Memento

Memory can free you sometimes. It's a tricky monster.

Here you are trying rigorously to walk out of a long gone love. Yearning for mighty consolation, anything. Anything at all. That could explain. In a quiet couple words, the rationale within the heart ache. Because you remember all the good stuff that love had gotten you.

Sometimes bad memory outlives good memory. But this time, good memory had erroneously outlived the bad one. As luck would have it. The heart cribs. And shrinks. Puts up ugly questions.

Then, one night, you are falling asleep. Exactly half way between being awake beginning to dream, your mind twitches, it unearths a painfull memory. Something you had subconsciously hidden, erased. And it's like God is peeking at you. Reason finds its rightful place. You feel lucky. Safe. Even, probably happy. Memory is one tricky monster.

True Calling

[22:17, 05/02/2015] dnm~: You don't answer, or judge me. Just listen. I look back at myself from the future and I am afraid I will fill with regret. For the person I am becoming. So devoid of ambitions. Or any will power. I am postponing things at some pretext or the other. I will get to that later I tell myself. It's a better job or a better city.. I just keep saying tomorrow. I am afraid I will never start. I saw a kid drive in a Mercedes today. Six years ago that wud have given me a rush. Today I looked at him and felt pale. I am some mundane autorickshaw hopper standing at cross roads waiting. Some people, by standers.. Tell me that I have so much potential. Whatever the fuck I am doing here. And I say tomorrow. Writing, which I thought was my sole calling; I don't find the time and space to write. Nor do I get the right frame of mind. You read all this and you come up with a dozen ways to make things better. But come down and lets be losers tonite. If that's okay and gimme a hug. Tighty tight.

The Poetry of Migraine

It begins as a small twitch at the temples. You don't even feel it until it gets bigger. And stronger. It, like a shrewd monster spreads to the rest of your head. It attaches to the back of your neck, refusing to budge. You pull your hair, like some insane woman. It doesn't go. Instead, it couples with all the lost shine in your life, absolutely anything and everything that isn't working out, which includes almost entirely everything, and blows into your face. That it's gonna sit on your head for hours and days, and that you may do whatever you want about it. You rustle through your bag to check for that lost bottle of balm. It's gone. Then you go looking for the pills. But the damn store was closed. Prolonged lunch break. It's only you who can't eat. You sit holding your head in your hands. You put your head down on the table, nothing subsides. You wonder if the power of your glasses has changed, whether it's that time in a decade when you should see the optometrist? Remember last summer when you stepped on your spectacles in his car and they got twisted. He took to the shop where you had bought the spectacles, but the guy could un-twist only this much. So probably these repetitive migraines are because you are looking at the world through twisted glasses. Or it could be because you had a late lunch a few days ago? You would never know. You would never no. You can't watch TV. You start crying. You throw things in the air. Suffocate yourself with a pillow and fall asleep. Somehow. And the first thing you feel in the morning; is that migraine.

F

If I don't talk, I lose.
You and more.
I could as well, lose myself.
Might aswell.

Like a bee out of a bear's mouth.
In a snapshot, of continuum.
Like a particle of vacuum.
I paint a sorrow picture of loss.
Of departure, of delirium
If I don't talk.

As a child,
I assumed, I was a poem.
Comprehended to the one,
Who was adept enough to read.
Someone, who atleast knew the words

But it ain't that.
No man's too pedestrian
You've gotta sell, everything.
Nothing stands unquoted. Goddamn.
So talk, I must. F!



Don't curl 'round 'n 'round of me
Like an earthworm, or a newborn baby
I see the wrinkle in your neck
A mole on your shoulder, to the left

Don't do that, 'cause it deters my detachment
You know, that. Honeypot.
It makes me wanna shrink into your crevices too
And disappear, but that would be so inappropriate

Don't bite me, I don't wanna feel
The cringing of your jaws on my flesh
It makes me want to ooze the grief of my heart
Through the sighs of my breath
And that's not justice enough.

I wanna keep my grief. Stored underneath seven locked chambers
Like in fairytales, they do.
Lest I can't have you, let me suffer long and cause my soul to get away.
One day, 'cause that's the only way.

Pariahs

They made an odd couple. Like other real odd couples. Very distinct from the rest of everything. It was not just because she had grown a gothic look, or because he grew a beard when no one did. Nor was it because she swayed when she walked, like her waist was afloat over her legs, or because he was a drunk. They were odd, because you could sense it around them. When you saw them move past, or when you encountered them, uncomfortably in the corridor, or just stared at them stealthily while they were sitting at the most land-locked table in the cafeteria. It was almost impossible to get to them. And they let nothing out, either. No piece of information released about how they were doing, or what was going on in-between. Leave alone how much they loved each other and related crap. Sometimes it was difficult to assume if they had sex even, there was no PDA, none at all. Like a cold ice wall stood between them, not even holding of hands. Except that you spotted them together, and knew that they were. Together. They never let anyone take any guesses. So only naturally, they became pariahs. Both of them were iconoclasts. Like they sought each other out. They had no friends outside of each other. 

Then one day. Suddenly. Out of the blue. He died. It was a freak bike accident, On a Sunday winter morning. The fog was so thick that you couldn't see a foot ahead. Walking felt like walking in heaven. He must have been high. Like really high to be run over that bad. Everyone took the liberty to assume. That weekend was difficult. A peek into what a hell hole we were living in, and how horrible things did happen in life. They had broken up a week ago. Something must have caused that. Nobody knew what. She had gone home to deal with all that. When she came back Monday morning, the fog was still intact. The gloom had settled down on window panes and condensed into droplets of irreconcilable grief.  Nobody knew what to tell her. Or how to even begin. 

Grey

Leaves smell grey. It's the dust. There's so much dust. Apocalyptic dust. Only the world is never going to end. I know now. Late realization. Like into an obese overgrown child, truth takes its own sweet bitter time to seep into me. It's never going to end. Pain is omnipresent. Grief is eternal. Nothing is going to die, once and for all.

Children are going to sink. Boats are going to catch fire. Flying demons will swoop down on us. There will be blood everywhere. We will have nightmares all day and roll sleepless all night.

Joy will constantly feel like a fast disappearing memory in the mind of an amnesiac. Love will feel like too costly a trade-off. Our race will perish of heart-break.