Saturday, June 20, 2015

On what we're not

Because we couldn't be the communication that we'd wanted us to be, we sold each other a telepathic hope. But we aren't the silence we'd promised to be and we aren't the noise we're scared to be.
We are, like soft diastolic murmurs, just absence of silence.

We are a phantom in-between.

Monday, May 4, 2015

The View.

cannot substantiate the existence of rainbows anymore, or barricade what we have from what we don't want to have. I just traded a few of my ghosts, for new masks. I can intuit the aftermaths from the pain already pushing through my shunts. I know you knew the commercial chorus long before any of our songs existed, and that you had to choose among pains.
So it's okay.
We do what we can to keep ourselves sane, which is why I did what I did. And I'll look sane, if not okay.

Friday, May 1, 2015

Oh well,

Nothing's wrong, really.
It's just that dettol wasn't made for polishing blades but when you find yourself ditching everything else for doing just that, little does it matter what's made for what. What matters is how readily you do it, as though the whole point of you has only been transforming into a handy kit that serves the impulse; the manual being the sharp, instinctive urgency.
You see, my impulses are my artefacts. You could radiograph the whole of my being and my impulses would light up in spaces, unoccupied and pre-occupied, disappearing and metastasising, as they please, on follow-ups. You could claim
them to be pathological but they are versions of me compressed into little radio-opaque shadows, enforcing symptoms only to make me live a different version of me. At all other times, they relegate themselves to being my silent artefacts, existing and non-existing simultaneously. 
Forgive me but I don't have the luxury of rationality. If it's urgent for you to define me and define this, it is urgent for me to polish my batarangs, with dettol.
With all due-respect, this isn't to mean I have anything against you trying and (or even obsessing over, if it ever comes to that) solving me. This is to mean I have something sharp and ready. May be we all have our own obsessions.
But if being me happens to be my very pathology, may be you're right, when you say something's wrong.

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

The Way Out

There are many ways to get rid of me. The simplest one, my friend, is to say so.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Falling, crashing.

Having exhausted all my compensatory mechanisms, all I'm left with is the need for indifference, again.
I have always counted on my spectrum of alter ego to show up and take over me during emergencies and on my book of backup masks to choose colors. I've counted on the rain to stomp, stomp, stomp on the pebbles that try to reflect me. And it would always take a while before I'd be me again, but I'd always be me, eventually.
But today I look inside and my alter ego is out of ego, my masks are short of backup reactions and the rain has just chopped off its hair. I find myself syncing with dust and pebbles, and denying the existence of skies. I find myself fading away into the spaces between the versions of me that once were; as if all I am is a side-effect of an underestimated experiment; and you could try a series of placebos and infuse tons of saline into me but I'd still be a dry little pebble.
How did I reduce myself to this?

Monday, April 6, 2015

Chapter 2

You need to bring your heart with you because if scissors go missing from the procedure room, we might have to use our hearts instead. 

And you need to bring a portable black hole to hide the scissors. A gush of blood awaits you, not the metal.

Please, I urge you to feel.

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Chapter 1

My heart is like an over-crowded operation theatre. If you flood in, it can accommodate all of you but only at the risk of being infected, only with a complication of pumping a pandemic into all of me.

Saturday, March 14, 2015

Jamais vu

I can, in a disguise of tangential familiarity, knod to your rants, and I'd get away with oblivion. I tried keeping up with a continuum of versions of you. And I thought that you were my regular stranger. But my paradoxical, parallel conundrum of versions of truth take turns to manifest themselves and I'm often an alien to me. I am my own regular stranger.

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Déjà vu

Everyday I'm afraid of losing you, and everyday I lose you. You drift away into secret spaces and I let you. If it means you finding yourself, I'll let me lose you again.

I'll spin back in time while you spin off to tomorrow. I'll spend me on our traces and you'll still be gone. Even if this takes me back to waiting, I'll empty myself again.

There's so much to feel every time you leave, I almost find myself too.
And pain is my best déjà vu.

Friday, January 9, 2015

Please Buy some hope

All this motion and noise all around me could just squeeze me into a dot, and you will not know which dot to unfold. I'm hoping against hope that you will not sway with these winds, that you will listen to the blind motion and see through the noise and arrive at an understanding that I was here, and I'm hoping for you to hope that I will break through whatever it is that I've turned into.