, let alone significant, as I suspected long ago, I had not just the writer’s block ( ?!, writer’s ? for me ?! ), at making a line –but also, the famous defects of the lazyness, the impotent imagination, the sheer dearth of words and what all and what not! And one day, thus, I concluded, writing, is not for me, and even the diary entries were turning out to be boring, repetitive, and merely documentative. Words I thought, had to come out in a gush, like a flowing river. For me, it came out like water dripping from a wasted tap, a broken one. At times they spurted out relentlessly, that you would think you will be swept off in that bountiful flow, in its sheer force, that it would never stop. You are thus at the height of your imagination, ready to write them all down, and then there is a burp, and a sudden block, and then it stops. Or may be, there will be a final belch or two, and you are done with. They have ceased coming. And you feel, helpless. Your ideas still hanging in midair, or thrown in the violent sea, swimming in alarm and trying to float about, but no vessel on its way to save them and give them life.
Thus I went in hibernation. I only wrote diaries and nothing else. It was then that I stumbled into this thing called blog. I was amazed. A net space where you could put your stuff. A personal web space, to write. Like an abandoned field, fertile enough for those unwanted windswept spores, that wandered around, looking for a place to flourish. And the best part was that, you could choose to either show people. You dint have to tell them. They dint need to know. But they could always find out too. Up to them, or your luck. And you will still get random readership if someone stumbles into your blog.
I fell in and out of love with people who checked my blog. Someone who said some random thing about one word i wrote. I adored them. They were my world. My meaning for existence. When I see people in and around me, publicising their articles, I get jealous. Of the courage. Of their belief in self. Or in their words. Something I lacked. Something I yearned to develop. The quintessential me was always there, lurking in the dark, always doubting the strength of my own words. Or at other times, believing in them much to stand any criticism. I wrote however, once in a blue moon, hoping to write more, only hoping for ever and always.
And if you, random reader, stumbled upon me today, you can forgive me for being disorderly in my thoughts, i'm still learning it, the art of writing it all. Penning down all my fantasies, my strange and funny dreams in the same sensuous way i see them. To tell you them in such a way, that you would feel the tickling sensation yourself, when you live that dream with me. So that, when i talk about butterflies, you will feel their wings on your skin. One day, i'll be there, until then, have belief in me, the way i have found faith now.
Thus, I consciously cultivated an awareness for the surroundings whenever I was reading a book. Sometimes I thought it just killed the fun in reading. But it took a long time to develop that. Coz, books were a reprieve for me from the outer world, which back then, at times looked blank and uninteresting. If books make you an introvert, I had all chances of growing up into just that, but strangely enough, I grew up to become the best chatter box anyone could ever find. I loved the sunny, bright and colourful characters more than the melancholic one.
The books used to beckon me from the shelves. I got sheer pleasure just from the thought of me immersed in those books all day long and getting to know the characters more. I imagined myself as a writer, who would someday write books like these, which will come in beautiful and elegant bindings, with penguin for a publisher may be, which would someday line the shelves of a carefully collected library of some book lover. I fascinated more about Penguin books, cos they stood in a neat queue in my book shelf, either when I arranged the Bernad Shaws or the Somerset Maughams or because their symbol stood out the most among publishers. There were strange dilemmas that I had somedays. I could not choose as to which writer I want to become like, from all the people in the shelf. In English I decided to choose between Maugham, Pearl S. Buck and R. K. Narayanan. In Malayalam my choices were mostly M.T. Vasudevan Nair or Pottakkadu. I toyed with Madhavikutty also for a while, but her daring writing in “Ente Katha” gave me jitters, and I decided against it. I knew I could never even think of writing sarcasm like Basheer or Sanjayan did. Those were not just my forte. Or I tried hard at imaginig situations the way they did, and to my surprise I did have an innate nature in me in finding humour in life’s simplest things, but, I just couldn’t understand how or when I will ever learn to put them into words. And that was one of the genre I wanted to try the most, satire. I could never be that poet or writer who would use the perfect alliterations, similies and metaphors to commit a theme to paper. I was never that good.
When I first got the internet, that was what I searched more about – authors. I tried picturing what their day will be like, wondering whether they will be writing all day long or just some time in between. Some stories about the writer – people’s solitary life bothered me. Some said, that they liked to live a life of their own, and never came out into the real world. And I got scared at this. I loved the colours of the world, the people, friends, and my sister and achan amma. There was an article, which I read, which talks about all the background works behind a book. It talked about how one author went in search for a character. I just sat and thought about it and the more and more I thought, it was turning out to be even more alluring. First thing, u get to travel, which was one of number one things in my bucket list, and second, even more than meeting your ‘wanted protagonist’, you will get to see more life and people, which thrilled me. It was just like what I read about the directors going in search for his equal – to – the image – in his mind type of hero or heroine. Amazing, I thought of that journey, as a search for your own story itself, for the soul of your story. I had always been a fan of travelling, though I had not travelled much myself. But the memories of every weekend journeys to Alleppey, had a lot of fun and happiness in it.
Thinking back, we were like Gypsies back then, always travelling, except that the routes were the same, the names of all the places etched forever firmly in my mind. But the people – the fellow travelers were different. Me and my sis, used to remember jokes and used to tell it to the people who travelled with us in train, giving them a hearty laugh. But she missed maybe the early parts of the journey, which we did in buses, before switching over to trains. Those parts had a special quality about them, the rustic buses, the dusty routes of the crowded city roads we passed by, the view of the streetside shops, the different houses with its courtyards and beautiful gardens that I loved to look at from the raised view of the bus windows, and much more such sweet sights. I still remember some of the friends we made, who told me stories of all sorts. There was this girl, whose house was on one side of the canal, and she had to take a boat to reach there. Wow, I was so thrilled and she promised to take me there. But ofcourse, I never met her again, and then I grew up and I forgot. There were these bus stations that stood alone in the middle of nowhere, just a big ground but no buses parked, standing there sadly like a poor but naughty kid denied his fair share of chocolates. There were also others like a chirpy one, where me and dad used to get down for a round of quick roaming about and also to make me go to the loo. Such places had lots of shops with umpteen amazing items, out of which dad always brought me chocolates and fruity. I always preferred bus journeys to trains as a kid, coz it meant more sight seeing in terms of the towns, the roads and people, though my parents would any day prefer the train. And I totally fell in love with the wind then, blowing so relentlessly on my face, making me beam with happiness, looking out from the window seat. I thought, this was the best.
And I imagined I will be travelling a lot if I become a writer – well, I needed stories, dint I ? And again, I dwelled on the lives of writers and their follies, wondering if they had any social life and all those fun times. But none of these reflections ever came to be of any use, let alone significant, as I suspected long ago, I had not just the writer’s block ( ?!, writer’s ? for me ?! ), at making a line –but also, the famous defects of the lazyness, the impotent imagination, the sheer dearth of words and what all and what not! And one day, thus, I concluded, writing, is not for me, and even the diary entries were turning out to be boring, repetitive, and merely documentative. Words I thought, had to come out in a gush, like a flowing river. For me, it came out like water dripping from a wasted tap, a broken one. At times they spurted out relentlessly, that you would think you will be swept off in that bountiful flow, in its sheer force, that it would never stop. You are thus at the height of your imagination, ready to write them all down, and then there is a burp, and a sudden block, and then it stops. Or may be, there will be a final belch or two, and you are done with. They have ceased coming. And you feel, helpless. Your ideas still hanging in midair, or thrown in the violent sea, swimming in alarm and trying to float about, but no vessel on its way to save them and give them life.
Thus I went in hibernation. I only wrote diaries and nothing else. It was then that I stumbled into this thing called blog. I was amazed. A net space where you could put your stuff. A personal web space, to write. Like an abandoned field, fertile enough for those unwanted windswept spores, that wandered around, looking for a place to flourish. And the best part was that, you could choose to either show people. You dint have to tell them. They dint need to know. But they could always find out too. Up to them, or your luck. And you will still get random readership if someone stumbles into your blog.
I fell in and out of love with people who checked my blog. Someone who said some random thing about one word i wrote. I adored them. They were my world. My meaning for existence. When I see people in and around me, publicising their articles, I get jealous. Of the courage. Of their belief in self. Or in their words. Something I lacked. Something I yearned to develop. The quintessential me was always there, lurking in the dark, always doubting the strength of my own words. Or at other times, believing in them much to stand any criticism. I wrote however, once in a blue moon, hoping to write more, only hoping for ever and always.
And if you, random reader, stumbled upon me today, you can forgive me for being disorderly in my thoughts, i'm still learning it, the art of writing it all. Penning down all my fantasies, my strange and funny dreams in the same sensuous way i see them. To tell you them in such a way, that you would feel the tickling sensation yourself, when you live that dream with me. So that, when i talk about butterflies, you will feel their wings on your skin. One day, i'll be there, until then, have belief in me, the way i have found faith now.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
The unbuilt tombstones
Tombstones - Erected over the grave, that which preserves the memory of the deceased. But no tombstone is being made here, today. The loath, the detest, is too hard to fathom, to forgive. People here are about and moving. All around me, movement, hasty movement, that I shift my head from this side to that, to be aware. People, my guardian angels, move about, setting things right. Cutting down some strands. Tugging at certain loose ends. Tightening some others. Purging off the rest.
And then, they set to work - real work. Ascertaining that no tombstones are made. That no eulogies are sung. That a memory is being destroyed. In a vain hope to secure me inside a bastion of solace. Checking and rechecking that nothing is left, not even the traces. Not even the ashes to cry over. And I look on, helpless. I had indeed seen the end, before it began. But I had not seen it coming this way. Nor did I expect this deletion. It came abruptly, without knowing, all of a sudden, an emptiness scaring me. And I get crippled along with these little things that are destructed. A part of me taken and send away. Numbed, I simply hang on, by the side.
Your angels - the only other players in the game - acting as deleters. I wish I could delete too, do it myself, just like pressing a button. Twang. Gone, forever. Shift + Del , may be? A photo gone from the wall. A picture card presented, gone. One b'day clue, from all the rest, gone. Precious memories captured, photos, gone from my PC. Into oblivion. Into a dark abyss. Thrown with all mighty force, by the precious hearts that caress mine.
Should I have cared? Should i have worried? Did i want to cherish, and keep safe? Did i even have to notice? No. But mind, is a terrible player. It defeats you, when you are least concerned, when you loose the hold. It takes a jump, in a swift stroke and looks back. And you lose yourself. Is my angst unjustified? Am I being senseless? Did I not deserve the comfort of a talisman?
And I realise, with searing pain, that blood gashes out in a stream from the dreadful wound. At the most uncalled for moments. And i think, I wanted them all. To caress. Pixels of a past that existed. Resting now in a morgue. Sent to the place that was worthy of them ? But, here waits for me, the time that is gone, now nothing more than a strange eternity of nothingness. I stare. I squint hard. But there is nothing to see. Nothing to be felt. So I wish ; Before giving me the cure, before erasing my colour palettes, I wish they had asked me. Once. Only one time, before tampering with them. They were mine - my mind and soul, wholly mine. Memory of a life that could have been. A time that deep inside, even for the most diminutive part, I, knowingly or unknowingly cherished. And now, I am glassy eyed, staring blankly, seeing nothing. I have just been obliviated.
Then again, listening to the reflections of my ambivalent mind, I get undecided. When a minute's agony is turned into spite at the very next,I wonder, can it be cured by removing a handful of reminiscence. What if I needed them to be strong? Or was it, more unasked for omissions that I yearned for to recover? Which ever way it be, there is a reprieve, of what still persists. The thin strands of memoirs that intricately wove around my brain cells. I still have them. If I needed them to relish. Or may be I would want them to perish. And then, again I have my angels to look upto, to do it for me. Sweetly and swiftly.
May be I need a escapade. A merry, cheerful adventure. A funny thing to do. An end to wait for. Desire. Hope. May be erasing was good. And that, Only time will prove.
And then, they set to work - real work. Ascertaining that no tombstones are made. That no eulogies are sung. That a memory is being destroyed. In a vain hope to secure me inside a bastion of solace. Checking and rechecking that nothing is left, not even the traces. Not even the ashes to cry over. And I look on, helpless. I had indeed seen the end, before it began. But I had not seen it coming this way. Nor did I expect this deletion. It came abruptly, without knowing, all of a sudden, an emptiness scaring me. And I get crippled along with these little things that are destructed. A part of me taken and send away. Numbed, I simply hang on, by the side.
Your angels - the only other players in the game - acting as deleters. I wish I could delete too, do it myself, just like pressing a button. Twang. Gone, forever. Shift + Del , may be? A photo gone from the wall. A picture card presented, gone. One b'day clue, from all the rest, gone. Precious memories captured, photos, gone from my PC. Into oblivion. Into a dark abyss. Thrown with all mighty force, by the precious hearts that caress mine.
Should I have cared? Should i have worried? Did i want to cherish, and keep safe? Did i even have to notice? No. But mind, is a terrible player. It defeats you, when you are least concerned, when you loose the hold. It takes a jump, in a swift stroke and looks back. And you lose yourself. Is my angst unjustified? Am I being senseless? Did I not deserve the comfort of a talisman?
And I realise, with searing pain, that blood gashes out in a stream from the dreadful wound. At the most uncalled for moments. And i think, I wanted them all. To caress. Pixels of a past that existed. Resting now in a morgue. Sent to the place that was worthy of them ? But, here waits for me, the time that is gone, now nothing more than a strange eternity of nothingness. I stare. I squint hard. But there is nothing to see. Nothing to be felt. So I wish ; Before giving me the cure, before erasing my colour palettes, I wish they had asked me. Once. Only one time, before tampering with them. They were mine - my mind and soul, wholly mine. Memory of a life that could have been. A time that deep inside, even for the most diminutive part, I, knowingly or unknowingly cherished. And now, I am glassy eyed, staring blankly, seeing nothing. I have just been obliviated.
Then again, listening to the reflections of my ambivalent mind, I get undecided. When a minute's agony is turned into spite at the very next,I wonder, can it be cured by removing a handful of reminiscence. What if I needed them to be strong? Or was it, more unasked for omissions that I yearned for to recover? Which ever way it be, there is a reprieve, of what still persists. The thin strands of memoirs that intricately wove around my brain cells. I still have them. If I needed them to relish. Or may be I would want them to perish. And then, again I have my angels to look upto, to do it for me. Sweetly and swiftly.
May be I need a escapade. A merry, cheerful adventure. A funny thing to do. An end to wait for. Desire. Hope. May be erasing was good. And that, Only time will prove.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
bliss, in the land of far far away!
Bliss.
Sitting somewhere,anywhere, with no one to watch over, or even check on you. The naked loneliness, nothing to beat that.
To realise after a couple of solid hours that you have been at your best with yourself, and to be aware of the darkness looming around you. The trees coming at you, from all sides, their branches looking murderous at your daring to be in their midst, at this wee hour, when they ought to be just with themselves. You have tresspassed. But they draw back, your nonchalance troubles them. You got other things in your mind. You are in one dark corner of the big campus. Even the SIS guards did not know about the you lurking in the darkness! And the wi-fi advantage, yes, you are not totally alone – you have the internet world and specifically the youtube with you. And still playing the favourite song of the day, to somehow vent out the angst of the day, and just type away something, some random non – sense.
Yes, I am here, doing what some might call crazyness. Wandering, alone, but relishing in the lone time. Okay, I dint get the nirwana, but I dint go seeking that as well. I went seeking silence, where there will be no more pointing fingers, no more accusations, no more strange demands. Just a fragile mind, a needless worry, and some deep rooted gashes of pain. A time to cry out to the world that you are tired and weary of its strange fallacies. To decide its time to come out of the veil. Such moments of retrospection, that gives you relief and reprieve. I went in search for that.
And you get your moments, of laugh and lament. To be shooed away ( :( ) by the SIS guards because you decided to visit the rooftop of a building, which may well be the favourite suicide spot (?!) of students. But, hey, i came to live, not die! Laugh! And which is why, standing there, looking at the breathtaking beauty of the bougainvillea and trees happily surrounding the buildings, savouring in the comfort and the promise this sight offered me, happiness filled me, inspite of the crippling darkness inside. Clearly I am unhappy. I am angry at the world, for being unlike me, for getting the better side of the toss, for having a hope, and a future. Lament! But here, life gets the better off me. I go down the stairs, looking for another place, for a silent solace for the yelling mind. And i get it.
My hopes were indeed bursting at the seams. Sometimes disappearing. At others, taking an entirely new face that frightened me. The blemishes of a saddened mind. The scintillations for a better future tempting me. If only i had the courage. To cross the bridge. Take the u-turn. Courage, I realise, is all that matters. And thus, I go back. To where i belong. The world of people, that welcomes me back, with extended arms.
PS : Act of random crazyness exist. Life is all about the madness in you.
Sitting somewhere,anywhere, with no one to watch over, or even check on you. The naked loneliness, nothing to beat that.
To realise after a couple of solid hours that you have been at your best with yourself, and to be aware of the darkness looming around you. The trees coming at you, from all sides, their branches looking murderous at your daring to be in their midst, at this wee hour, when they ought to be just with themselves. You have tresspassed. But they draw back, your nonchalance troubles them. You got other things in your mind. You are in one dark corner of the big campus. Even the SIS guards did not know about the you lurking in the darkness! And the wi-fi advantage, yes, you are not totally alone – you have the internet world and specifically the youtube with you. And still playing the favourite song of the day, to somehow vent out the angst of the day, and just type away something, some random non – sense.
Yes, I am here, doing what some might call crazyness. Wandering, alone, but relishing in the lone time. Okay, I dint get the nirwana, but I dint go seeking that as well. I went seeking silence, where there will be no more pointing fingers, no more accusations, no more strange demands. Just a fragile mind, a needless worry, and some deep rooted gashes of pain. A time to cry out to the world that you are tired and weary of its strange fallacies. To decide its time to come out of the veil. Such moments of retrospection, that gives you relief and reprieve. I went in search for that.
And you get your moments, of laugh and lament. To be shooed away ( :( ) by the SIS guards because you decided to visit the rooftop of a building, which may well be the favourite suicide spot (?!) of students. But, hey, i came to live, not die! Laugh! And which is why, standing there, looking at the breathtaking beauty of the bougainvillea and trees happily surrounding the buildings, savouring in the comfort and the promise this sight offered me, happiness filled me, inspite of the crippling darkness inside. Clearly I am unhappy. I am angry at the world, for being unlike me, for getting the better side of the toss, for having a hope, and a future. Lament! But here, life gets the better off me. I go down the stairs, looking for another place, for a silent solace for the yelling mind. And i get it.
My hopes were indeed bursting at the seams. Sometimes disappearing. At others, taking an entirely new face that frightened me. The blemishes of a saddened mind. The scintillations for a better future tempting me. If only i had the courage. To cross the bridge. Take the u-turn. Courage, I realise, is all that matters. And thus, I go back. To where i belong. The world of people, that welcomes me back, with extended arms.
PS : Act of random crazyness exist. Life is all about the madness in you.
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