Notes to the confused self

Be eager, in the monotony

of the day lies a crack that 

only some fathom, others 

rarely see, and some 

pass it by. Take time not 

to injure your solitude with 

the reckless pursuit of 

meaning. Not all that 

passes is worth the distraction, 

not all that arrives is 

worth attention. But look 

you must, reason dawns 

slow, understanding is 

an accumulated bag we 

never see. Sit alone 

and pursue the breaks 

in time, ponder over 

memories and their 

fragile corners, dust your 

inner shelf, let some 

stick in your hands for 

a lingering aftertaste. 

Sometimes drag 

yourself out to the 

cobbled streets and the 

chaos, let the wilderness 

of the city drown you. Attend

to the idle chatter between 

the pauses, listen. You have

arrived at a contradiction, 

begin again. Rewind your 

routes and feel the changing

acceptances of the earth. 

Perceive the openings in 

the doors of perception, 

urge your curiosity to go 

on. 

Evening musings

 Slouched in the easiness of my bean bag I listen to music from far, the rumours of memories faint for a while. The light has gone dimmer, an easy dusk slips through the window and settles on the tip of the coffee table. I switch on the yellow light to enervate the temptation of the evening. A rustling wind comes and plays with the edge of the folded bed, a tiny piece of the night winks at the pillows. The books laid bare still the void in time. I wonder at the 'chronology of water', at the chronic pauses that lovers leave in their conversation. Will you again come and paint the words for me? You were good with colours, now the house looks bare, the posters lying astray waiting for caring hands, the empty walls wait in expectation, they give me the quizzical look of the woman wanting to speak at a bus stop to kill time, to share the burden of waiting. But I hear only faint rumblings in a foreign tongue, I listen deep to decipher the words, but understanding has gone missing. I accept my failure, affirm my ephemerality, and bind myself to the waiting for things to dawn on me. How long? 

Untitled

We wondered whether we could push 

through the dusky silence of the mountains,

an old song stabs at the corners of the evening.

In the folds of the hills we read our fault lines. 

Desires, like distant echoes, ebbed and flowed

like a dead melody over the vast expanse 

of emptiness

Its time that returns are planned, some bags are packed, 

some silences affirmed.

Its time for the awe of wonder to dig deep within.

Its time that the eyes see, accept the 

changing proclamations of time

The disappearance of words

And suddenly it meant nothing, he had seen the dust settle on the letters. This was a disappearance he had always feared, not the disappearance of the lost or of the longing, but the disappearance of the things near, things that stop speaking, things that turn dust long before their expiry date. He did not know that words expired too, that they died when touched with brittle hands, for they are long ensconced in our desires and memories, that they stop teasing us the moment we are far from our longing. He wanted to scribble it all on the letters, make a note of their dates, and the time when they arrived, and his feelings with them. But he was tired of a waiting that never ends, it was his tirade against time and hope that had crippled him and made him their slave.