It's hot and you're making my palms sweat.
I hate you and I never want to see you again.
Because you can't just stand here and give me an
identity crisis like this, you hear me?
I don't care what's true and what's not. Leave me
alone and turn off the light.
In the dark it is easy to pretend that the truth is
what it ought to be.
I can feel the sweat dripping down my skin.
Only, it's not my skin anymore.
Now I'm confused.
That's why I warned you not to bring changes and empty
out the past.
Because you created the past and now you've emptied
out yourself, and spilled doubt everywhere.
That's why you have to get out.
I'm jumping out of my skin here, and now you're
telling me it's not my skin?
I don't understand any past other than the one you
gave me.
I'm simple. I don't understand choices and options and
what could have been.
I only know what was. And now you've destroyed it.
Take care.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
I Belong
Amidst the hustle of life around,
An unknown sense of loneliness
Comes over me.
One never experienced before
And yet so familiar.
The city noises are a distant murmur;
That drown in the sounds of rustling trees
Which spread out infornt of me.
I Calm my turbulent thoughts.
The lone sun, setting in the distant horizon
Lights up the evening sky
In hues that calm the soul
And relieve it of the day's heavy burden.
And enveloped in such beauty
I sit,
Listening to the world go by.
Not a soul around me.
And realize that I belong.
An unknown sense of loneliness
Comes over me.
One never experienced before
And yet so familiar.
The city noises are a distant murmur;
That drown in the sounds of rustling trees
Which spread out infornt of me.
I Calm my turbulent thoughts.
The lone sun, setting in the distant horizon
Lights up the evening sky
In hues that calm the soul
And relieve it of the day's heavy burden.
And enveloped in such beauty
I sit,
Listening to the world go by.
Not a soul around me.
And realize that I belong.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Feather
"An insult to the strong man that rests inside you,you pea brained nincompoop." I could almost hearmyself screaming somewhere deep inside my head. Thevoice came from so many places, those places wheregenerally Metallica songs, three years of officeinsults, break-ups etc are kept. "Strong?"
I was searching for a feather given to me four years(almost five now) ago by a soulmate. A soulmate he wasno less, Maybe more, but certainly not less. he hadcaught the little feather between his index and middlefinger, held it till his smile had faded into mine. Iremember inhaling his strawberry-jam-sandwich breath.The world had muted for one brief moment, till hisgrip on the feather descended, the feathertranscended, I caught those moments and the feather. Iwas searching for those lost moments in the feather.Lost so, that I wasn't successful in weighing theircredence. It was one of those times when you knowyou're missing something, and you know what it is, butyou're scared to express it to yourself. You try towash years of emotion with temporary condolence ofyour own solitude and, sad but true, falsehood. Thefalsehood of not missing what you miss everyday ofyour life. And yes, golden moments, better than one'sexperienced will arrive but are the one's gone, reallygone?
I remember him holding a Gillette Presto in hand insome the-name-doesn't-matter hotel , one night. Inframes I remember him delicately whisper "Let me doit, please, please, please, please." And he did somuch as to touch the razor to my foamed right cheek,and withdrew in the same delicate mo(ve)ment. "What ifit hurts?"
I also remember the bus journey when he asked what kind of love was I looking forward to in life. I said well you know the one who understands something someone like err you know (he won the eye contact which I was fighting so desperately against) you, I said, it had finally blurted itself out. he smiled,his answer wasn't expected as he said, someone withdark hair, brown eyes, not taller than you, his smile faded again.
I know not why I search for the feather for it was forgotten after I passed out of the college with a coveted degree and memories. I could swear on my life, he forgot it in the laughter of a new ray in his life,"a replacement" as other friends told me "you're forgotten, haha". So I pretended to forget. I never knew why I searched for my feather, until yesterday,when we bumped into each other in a bus bumping its way towards Bandra. The availability of seats allowedme to be seated after his, and I wondered if he was the same person who had hugged me when he cried andwhen he laughed. His destination was nearing; I hoped he had done well in the years blinded to me. he got up, smiled at me, eyes evidently wet, and offered a handshake which only we (we both, only two of us) knew, as if to remind me of the times that we had shared, I accepted it, as if I never forgot.
I was searching for a feather given to me four years(almost five now) ago by a soulmate. A soulmate he wasno less, Maybe more, but certainly not less. he hadcaught the little feather between his index and middlefinger, held it till his smile had faded into mine. Iremember inhaling his strawberry-jam-sandwich breath.The world had muted for one brief moment, till hisgrip on the feather descended, the feathertranscended, I caught those moments and the feather. Iwas searching for those lost moments in the feather.Lost so, that I wasn't successful in weighing theircredence. It was one of those times when you knowyou're missing something, and you know what it is, butyou're scared to express it to yourself. You try towash years of emotion with temporary condolence ofyour own solitude and, sad but true, falsehood. Thefalsehood of not missing what you miss everyday ofyour life. And yes, golden moments, better than one'sexperienced will arrive but are the one's gone, reallygone?
I remember him holding a Gillette Presto in hand insome the-name-doesn't-matter hotel , one night. Inframes I remember him delicately whisper "Let me doit, please, please, please, please." And he did somuch as to touch the razor to my foamed right cheek,and withdrew in the same delicate mo(ve)ment. "What ifit hurts?"
I also remember the bus journey when he asked what kind of love was I looking forward to in life. I said well you know the one who understands something someone like err you know (he won the eye contact which I was fighting so desperately against) you, I said, it had finally blurted itself out. he smiled,his answer wasn't expected as he said, someone withdark hair, brown eyes, not taller than you, his smile faded again.
I know not why I search for the feather for it was forgotten after I passed out of the college with a coveted degree and memories. I could swear on my life, he forgot it in the laughter of a new ray in his life,"a replacement" as other friends told me "you're forgotten, haha". So I pretended to forget. I never knew why I searched for my feather, until yesterday,when we bumped into each other in a bus bumping its way towards Bandra. The availability of seats allowedme to be seated after his, and I wondered if he was the same person who had hugged me when he cried andwhen he laughed. His destination was nearing; I hoped he had done well in the years blinded to me. he got up, smiled at me, eyes evidently wet, and offered a handshake which only we (we both, only two of us) knew, as if to remind me of the times that we had shared, I accepted it, as if I never forgot.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Letter To A Mirror
'Listen,
I am obsessed with shadows. When I was little I thought - here is
god putting up a play. On the pavement. How do we imagine, god
idle in the evening? Arm slinging out of a truckle bed - pivoted
on the sun? I would walk shifting shadows with that tiny form,
shifting glance from pavement to sky to where ever I imagined god
was, behind what curtains; digging feet into the concrete trying
to scoop each shadow out, expecting it to come tumbling upward,
flitter, fade. See, this is my childhood, shadows feet pavement,
god.
But this is how it is: I still walk to explore shadows. Walk
without suffix and stretch each alphabet beyond the limit of day
and read the poetry under streetlights and tree shades and orange
signs of gas stations. This is the language of darkness, you
understand - the way our bodies nudge in some sepia reality,
negotiable and silent. The way hands seem to touch even when they
are not; the way light is caught in these dark throats, like joy.
The way our bones project on this screen while it quivers with
morning, burns with the day, becomes soft with evening, blurred
with night. Have you noticed how shadows have depth? When we walk
the city at night as though gathering rent, arranging the streets
next to one another and ticking them off with our bodies, angular
- have you noticed how we sink into some shadows and into some
others, don't. How the night coalesces in some corners, conspires
in others.
Have you noticed how the darkness is snatched into form, and some
shadows heave as though trying to escape, and still others are
weary with love for their murky blood, sweat glistening in
translucence. I have wanted to slip through these pores with you,
because we become astatic on the street, you know. We become
ethereal and we glisten. And the shadows catch on to our bodies
as we move, tiny semicolons that prick us, make us exhausted with
our flesh. It is as though the earth is riddled with two
realities - it pushes the shadows onto our bodies; here is the
burden of your love. But we are not confounded. We are blurred,
but not burned.
And this is how you may find your city, your home, your lover.
When the realities approve. When your bones form a dialect with
the shadows and build and crash together, resolve a distance.
When I came here, I thought, this is the city in which I can
enunciate my body; this is the city in which the shadows are
comfortable. In which I can move my body under yours. Because,
see, it is either poetry or it isn't. Either we know the same
language or we don't. And if the darkness is incomprehensible,
then we are in some conflict in our bones, we are tangled and
rigid and soundless, as though caught in the throat of some
shadow.
Like pain. Without language.
I am obsessed with shadows. When I was little I thought - here is
god putting up a play. On the pavement. How do we imagine, god
idle in the evening? Arm slinging out of a truckle bed - pivoted
on the sun? I would walk shifting shadows with that tiny form,
shifting glance from pavement to sky to where ever I imagined god
was, behind what curtains; digging feet into the concrete trying
to scoop each shadow out, expecting it to come tumbling upward,
flitter, fade. See, this is my childhood, shadows feet pavement,
god.
But this is how it is: I still walk to explore shadows. Walk
without suffix and stretch each alphabet beyond the limit of day
and read the poetry under streetlights and tree shades and orange
signs of gas stations. This is the language of darkness, you
understand - the way our bodies nudge in some sepia reality,
negotiable and silent. The way hands seem to touch even when they
are not; the way light is caught in these dark throats, like joy.
The way our bones project on this screen while it quivers with
morning, burns with the day, becomes soft with evening, blurred
with night. Have you noticed how shadows have depth? When we walk
the city at night as though gathering rent, arranging the streets
next to one another and ticking them off with our bodies, angular
- have you noticed how we sink into some shadows and into some
others, don't. How the night coalesces in some corners, conspires
in others.
Have you noticed how the darkness is snatched into form, and some
shadows heave as though trying to escape, and still others are
weary with love for their murky blood, sweat glistening in
translucence. I have wanted to slip through these pores with you,
because we become astatic on the street, you know. We become
ethereal and we glisten. And the shadows catch on to our bodies
as we move, tiny semicolons that prick us, make us exhausted with
our flesh. It is as though the earth is riddled with two
realities - it pushes the shadows onto our bodies; here is the
burden of your love. But we are not confounded. We are blurred,
but not burned.
And this is how you may find your city, your home, your lover.
When the realities approve. When your bones form a dialect with
the shadows and build and crash together, resolve a distance.
When I came here, I thought, this is the city in which I can
enunciate my body; this is the city in which the shadows are
comfortable. In which I can move my body under yours. Because,
see, it is either poetry or it isn't. Either we know the same
language or we don't. And if the darkness is incomprehensible,
then we are in some conflict in our bones, we are tangled and
rigid and soundless, as though caught in the throat of some
shadow.
Like pain. Without language.
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