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...