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 felt a bit of something everyday,
it went on for years,
all i have is outdated feelings,
people, situations and time have outgrown them.
A soul without body ain't a life,
and feelings without expression aren't emotions
Blood drips from the wound as if pain crying in relief
Let me breathe pain,
hold back tides keeping tear wipes plain,
instead gulp those salts to unclog the throat,
if not quench the thirst, it would keep me afloat
Drowned in the notes his fingers were playing,
he got a high from something the ukulele was saying.
A moment he was vibing with the sunset,
as if singing a lullaby to ocean,
on how the moon and sun met.
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
in sleep i dreamt,
in senses i planned,
to see you turn up twisted,
just not going the way i insisted,
tried to figure you out,
by putting pen to paper,
ending up on wrong side of grammar,
sloppy lines, sharp curves,
i often trembled,
as you felt my nerves.
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.
too afraid to Believe its something
failing to bribe alphabets
for a word it means,
beyond logic but in the heart of emotion,