Tuesday, July 19, 2016

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 

Sunday, July 17, 2016

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? 


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

Sunday, July 3, 2016

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.