In the Abandoned bookshelf

A part of me is lost in words.

Maybe it isn't lost at all, just undiscovered.

But before I become the jaded afterglow of an aura that was, I’d like to read me. In a library I know not of, in a book I hope exists.

The most elusive piece of my construct patiently awaits that sentence which would define me, awaits those hands which hold this book open and eyes which read more than just words.

I’m a noise, a nuisance, a charade, a hardbound covered in dust to the aloof passer-by or I’m just that ‘something’ you'd get when you subtract the wail from a cry.

I’m tranquilized silence longing to be heard, in a world which has gone deaf.

Dark coffee

Let’s sip that storm out of our coffees. Sit gently on that porch and enjoy the view. The sea inside is swell, should that stop us from loving?

Let graciousness show on our faces. We can lie comfortably now, we've been been together for too long. 

There is a knock on the door, we listen but we don’t. Rocking menacingly in our chairs, plaguing the air. The same air we once breathed into each other.

The wooden armrest bears scratches of our nails, traced violently while trading sweet nothings.

“Beautiful” she stated.

“Indeed”, he answered, looking at the armrest, then at the view.

“You mean the view, right?” He asked

“Ofcourse”, she smiled without looking at him.

“It’s getting dark”, he murmured.

“Open your eyes”, she quipped.

I meant us!

“Oh!” She let it go.

More coffee?

Yes please.

Magic

 

The rain brings out the solitude. Solitude brings out the wanderer.

The wanderer searches for what it does not know.

A longing arises from the unknowing. That longing is you.

Now look what you did, oh stupid rain you!

I wouldn't blame you for not believing in magic,

for magic is believing the unknown.

But allow me to walk you through that fleeting moment,

when the ephemeral raindrops caress your cheeks,

and as they do, the thought of me runs through your heart.

Magic.

Patta patta zindagi

Patta patta zindagi, bilakti si hui jo shuru

uss ped, uss maa ke aanchal main pali

dar dar ke rone main guzri, chhoti si zindagi hi to hai.

Hawao ke aane se khilkhila uthi thi jo

aandhiyo ki lapto main kapkapa rhi thi jo

chhoti si hi sahi, par zindagi to hai.

Pakde rhe jo haath, wo chhod nikal jaane ko

bilbila rahi zabano pe, dard ki baahon main 

khushi ki kilkaariyon main lipti

Teri meri zindagi hi to hai.

Toot ke ud gye jo khwaahisho ke dum se

Aasmaan chhoo lene ke armaano main uljhi

murjhaye hue unn palo main simti

tarasti tadapti, khamosh si zindagi ho to hai.

Raaton ki khamoshi main, din ke ujaalo main

Girti uthti kisi mod pe padi, uss aagaaz se iss anjaam tak

tere meri zindagi hi to hai.

A Beautiful Chaos

A life in linear begs for chaos. Discounting those who find fascination in symmetry, it is the enthrallment of a chaos that rests deep within like a jack in the box, springing an inevitable surprise in the argument with the self. Some are bound by their selves to follow the pattern and live the lines while others roll the dice. There’s a maniac in all of us that waits and smiles and wants things to go haywire, just to know how things pan out. 

Open, twisted, up-to-no-good-shoe-laces that draw out the thinker in us or the wild winding roads promising you a ticket to nowhere. Nowhere, a destination we hope exists. 

Chaos calls you out and the allure of being lost is a spell in itself. Lost not just in the way, but in your own self and the surroundings. You don’t want to know where you are. The cacophony becomes a symphony, the bustle of the streets almost an orchestra and the noises in your head start singing that tune you love. How amazing it is to be lost and not found.

To be lost and not found. To camouflage and merge. To explode and go unnoticed. Chaos makes you special. The pieces of a jigsaw seem more appealing when not arranged in order. In your head you’ve imagined countless other ways in which it can be arranged. Why make sense when you can paint a beautiful chaos?

Do not reason with chaos. Not that it wants or needs a reason, especially when you’re in it. Move aimlessly, move awkward, be awkward, be you, be someone else. Decolonize your senses and make home in the bedlam. Romance the mayhem and break the sermons into concoctions that only you know of. 

Do you know of that feeling when you fall into rapid waters, almost drowning yourself and then emerging from it? Panic is not it. Relief is not it. Rediscover. That’s it.

The hungry soul

Sought what, not it knew, one above, the other below. 

A hunger born from the shadows of your silence, in the often listless gazes and the echoing sighs. It falls short of transforming into words as it reaches your lips and dissolves into a smile. What is that hunger? Why the smile? 
 

You had evolved to look past those stained glasses, deep into the clarity that lay ahead. The smile came across every-time you managed to look at those stains and make them invisible. You couldn’t bear that smile. You knew what it meant, the stained glass and the paint scratched across its face. It stood for those thoughts that put you at peace and injected insomnia into your veins at the same time. The hunger can be forgotten, but the pangs are a terrible reminder.

And then…

You had turned your back to the world and yet longed for it through the dirty glass. You went back to it when there was need and filling up the vessel from the well that was the world. Satiated in a few sips, you turned your back again. Those restless feet had taken you to places unknown, sometimes wanted and unwanted, sometimes unwarranted but none filled you as much. This emptiness reminded you that a thought is a terrible master and the mind a submissive slave. <smirks>

An unsure mind begets a hunger, one that neither your heart nor your soul can contain or comprehend. Yet it exists, like that proverbial hole in the belly that just wouldn’t fill up. The challenge of filling up that endless pit, for the mind is hard to please. But is it?

Sought what, now you knew…  

The mind and that thing you call your soul are designed to defend a thought which is your own. Guiding your ship through the unstable seas, these thoughts are the stars that fill your night sky. You chase them, but now you know why. Sometimes all that the hungry soul needs, is the chase and sometimes finds satisfaction in the kill.

The soul shall never find a permanent home for it is meant to travel, through one body to another and from only life to another. You, for whatever time you plan to remain shall be a vessel to this hungry soul. A moment no matter how profound, cannot fill it in full.

This hunger is your fuel. Satisfaction, tiny bursts of joy. The hunt, your life.

Go chase that smoke somewhere

Go chase that smoke somewhere.

It will, if you shall ask me

lead you to yonder.

Where the horizon inside you

finds a companion.

Your hands shall embrace your heart

feeling it breathe, 

like you imagined it would.

Rise with that smoke, twirl.

The leaf, your body

lighter than your soul.

That light, smooth as silk,

let it caress you.

Your toes let them breathe too,

and break the tangent you call life.

Reach out, but I promise you

this smoke, 

as earthly as it is mystical,

is neither a lure, nor a mirage.

Rather a string that pulls you,

Chaotic yet rhythmic, this trance,

a majestic mesmerizing dance.

Neither are you a slave,

nor it your master.

Nothing it can give, but you

nothing you can gain, but you.

These senses like manacles

imprison your soul.

Rise above, rise beyond

and you shall learn to let go.

Go chase that smoke somewhere.