unwillingness unlivingness

Nostalgic in advance of all that I’m living now, I want the time to hault

Misery stricken, I want to cease existing

Sob or cry or maybe just suffocate to this that seems stuck in my throat

Wither away like the petals of an aged flower, with a gust of wind and never to be found again

Go numb to the sun, the warmth or the light

Curl up and die in self infesting sadness

Cling to home and fuse into its belongingness and disappear into it

Cry out the heaviness through the walls of my heart

Fly away like smoke, and dissolve into the universe

Or simply liberate

Trap of Life

No matter how strong I make of myself, and how much I grasp my thoughts and try to conquer my particular life, life always works the way it has always been working and the way it has been with everyone. No difference induced by the fallacy of uniqueness. All my efforts may just change a shade or put a cloak of acceptance over it, but it always works the way it always has been and the way it wants to. 

One ignorant but adamant bitch, life.

Falling in despair, appearance of a gleam of hope, rising to it and then living a few cheerful days before the cycle repeats. Life works just like that, no exceptions with anyone. Certainly the period of this cycle varies, but everyone kneels or is made to kneel and taste both dust and pain. Time and again, over and over. That’s the reality of this comedy.

Then there are always ways out of everything, so is one out of this. That escape wouldn’t be really called a escape because there is nothing beyond it. The escape is: lifelessness. Feeling less of everything. Feeling only over the skin, far away from the vulnerabilities of heart. Both joy and pain. Monotonous smiles and tears.

You might as well just continue living as you were. There isn’t any escape out of it. We don’t really require one either.

The space between words and reality

Some things are just so real that you refuse to write them and let it be.

Words are great, and perhaps the greatest thing our kind has ever brought in existence, but reality is mightier. Words do not have the power to contain reality in its exact trueness. Because reality is too enormous to be possesed, too real.

When we set out to write about something, be it in forms of poetry or other creative writings, we use metaphors to state how something feels like, and metaphors lie far away from the real nature of that reality which we set to describe.

The more you make use of metaphors, the closer you move to poetry and the farther you move from reality.

No doubt we come up with exquisitely beautiful definitions in forms of poetry about the pain in our heart and the longing for our lover and everything that amuses us in nature but that simply isn’t reality. I don’t say that it needs to be, I just say that it isn’t.

What maybe drawn out of what I’m trying to say here is that: I am not devaluing poetry and words, I am rather stating the mightiness of reality that we often set out to describe in words.

The falling of a leaf in desolation under unguided force and waywardness is different from what we feel when our heart suddenly drops into some kind of congested abyss, but I surely can use the former as a metaphor for the latter – and, I must say, that’d be amazing. But that exactly which we had wished to describe will remain unwritten.

It is and it will be,

only felt.

Let go

let go, of these hands

“Let go”

I uttered nearly choking to the words as she held me tight in her arms, wiping her tears time and again with the sleeves of her free hand.

“I will return soon”, escaped from my mouth, and that was all I could provide to comfort her.

Tapping her back gently, I slowly parted myself away from her embrace and stepped away.

She turned around to hide her tears as I stepped back, but held onto my fingers in a strange grasp that radiated the intensity of her ache in this separation.

I stepped away from her, dragging my heavy chest and gulping the dry throat.

And she broke out in sobs in the distance.

I drove away without having had to look at her face again for once. Perhaps that was what evoked an emptiness somewhere, missing that last glance.

And I went away on a journey which held no certainty of bringing us back together the same.

I squeezed my eyes shut, which have been hurting trying to hold back the torrents of tears behind its walls all along.

A universe happened in that moment. 

Another memory embarked on the trunk of time, with the sharpness of her tears and the stings in my heart.

true incident

A Ride From The Past

Here they are sitting, together in a taxi driving them to their respective homes. Him, a child who happens to be an introvert of a kind. A chaos of thoughts in his mind, but only silence on his lips and words claded with hesitation coming out of his mouth.

Her, not much to tell about.

Amongst the chaos of his mind, one thought is of her. A mild amusement for her, even though he hasn’t seen her face. He still does not recognise any face when he thinks of her. A soul that feeds upon his imaginations; and then of course, a soul who suffers in reality.

Of her, there is still not much to tell. It is yet a one sided story. Were there any emotions emitting out of her, nobody knows. Could it not be a one sided tale as is believed till date, nobody could answer.

They have the outside worlds to look upon through the windows they were sitting by. Distancing them were her sister, a mature lady living a life of her own and perhaps engaged in her own thoughts, far away from this sphere of her presence. A white little mouse curled up into her lap, finding comfort in the cozyness, away from the coldness of a winter night. A mouse that will become a very good friend of him. The mouse that will eventually die falling off a roof. A mouse that’d make one of his homecomings unpleasant with his absence.
The journey proceeds, and with that his thoughts wander to far away places, escaping from her for some moment. She does not make any movement or sound that’d make him look at her, and it is dark too so he cannot see her at all. He only feels her, mildly and far away from any possible reality.

He is mildly attracted of her. Does he desire her? Nobody knows, not even himself. Would he wish her to be his? He is, for that matter, too weak to handle another person as his own. An introvert fighting with himself is too delicate to be handed over with someone, or rather handed to someone. And he knows it, he knows it all and hence he distances himself.

He admires what amuses him like how a traveller would look upon the beauty he would come across his journey.  Moving on, with his eyes and his conscience laden to rest for a while; as far as the horizon lives in his sight.

He steps down near to where he lives. They are driven away from him, and he walks away from them, from her. The dark alley to his place gives him the apt atmosphere for his thoughts to come out in freedom, and take him over.

In the distance, what was she thinking while they drove away, nobody knows.

And she certainly does not know, the same boy who had just departed would be someone with whom she’d fall in love with. Almost a decade later.

And him, today he gazes through the past and into that taxi, and he smiles at how the universe has conformed and conspired to bring her close to him, perhaps to make him realise his subtle desire.

While the universe is still being chiseled to cut the distance from closeness to togetherness, that weakness and the delicateness still hasn’t subsided much for me to possess her.

There are fears that sorround my heart like clouds that float in uncertain skies. Fears that hesitates my heart from pouring down, fears of uncertainty. 

Falling in love is worth a heartbreak, and I’m not afraid of the latter; it is the falling and the fear of not being caught that puts this heart into an anticipated uneasiness.

Love is supposed to be easy, it is the fusion of two souls to become one that faces all the restrains.

Speak The Writing

Usually when we stumble upon some people who write with magic in their lines and poetic aura in their words, we simply set it in our beliefs how ideal the person is. And as you keep on reading them, your set of beliefs raise him/her even higher.

And the day comes when you began to wonder about them. How must they really be, apart from all the mysticism of their words. How must their thinking work, how must they perceive things. And most and most importantly, our wondernment keeps on stumbling on one thing: how must they speak. How must they talk and converse, with what ideality and what perfection. We sometimes wish to see them, and aspire to be like them.

But,

From my set of thoughts and understanding, social media is a mirage of personalities. It shows you what actually does not exist, or even if it does, it lays at unapproachable distances.

To be disappointed on seeing your idol to be nothing like you’d worshipped is clearly and only your fault. While they may be helpless in being unable to reflect in real what they are from within, you are still to blame – for not understanding.

If writing is an art, so is speaking. And they are distinct. One barely intersects the other. One might be a master of eloquence of words with ink and paper in hand but he might just seem to be another one of the crowd when he speaks.

And, you might have met some who has the art of telling stories and tales and incidents out of their mouth in the perfection of expression, but he will again waffle if handed with a pen and paper.

The point is, the two are equally distinct arts. While it is possible for someone to have control over both, it is very rare.

What is it about writing that cannot enter speaking, why can’t them both merge, after all isn’t the two a mere way of bringing out what lies in you?

Realistically speaking, it simply isn’t realistic to be as clever and tricky in speech as much as in writing. Life is a chaos, and so is what happens around. Everything happens and moves so fast that you do not get even seconds to consider what you should speak and how.

Another thing is, most of the things that we write seems a little weird and makes the atmosphere awkward if we speak them out. After all, isn’t philosphy considered uncool to discuss, poetry cannot be simply enunciated without attracting a lot of (unrequired) attention, and to be sublime in speech is again a little alienish.

All and all, for this too, we are again to blame, just like for every other thing wrong with the universe.