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.
Sometimes there is no plan in place,no goal in sight,
but the journey has to go on.
Sometimes there is no check in place, no one to say right or wrong,
but the job has to be done.
Sometimes there is no outlet to the emotion,no proof of even its existence,
but the shaken heart has to be balmed.
Sometimes there is no shoulder to cry on, no place to hide tears,
but the tides have to be emptied.
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.
seconds are outgrowing minutes,
minutes are distracting hours,
hours are tiring days,
days are reducing months to weekends,
months are forgetting seasons amd stealing years,
years are comsuming your life,ageing you,
you think you can control life with reminders amd alarms
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.
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
Your ideas won't be silenced,
ignore and they would rebel into frustrations,
kill and they would haunt you in dreams,
listen and they would lay their life before you,
act and they would grow with you
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
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.