Coloured Stones

Every month I come to Kevin’s grave and put some coloured stones on it. I come the next month on the same date, the 30th to find that the stones are gone. I feel relieved to see that the stones are gone, every month. I dread for the day I see the stones on the same place I had kept, on the grave. The thought itself makes me uneasy, for many reasons.

First, because it would mean, no one cares to come and see him. That no one loves him. Second, I feel ashamed that I’m not able to come to see him every day, and third, that I am getting mad and obsessed. The thought of someone coming and removing them, keeps me sane, as there is someone as obsessed as I am. So I am not the only crazy one around.

I had talked to him the day… I—I’m sorry I can’t revisit it. It tears me apart.

“… that you were loved. You made us so proud…”

I saw his service in a video on Facebook. I wasn't invited on his funeral. She was.

His last girlfriend. She came and gave him a proper send-off. But it didn't matter. They were doing all of this for themselves, not for him. He knew what was, and what wasn't.

I was so scared to go to his grave for the first time. Not because it was dusk, or that, someone would still be there, as it was just the fourth night, but because, I would see the expected, but never imagined future, merge with the present, in form of, mortar and marble.

“…From ashes to ashes, from dust to dust…”

When we remember someone, why do we remember the happy times? It is because, it’s important for our sanity. An excellent marble or beautiful granite as a tombstone is to glorify the emotions. Making it lavish, so that we don’t feel bad, and make ourselves believe that they are in a happy place, metaphorical, as imagined, and literal, as constructed. It is all for us. Our comfort.

I saw her speak as well. I wanted to tell everyone, it was I, not her.

I have a suspicion; she takes all the stones off the tombstones that I put, to make-up for the funeral.

I wish you were alive.

***

I am in love.

I had been in love with this person, for a long time. I was in love, when he was alive.


I have seen things shatter in front of me. I can’t take it. It kills me to see the things which are happening. I wish he was alive. It would have made all the sense there is. I would’ve kept loving, and he would be loved. He is always loved by me, and her. Although I hardly know about him, yet he feels close to me. We are partners in a crime, common crime.


I will see him on the other side.

I remove the stones because I can’t stand the way things have turned out to be. She loves him more, and he loved her more than me.

Yes I remove the stones; for the sake of sanity. For the sake of happiness and sanity, I wish you were alive.

This time, I was late, she was about to come, and I wasn’t done yet.


***

While coming, I realized that it has been a year. No I didn't remember the date, because I just couldn’t. I saw this old man coming out of the graveyard, with this grey bag. He smiled at me, while passing. It was then, it dawned to me that it might not be her, but it could be some of those boys who dwell in the graveyard or this familiar old man too! For who knows, he removes the stones, because he understood my pain?

***


She saw me today. I was late. She saw me picking up the stones, and was surprised to see me. She came to me, we were silent. Then I saw her tears flowing, for the first time, ever.

“Why?” she asked.

It is because I couldn't see her in pain. The first time I met her, I had heard from her about Kevin and her relationship. The next time I met her, she was telling me what had happened. Not how she felt, but what had happened, factually. There was a storm inside her. But she didn’t let it come out.

The only emotions I saw were her big beautiful eyes, welled up with tears, but never coming out. I remember telling her, there are two most beautiful aspects of your face. You smiling lips, which deceive many, save a few, yet the sad eyes, which hinted at a lit up past, but now there is always that shimmer, like wax melting out of the candle.


She often said that she forgets things. I know that she forgets because she wanted to. That she couldn’t keep memories that shattered her to fragments. So in order to escape the pain, she forgets, just like I sleep all the time, when I break-up or when mother had passed away.


The reason I was drawn to her was not because, she was beautiful, well that too, but because, she is exactly like how I am. Well, not physically, but emotionally and mentally. Her thoughts come out exactly like mine do.


***

I did not expect to see him here. I never thought it would be him. I rarely thought about him, yet here he was. It can only mean, he thinks about me, a lot.


I let my emotions out in front of him, because since we had met, he had always had a familiarity about things we talked about. It comes to me now, when I think about it, but he always knew what was going on my mind, yet I failed to see it, because it was natural and came so easily that I didn’t realize, that if there was someone else, in his place, perhaps, things wouldn’t have been so natural.


But he always knew, how I was feeling, just like Kevin did. I now realize, that he behaves, just like me. He feels just like I do, he thinks like I do. How could I not see it?

***

I am in love.

I am in love with her.

I had been in love her, for a long time. I think I have always been in love with her. I was in love with her, when Kevin was alive. I have seen her shatter in front of me; in her poems and in those rare occasions when we met. She never showed it, but I could see. I can’t take it. It kills me to see the things which are happening.

I wish he was alive.

It would have made all the sense there is. I would’ve loved her, and he would have been loved by her.


Kevin is always loved by me, and her. Although I hardly know about him, yet he feels close to me. We are partners in a crime. A crime common to both of us, of loving her, deeply and madly.

When I saw that he was gone, I had cried. I couldn’t sleep for days, because of her, and because of him. I will see him on the other side and tell him about how I failed. I remove the stones because I can’t stand the way things have turned out to be. She is destroying herself. I had made a promise to him that night; that I would take care of her. She loves him more, and he loved her more than me. I my love can’t even begin to compensate, but it can surely make her happy. And him too.

Yes I remove the stones; for the sake of her sanity. For the sake of her happiness and sanity. I know that she won’t be able to bear looking at the stones she places, more than once. I know that it would break her. So I remove them.

I wish you were alive.

But this time, I was late, she came, and I wasn’t done yet.


***

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...