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.