The Beetle that Haunts Me

I can’t see it right now.

But as soon as I switch-off the lights,

It comes to life.

It looks strange in the dark swirls of smoke.

It startles me every time it is visible.

A chill runs up my spine.

Oh it’s nine!

Now it will be dark again.

It was creeping on the walls last night.

Leaving a blur; like a trail of darkness.

There is a colour; or a sign of madness.

I lie on the bed, dreading that it would tread on me.

I hold my breath, and wish for a cold breeze.

What is this sinister creature you ask?

Some call it a Firefly, I call it memories.

It lights up to ignite my thoughts,

And then disappears for a while.

And just when I am used to the darkness...

It lights up again.

The period of the beetle’s extinguished state is

More than its visible.

As if, it knows what I fear when that happens.

Everytime.

It lights up.

Extinguishes.

Ligh-…

  

Literal Abstracts

It’s an abstract.

Like the two random objects,

In the opposite ends,

Of a painting,

On the wall of the gallery.

Two unrelated objects, which look alike.

Let’s say, a Salt Shaker and a pepper shaker.

There are other objects in the painting as well,

But mostly on the right side of the painting.

That side has been painted by brighter colours.

Some, in fluorescent colours. Like neon.

The pepper shaker is on the left.

Just left. 

The pepper shaker wants to be placed with the Salt Shaker.

But, the painter drew them separately.

Perhaps, purposefully, to take out the art out of the pain.

Or perhaps, he didn't realize, he was painting a pair.

The two can never come together, as it is evident.

But I will tell you a secret.

There are times when they are together, or perhaps not.

When the painting goes for maintenance, it is rolled together.

That’s when the two come together.

Or not? For who can see between the folds.

But that is abstract too.

The Pepper shaker knows.

He can feel the Salt shaker ‘s presence above Her.

She is always above Her. That’s another problem.

As he can see Her but She can’t see him, below Her,

Looking at Her, just for the sake of looking, 

Or Love?

But they are separated again,

To enhance the beauty of the painting.

But who knows what happened,

After it is opened,

And left to be observed?

Only the pepper shaker knows,

As he can smell Her spirit.

And can see the whiteness of the Salt,

Of the Salt Shaker.

Only he can see the minute grains of Salt.

Not the objects painted beside Her,

As they fall adjacent to her,

On the flat canvas.

Not even observers, as they are really minute.

It’s just him.

And no one else.

He has been the closest to Her.

But no one knows.

Not even Her.

Things cant be more literal than this.

But it is all abstract.

There is no Salt Shaker,

No pepper shaker,

No Objects,

No Canvas,

No Gallery,

No Painter.

Just me.

Thinking.

And Her.

Who IS.

But is Her?

Is me?

There is nothing.

But is nothing there?

Or perhaps…

***

Colours & Ink

I wish to see You forming letters, more often than You do,
Trace the dissolving colours, with drops of purple and blue.
I see you using white to hide, a spot which you thought didn't fit,
I wish you wrote a bit -a piece and bit your tongue to change it.
The change wouldn't act as a mark you see, for the choice of words you made;
The white would act as the veil to hide, the feelings you just laid.


The reason I want you to sing is to let your feelings flow,
To bring you to, the winters where the chills are born of snow.
I know that its summer, the air is dead the spirit is dormant somewhere;
So, paint your words and sing your dreams and wake the spirit in the air.

Run to the place where you belong and take me with you,
Lets find that soul of winter with the familiar song and hue.
The reason for the wish I made is to see the hues of your mood;
It's a way to stay bit close to you in-spite the bodily interlude.

#1

It has been some time since I wanted to do this. It’s just strange that I chose this night to do so.  There had come a time where I had made up my mind about my first blog-post in prose. I had many things to say. I don’t remember most of them right now. It was a few months ago. 

It has been a while, since some friends of mine have been asking me, why I don’t write in prose? I have never been able to explain them that, prose, sometimes are too saturated and sometimes too inadequate for me to express. I can’t take my liberties.

I’m not saying that it is easy to interpret, all I’m saying is it is too hard to be cryptic in a prose, because often the previous line gives birth to the next one. The thought pushes out another thought which matures into a complete idea.

 It thus creates a chain which one can deduce from one point to the other.  For me it is too chaotic a symmetry. I had been reading a few pieces in prose, recently, which were disguised poetry. I have also seen cases, vice-versa.

When I was in school, I hated reading poems. The first thing that I used to do when my new set of course books used to arrive was to read all the stories and leave all the poems. This habit of mine resembled another habit, where I used to eat all the cashews and leaving out all the raisins. I still do it. In fact the first piece that I had ever written was a short story, which, I’d like to put up in a while. 

The first poem that I had written was I was in the 11^th standard and my English teacher had insisted me to write a poem for the school magazine. I had written the poem quite hastily. But it is still one of my favourite poems.  

I have not been neglecting prose. I just thought that through poetry I can say whatever I feel in a more cryptic manner. Through poetry I can put my thoughts open to interpretations.  

To be honest I was scared of writing in prose.  I AM scared of writing in prose. My hands were shivering when I started writing this post. They are a lot calmer now.  I knew that if I start writing in prose, I will start to mirror my emotions and views quite blatantly. In poetry I could just say something and then hope (read pray) people would interpret it differently. Obviously I failed.

It is hard to present the hidden words literally. It feels naked. But I figured that all of us are always naked. All the time. Wearing cloths and hiding thoughts don’t make us Not-Naked. The others always know it’s hidden out there. Some choose to ignore it. But at times, in spite of the diffidence, you wish they could see you. They do, and they don’t.  

Anyway, I chose to write prose was for a specific reason. With the recent turn of events, I just had to write in prose. It was necessary. The reason would soon be known.

Sense

It gets quite quiet, at times.

Not the quietness which one wants.

The quietness that comes without a choice.

What happens when one gets what they choose?

Then they do the same, taking breaks at their own will.

But will the Will listen?

Listen.




Look, i understand speaking might hurt.

Thinking happens even when you think of not thinking.

Writing might hurt; typing might too.

Painting might need Colours.

Colours.




But, BEING won't.

You just have to exist.

And not just a picture in my mind.

Which is not even sure what is real and what's not.

But it turns out, that its slowly making me wonder.

How wonderfully were You imagined in my mind.

Mind.

That the time became the brushstroke, and the pixels.

And if they wanted to turn a bit more subtle.

Metaphors.

The strangest part is, that every word, painting,

and the answer:-: to the question of something existing,

Becomes real.

With just a Touch.

Touch.

Washing It Down

The anxiety, the silence.
Anxiety wears off with the wait.
Silence remains.
I'm happy that it didn't happen.
Because now i feel good about one thing.
You will never be able to know what might have been.
A moment which was meant to be shared.
But the glutton in me!
i have it all by my self. No one else can ever have it.
Ever.

It is mine.
Because it is just me.
And i take it all.
And savour it portion by portion.
Morsel by morsel.
Drop by Drop.
And vapours.
Blue. Mind You.
Till sunrise, and sunset.
And summers and winters.

i'm really hungry but i'm full.
i am just chewing the cud.
Which i conjured out of nowhere.
Perhaps, from somewhere...
From You.

And i chew...
i realise,
its glue.
and i chew...
and its You...
But You're not true.
Yet i chew.
(May i get the check please?)
and i go out, yet i chew... and i chew...

You and i?

You are not some lost artefact, You are a Phoenix.
What is a Phoenix?
A Phoenix is the metaphor of time.
You, You are time.
You will be born again.
Even when You think you can't.
Its how you are, Majestic, Beautiful, containing a soul which is eternal.
i bow down to You.
Yet, i think you deserve much more.
Something which is beyond words and reason.
Only one comes to my mind.
Love.
That's all i have, and its plenty.
So rise, smile, brush your ashes.
Keep them safe in your pocket though, for they are precious.
They are a part of you.
Let's take a walk.
You and i? 

(You, what a You! Even its i, yet something only Love.
That's all, so Keep them. They let You and i?)

Water Memory

Do You see those drops falling?

Each drop of water that falls on Your skin has tales to tell.

Each swig of the drink You take; taste, or no taste, has moments.
Water retains memories.

  

 Hence each time You see rain falling,

Each time You share a drink,

Each time You drink water, sharing that glass,

You share a part of the memory.

You wouldn't realise.

But it takes a place in Your head.

Memories of Centuries.

Memories of moments.

Memories of the moments past.

Memories of present.

It is absorbing a part of You as we breathe. 
It’s good that You live here, and we've shared a drink.

Perhaps that's the reason, a part of You lives in me,

And You wouldn’t realise, a part of mine in Yours.

It is neutral, it is transparent.

Because it is so opaque, with memories that You won’t be able to see.

They say that a kiss can transfer a bit of You in the other.

Who knows why?

Water memories, watermarks and watercolours.

What are waters?

They are eternal. I swear.

Imagine, water goes up and precipitates, for millennia.

Ancient water.

Water sipped in unison, they speak.
Water fallen on the paper.

Water kissed from the cheeks.

Water absorbed from the other's body.

Watery eyes.

Ever imagined saline water that runs in tears and in oceans.

We are almost water.

So is most of the Earth.

Uncountable memories.

Countable instances.

Memories make Us, most of Us.

Memories lead to love, to procreation and it doesn't end there.

Memories conjure water too and water conjures memories.

Drop by drop.

They fall like drops of You and i.

Drops of us.

Dropped through Us.

On Us.

In Us.

Us.

The Senseless Dream Of Reality: Made To Sense

Its time.
I think its getting nearer, whatever it will be... whatever it is...
closer.
Much closer than we (You and i) think.
I can feel it.
I could always feel it.
But its coming closer and getting clearer now.
Whatever it is... whatever it will be.
I can't seem to see it, but I have always loved to imagine.
I had always imagined.


But if imagination exists, so do the imagined.
I had always known that they could fly.
Or perhaps I had dreamt that they could.
But I had always known.
If we can see something and so can others, we believe it exists.
That's the idea, isn't it?
I could see them even before you said it.
Perhaps that's why I got it the first time you said it.
Perhaps you just said it but didn't know.
Perhaps you didn't know but you could feel it, without thinking you did.
Perhaps you still don't know.
But even if you don't, I DO. Yes I do.


I'm not saying I'm a psychic, nor a superlative of human.
On the contrary, I'm lesser than that.
I'm reduced physically.
I'm slowly being converted into a dream.
A dream that exists in my mind.
But the reason of my whole being, dreams about it.
Hence, I'm nothing but that constant thought, constant speculation, constant wish.. constant vision personified.
A singular. Less than a singular.
(If that is possible.)


Perhaps you will deny.
Perhaps you would try to fail to see it.
Yes, try. Because you could see it if you wanted it.
Or you can.
Like the Dursleys did. Dancing in denial.
Like Peter Pan couldn't see the food in "Hook".
At first he could't, rather he wouldn't.
Both stories are mirrors of each others.
Dursleys knew but wouldn't.
Peter Pan didn't but he would.
I don't know what would you choose.
But I can see it.
I've lived it even before 'the happening' happens.
I'm just trying to match it with the existence.
Not in the dreams, but they are existent out there too.
Very much existent.
I just want to feel it with my sense organs which will record it to my mind.
Rather than recording in my mind before actually using my sense organs.
.

It has been done already though, many times, in my mind, in my dreams
Or in real, perhaps. I can't tell which is which.
But it doesn't quench the speculations.
And the Love, as it feels better if it goes reverse.
Although its all in the mind. Yours and mine.
I just want the minds to combine.
As always, I want us to rhyme.
Our co-incidental matches read out The Sign
But you still can't hear it? See it?
Yes you can.
So I want our clockwork to wind.
And make it work in reverse, for a change.
But you still don't realise. Perhaps.


But I know its coming near.
I have no idea what is.
But it is.
Perhaps I knew and you know now.
Perhaps I know and knew it all along.


(Is it a flower that I see?
But I wouldn't know till its near.
As I can't use my senses to check.
But I think I can already do.
Its perhaps my other sense.
Hope it makes sense.
If it doesn't; I wish, it creates some)

Surrexistal

Yesterday I die. Yes I die.

Wait till yesterday, and you'll see.

But I doubt you would wait till yesterday, as you can't remember what happened tomorrow.

I don't remember it either, but sometimes like a faint picture in a frame, plays in my mind like chocolates taste.

I'm scared of being born. I've been scared of being born since the day I was dead.

I remember, I was looking for my dentures in the graveyard, and I saw a seedling, and I laughed.

I ran away from her, sat in a corner, and laughed as I was brave. Brave to the point I was still.

Like a statue, or was I shaking? Because when you are Brave, you shake, when you are daring, you stay still.

But let's not get into the future. Dwelling in future has done no good.

So yesterday I die, I just wish you don't come and don't laugh.

I hate you SO much I'll forget you, till I take my first breath.

But till I die, I'll still look for the dentures, as I'm still without a tooth.

And you without a body.

Welcome Dream, I bid welcome.

Echoing An Eternal Buzz

For he was a petal, what was he? He was just a part of the flower. For he was just a brick, what was he? Just sandwiched between; for the tower. When he was born, died he know what species was he? Why then he cried, when he came out of the womb, wasn't he free? But then, one petal lost, was rejected by the bouquet maker. One brick, killed a man, was thrown in the mass, by a hater. What changed? Who knew? Who made our thoughts? Who loved? Who lived? Who fed the one who rots? How thoughts come in the brain? Who moves, the trees or the train? How much can be called "some"? How big can be a crumb? Who makes the rules? Who decides we are clever or fools? Who divides ammo from tools? Who. And why? And how could it think? When we don't even realse, when we blink. Its all fickle, you're all insane. Its all a mirage, its just me, and my game. You don't exist, no one does. Its all in my mind, like an eternal buzz...

The End… The Wait…The Beginning. - Memoir Of an Earthen Goblet

There lies an earthen goblet,

By the window-sill.

 Its body cracked and colour tarnished,

With saline water in his fill;

The rain waters and salt has punctured his body

 which was once polished and whole,

But look at him now, colourless…

Pitch black, as if without a soul.

The goblet lies idle , retracing its past,

The end of his life, he thought,

The end, the very last;

In his heart, the depth, there lies a mark,

And he goes back to the day,

The beginning, when it went-all-dark…

The End

It was a blackout that day,

The whole house was tucked in darkness.

Like a prophecy, to warn him,

 of his future starkness.

But there came LIGHT! In the shape of a small flaming candle.

His master has chosen the Goblet for it to handle.

He poured some wax  at the center where the patch now lies;

And sealed the candle to the Goblet, in a bond that ties.

The love then started and he felt the warmth of the candle and her glowing face;

Its flame which was poised and was shimmering, full of grace.

She melted and her flames spread the glow,

And the Goblet thought she was bonding.

But little did he know, she was getting depleted with time, and so was their love.

His body cracked with the heat but he focused what was above.

And then the inevitable came, the flame started flickering…

The fumes blackened his body and the wax started cluttering…

And then the flame vanished all of a sudden.

POOF! It was gone! Leaving a layer of wax which couldn’t ne removed.

Her skeleton, her ashes lay in the form of a burnt wick.

Inside the crack, which left him sick.

His master had then scraped out her torso which he was hugging

And then it  put some salt and started scrubbing.

THE WAIT

But the ashes just won’t go off…

So he left it on the window-sill.

The Goblet remained there, 

earthed and still.

His thoughts came back to the present by the click of the doorknob.

His master had returned from its job.

He saw that master was holding a small bonsai plant in its hand.

Its saplings light green, clustered with sand.

Master picked up the tattered Goblet ,

Put some mud and fixed the fresh sapling it it,

The cracks were soon sealed by the root, it was a perfect fit.

  

Two became none, then two became one.

They grew into a Universe, into  nothingness.

There was everything and there was void.

They wrapped themselves and a touch was shared.

That eternal touch which didn't move… It was there.

(Epilogue)
He fell in love again… and it stayed.
They grew with each other, did not diminish.
Stories don’t need an ending,
Because life, love and infinity has no finish.