“Change is like the water slipping in through the tunnels to the fields, without change there ain’t going to be any harvest!”
The parchment and the blank space shall absorb all my postulated negativity..
And the smears of hope… Maybe it shall sing me a new song..anew answer..
With such an endeavoring wish tucked in my self.. Proceed I..
And smother I, it with my blunt words and purposeless thoughts..
Have I everything I need? And what is it I need and for what?
Have the people I love been cajoled yet? Cajoled by the time spent to stay on..
Why is acceptance a need, a need- so very binding?
Oh my… what if she gets what could be mine…
what if he takes away the spoon that could be mine..
To what end must it serve? to what end does need serve?
To need is to survive and to survive is to need, ain’t it?
Is what I own in me.. a shadow of what the other own?
Ought I to be better and different?
Is my ego to be grow on hedges and fence my crisscross ways?
Or must it slumber below..knead itself?
Has my own shadow darkened by heart?
Must my reflection in the eyes of the world be firmer…
Be colored in ways my self has not encapsulated…
Am I to be a master of my ego.. Or am I to be a servant?
To master it, ain’t it the same as to serve it?
Must I hide my faults.. must I smuggle the protruding black jewels into a dark corner..
Or must I smack it with laughter..
Why is beauty so well carved by symmetrical terms..
by eyes serving the proposed norms…
why is beauty such a need.. why is beauty so well sculpted in forms so well pruned.
Why must my beauty be compared and scripted and marked..
why must I serve a servitude to these very engraved thoughts…
To needs.. to pertinence with this humming civilization..
To be free from self.. free from want.. from desire…
Ohh how sumptuous..how freeing.. how embezzling is the thought of
“triumph over self”..
Ohhh..But how ensnaring to be turning in this cocoon of self..
but to reach no purposeful end.. desiring to be free from self.. and yet reaching nowhere..
Where must the mind land? Where must it traverse to?
It must speak for itself to rise and draw on the versatile goodness of fate…
It wishes to grapple in the light just as it does in the dark..
Must it bow, must it be, must it take flight? And in direction ??
Now it speaks a mingled concoction of crookedly woven thoughts..
Ain’t there enough food on the streets to feed this epidemic of scarcity?
Ain’t there enough love in your heart to heal all the hurt?
Ain’t there enough dust settling on the blood to awaken the heartless with its stench?
There are ghastly streets, rotten drunkards, thirsty for more,
There is enough monsterity to hope for a shower of hailing empathy..
A desperate need to be rescued from depths of such self destruction..
Was man born only to rinse swords in tears..
Do those who suffer only remember of the ways to inflict?
The wars of despondency, a continuum of repulsive deeds ,
As human strides round and beneath..away from its naive beginning..
Representing the darkness mounted beneath the sheath of our existence..
For words to leave the bindings and reveal the intentions of the mind..
The heart must pace with the subtly settling, unknowingly induced pain..
Settling pain is unsettling, unnerving, ain’t it?
In wars, how must the heart clamber out to help itself?
Is life a war? In ways it strives to derive the worth of time..
An urgency to grope for what is and isn’t yours,
What exists, just tumbling and rising on pillars of man’s uncertain designs..
A struggle to win hearts.. A struggle pacify the reflections in others..
A desire to be owned , A desire to own..
The wry ways of this human embodiment..
Darn the pain.. Darn the seemingly sodden truth..
Must I say something nice? I shall..
Heart must clot its wounds…
The man, must keep on keepin on..
And the light shall reach you as it stretches across to save us all..
Maybe there is love, hidden at the corners of your eye..
Maybe there is love, trembling to be undone on the ridge of your lids..
Maybe there is love in the hearts of the diseased.. maybe it will be find the hope..
And we shall smile in unison.. as plainly as the child does.. without reason..
In supple ways, maybe light will find all of us.
Etching Patterns of thoughts on the papyrus of our mundane lives..
Designs we croon into the ear of our twin incarnation..
Curved stretches curbing across the mounts..the will, the wish..
Binding with the harsh breath..mellow at times.. juggling at times..
Strolling across to plot a breathless life..
Stumble over potholes dug by our own soles, Hasn’t thee rolled over, traced back, and strutted along then?
Yet the path of etched drawls back and forth scuttering on..
Inking on.. smug.. or giggly.. dreadful or greedy.. smiling through the blots of ink..
In hope in faith.. for trusting to be bound by fate.. we etch on..
A kind samaritan spinning the fate.. whispering incantations to string fate to wish..
A mildly fulfilled soul springs along.. sketching butterflies..
And yet then. droplets of pain blotch the ink just along the curve..
Words lack depth one might say.. as the heart fails to siphon strings of syllables
Wishing to only tell stories of memorable cons, fortitudes.. innocence and love..
How often has thy samaritan hidden in the cave of doubt?
How often does thee ponder of ways to escape the designs?
Trapped in thy own breath, memories and desires..?
Or did the benign fisherman row thee across?
I think he did.. didn’t he?
Anew bridge..anew sketch..
Anew binding of faith and fate..as thee etches on..
P.S- Random thoughts, random sketch as I try to drown myself in something mundane.
What can smuggle you across the shores of bitterness?
What can save thee from retreating in the dungeons of your self loathing?
What has shoveled self loathing into thy heart?
Who has? Friend or foe?
Why those angles of view are so primly defined as beauty?
Why the obsession over one beauty….?
As it shadows, dulls beauty of much more?
Why one beauty is so loved and the other so ignored in a manner so narcissistic?
Why the layers of forms and norms… texture and light only portrayed as mausoleums of beauty..
None are though to do with depth.. none to do with her airs.. none to do with tugs of heart..
All engulfed in the nuisances of a well designed beauty..
The ensemble of emotions…crushed paper of words..
All crushed and torn… crumpled in the disguised lump of memories..
Neither is valued.. the true self nor the earnestly showered love..
Where is the reality?
Where is the love for love?
Where are the forms of gratitude?
How did beauty in this world born from womb .. dissolve into such frail existence…
Where is the child in you?
Where is the child in me?
What can smuggle you across the shores of blind indulgence and bitterness?
Innocence… it can save thee as it can save me…
May it rescue of our kind from drowning the self in the untrue designs..
May innocence salvage thee in its own womb..
Dreams fade away..
Repressed beneath the cocaine like pain..
Pain from the trysts with betrayal..
Lines of fate branched into multiple stinging paths..
Which one would you choose?
When Dreams have faded.. path has been fenced with loneliness..
Friends you once thought forever…
Are waiting to loose you..
Ohh..The ways love’s betrayal swaddles thee…
Words once muttered in earnest…
Were only junctions in the web of distrust..
Camouflage muttered, instincts altered…
Only to save their day trampling on thy sorrows..
Foreboding thee to feel..
Negligence of thy states of being..
As though thee was a bothersome morsel loitering in the corners of their presence..
They make you scream inwards… these friends..
I hope thy path never crosses with one of them..
Each one has a story to tell… Aaah, such an unremarkable and a predictable beginning to a write up, ain’t it? But you see, its true even the simplest lives have innumerable of ways of depicting themselves. The simplest lives, the most monotonous one..the most monochromatic one could have elements that in conjuncture develop into a phenomena that can be more a complicated one . Or, maybe its perception is so ordinary that we beings who are awake only in a way would hardly notice.
Every story has an ache attached to it. Each story- a contracting and expanding plane, plane of time and memory.
Such pictures painted in red and maroon, highlights of paleness, violence lingering, dominating, a net of undesirable desires, a multitude of rare fortitude and neglected battles, ignored bruises. Hardly an ache without beauty of such sullen pain, beauty of hopeful eyes, nurtured heart, innocence braving, a survival of beauty through it all…
Some find a good ear, an attentive mind to listen, some crawl neglected in the caves of their own loneliness. Story teller, writers, weavers who knit stories for the keen eyed, mild-hearted, Imaginative minded beings. Aren’t they all, aren’t all the beings a little desperate to tell their story? Some tell yours, some tell their own.. yet a part of them explained through it, strewn across the pages, wandering with palms outstretched…leaning to draw you in..embezzling you in to feel them, feel their life…fight the wars they do -with them… see them in those words, in those colors..
The people in their stories.. have a epilogue and preface of their own.. might you heed their emoting eyes, actions and words.. might another story be told about them… For none deserves to disappear without a mark..
Each one hopes for thy own story to be heard… even the observer, the detached objective being, wants to reach you… if only you as a human could promise to hear him… accept him… fear not what you know not… simply feel as you must..
Hope the stories are heard.. hope the aches subside.. hope thy own.. as my own words, thy friends as my friend’s stories reaches thee.. and you listen.. listen with eyes,mind and heart.
Who dwells in their own head?
I do.. I do..
I live there with a man of dispiriting affections..
Broth of hatred.. froth of nonchalant love..
Rebelling against my rationale.. Again which is mine and which is his?
Life seems spent at war with love…
Which emotion is not to be felt?
I ain’t following a parchment of archaic laws…
Written and misspelled by all engrossed in a deep desperation of a kind..
Desire to be remembered… desire to be embraced.. Desire to be discovered..
Desire to be designed upon.. embarked into.. a journey from soul into a another..
Desire to appraised with condiments… tokens from one soul to another..
Who… which monk.. which teacher.. which bud..which man or women…
Can surpass the need to live.. need to be, to find which has not been found within..
And the need to feign control..
To him who I love.. who I have loved.. I can love..
I have found not the meaning of it..
I will always bless thee… find thee in my memories… search for thy love..
I hope.. this day.. the gulf of resentment has cleansed as much as it has left my heart..
Apologies I render.. and hope I shall find thee again.. in life.. in love.. in my heart..
And the man who fights with rationale.. in my head..shall always loose..
For rationale.. feigns control..
An incomplete drama of scribbled words.. this shall be..
For none can unfold the unrest of love and desires..
The conundrum of what to be.. who to be.. to succumb..
Or to succumb again.. just, to which…. ?
Touch and walk away..
The sound of thy heart beating so close..
The memory of your touch so fresh..
And yet you walk away.. one step at a time..
The sound of your breath dimmer..
Oh dear friend.. are you in pain?
So am I..
I pondered if you knew how I glowed when you brushed past me..
And yet you left me bereft at the cross roads..
Wanting.. failing.. simmering with pain..
Touch is powerful..
It ignites pain as much as it heals..
you healed and now gone is your desire..is your love..
A mere shadow lingering.. at the corners of our companionship.
I am not much.. only human..
Are you in pain?
So am I..
Pain I can spell with tears after dark..
The moon takes me to you..
And so do the cold winds..
As the hands clasped.. flesh smelted in together..
You touch and walk away..
Are you in pain…her’s?
So am I…. in yours..
To stare into the day and wonder what one is going to get..
“Am I giving enough love to get back a little more?”
Nature by itself serves.. mingles within itself to prosper..
The particles.. the morsels.. the humming bird and the still leaves..
one for the other.. without question…
Maybe man’s nature is a complex addendum of each of nature’s phenomena..
The heat of the infinite light sucking away the droplets..
The shades solace.. the trees..what do they take away?
Born from death.. born from pain and sweat..?
Man’s love is a ray of light distracting through the planes of a prism..
The multifarious light darkening and lightning the life.. the soul..
The draining pain peeling away the layers of self preservation..
Breathing hazy turning blue..
The red of blush when rarely glistens the pale skin..does it now?
Its only a fantasy….an illusion that dawned in another love year ago..
She craves for the blossom of soft nourish.. a fond touch..
A clambering passion.. hinging on to time.. ravishing each moment..
Each passing instant reminding the two of dusk that could stray the two apart..
Blooming of want in his eyes..a hunger for solace in her arms..
“Its been a life..it seems a life.. since I have felt love that could borrow me from time..”
Steal her life.. rob her soul of any doubt.. any treason that life could commit..
Its been life my friend since love sought her.. a love that warrants the name of love..
The friction and wave and sway of it. the darkening and breathless sorrow of it..
Its been mind numbing pain.. its been life sans innocence.. sans rest..
Just treason.. so was that love? And is this love? Again which pain is love and which isn’t?
Which shade of love do I believe.. which shade of love must I forgo?
Pic credits: Google
In moments when the haunting murmurs in you heart spurn…
Tunnel through the dark passages..
Blood runs cold.. And the heat swirls in your head..
In moments when love feels like pain..
And pain like love..
Who has your breath in a hitch..
Who is thy master? Thy self? Thy trampled heart, trembling nerves…
Which side of the sun are you on?
The cold night or the scorching blow of highland heat waves?
Where do you look to? In whose words do you find solace..
Which side of that man must you dwell with?
Which face of the man must you love.. And must you decipher.. Must you lie to yourself of?
There is the growling animal and there is the swooning dove.. Both within one..
Both tied into one… Which do you see? Which do you love?
The questions, the whys and the why nots..
Should be.. Could be.. Wouldn’t be…
The becoming we are all taught..
The love we are taught to see..
Aren’t we tangled and knotted in love with idea of it..
I detest love.. As much as I crave it..
I disbelieve thee.. As much as I see it..
And yet the nuisance of pain.. It speaks only of love..
As though it croons for thirst.. The elusive love..
It’s pain in love.. And it’s pain “in love”