Amid the fast-paced times,forgetful memories and too many choices, I still search for...
a handwritten poetry in the world of typed ones,
a personal call in the world of whatsapp messages,
a conversation about life in the world of peppered gossips,
a shout of familiar voice in the world of half-hearted smiles.
Sun climbs up the sky,
Darkness goes to sleep,
Amid the change in their shifts,
Calender date takes a flip.
A body wakes up from the bed,
Keeping dreams and fantasies back in a drawer of mind,
A new day is like another chance,
Leaving all disappointments and misses behind.
Hot coffee rises in the cup,
To drown in the throat,
Body hopes to reach a different place,
While getting ready to sail in the same boat.
Calender read Oct 19, 2021.
Watch read 19.46.
But i was sipping cola from college canteen in 2009,
and worrying about the appraisal of March 2022.
All these while chipping the overgrown nail of index finger and waiting for 19.50 local train.
It felt as if the urge to escape from routine present made me a drama writer, who is simultaneously working on two stories. Both would not end in mind, but screenplay born out of overthinking would be potent enough to numb the present. Adding more air to the bubble of past and sucking every drop of hope that future could hold onto seems to be an art human has mastered while going through evolutionary process.
Or maybe mind wanted a high without consuming any substance. So mind began creating a cocktail of timelines.This episode made me ask a few questions to self.
Am i living my life?
Am just busy hijacking the moment with memories and imaginations?
Do we spend most of our times thinking about life, trying to predict outcomes, making ourselves believe that good is already gone and there is no chance it can recur ?
Do we subconsciously prevent ourselves from experiencing something new or unknown?
I am sure this has happened with many of you and many times. It is still happening without you even realising it.
The drama won't end easily. But being aware of the drama may always help.
Life had some moments where heart was in dilemma,
whether to pump-up in rage
to skip the beat,
whether to rush through the emotions
pause to repeat,
whether to break open the chest
bury it deep.
But i decided not to tear the page then,
and orphan the story of an infant emotion.
Just left it blank and folded,
in the arms of unfinished story,
which is still unfolding with every passing heartbeat,
with a hope that ink will mature one day,
just enough to let the folded page bloom into an answer,
heart felt for but couldn't seek.
i keep looking back.
i left myself there
at a point in time
with those people
in those situations
i never felt
to skew myself
to be accepted
to be cared for
i don’t look back
i am just bored of the drama,
So i look at the real me
laughing, talking, breathing
in my thoughts
which they say
are memories …
Can imagine you taking bite of the cake,
with cream left on the lips
Can imagine you shaking a leg to good music,
with song being sung between the hips
Can imagine you leaning on the sofa,
with your curves revealing the secrets your silence keeps
Can imagine you getting inked (tattooed) by me on the inner thigh,
with my hands going deeper to give you a high
The play was real without any rehearsal,
some enjoyed their tragedies,
while others remained poker faced even in the joys.
Ones who thought they were hero,
broke down after realizing their role,
ones who thought they would own the stage,
had to make peace with a guest appearance.
No one actually knew when the backstage will recall them,
dialogues were going to be important,
but silence too had a role to play.
Some got variety of roles as long as they remained clay,
while the stubborn were played by the play.
All tried to bribe the script writer for an immortal fame,
but he kept changing the actors and stage remained the same
I will drive my poetry through your curves,
a bit above your skin,
a bit beneath your nerves
the way you bend,
the way you tilt,
covering you from end to end,
letting go all the guilt.
words will feel
as i feel you
i touch you
in places and ways
no one ever has,
through my words, spaces and commas
leaving my ink,
stealing your aromas
Feels like day has ended with the sunset of overthinking,
fear of dark heals what daylights were bringing.
Silence hides here often,
bias of colour disappears.
Wounds come out of hiding,
with no eyes chasing to pierce.
Scars ache less as mirrors lose the game,
pages written or blank read the same.
Noises make you think,
reality and dream become inseparable by a blink.
When succumbing to a corner becomes a choice over being on the roam,
that is the moment darkness feels home..
They come out of hiding,
appear to be abiding,
searching not, but begging for place,
place not in house, but in heart,
they are into impostering like an art,
you avoid them at start,
but end up dealing,
you look for their wounds,
wounds they have decorated,
to catch your attention,
without even a fleeting mention,
in the conversations
which involve your silences
and their stories,
your copy-paste OKs and their overdose of sorries,
you give them place,
a place in your heart,
whether as a gift of love or a loan of sympathy,
and the problem starts the moment they take it,
they try to make it something of their own,
making you forget the heartbeats you own,
they start coaxing you for more space,
you give them an inch more,
they bargain for square feets,
they nail you on your weak nerves,
even blackmail if it serves.