Saturday, November 5, 2011

Invisibility

The story will fade away. The stains will go away. They will forget it all. But will I?

If things were to happen all of a sudden, unannounced yet perfect in its course of destruction, shattering the most secret refuge I run to, and then disappearing into a thick air of umpteen other stories, with no reasons disclosed, no lesson learnt, no signs of rolling the curtains up again, why the deuce have I been left with the heaviness so unbearable but so empty when it comes to an evident existence?

It’s all about the equilibrium of life, eh? If there were no controversial appendages of the equation that keeps tailing the truth, I’d happily buy your point. All I see is random bubbles bursting randomly in random lives. And ruthless attacks of unjustified memories waiting to provoke darkest of thoughts, while the invisibility of past keeps thickening its wall and fooling you around.

But as it is, the story will fade away. The stains will go away. They will forget it all. But will I?


Saturday, July 23, 2011

Back to the sun


We’ve been grazing in this pasture, green as we’ve been told it is, and damp as we can see it now, for quite a while now. The obtrusive holes in the ground, that I assume can’t engulf you, are nothing but randomly spread intruders.
It’s nice to soak up in the flirtatious rain and sing and dance and laugh over tiny stumbles of each other; to believe everyone will always be around; to live under the impression that it’ll always be green.
With the crowd getting thicker every next moment and the opaqueness of the mist paralleling around and within it, and alien guests showing up from the holes, I can hardly decide if I am to keep giggling with the crowd as we hit on each other or let go of the adherence to passivity.
It’s no longer a tickling drizzle we were naively playing with, but a thunderous downpour hitting so hard it could distort the anatomy we’re habituated with. A torrent of curses isn’t the right technique to adaptation, neither is a plea of sheer desperation. The struggle for existence is on. It was always on.
At times like this, it’s axiomatic that they’ll instinctively brood over their idea of preciousness. I’m not in doesn’t mean I’m out. Late or not, I’ve decided to let go of the wandering tendency in a depleting resource where rescue isn’t fetched but fought for; to let go of blind dependence. Before I get abandoned in a desert of empty dubious memories, I’ll abandon you instead, momentary illusions. Despite the stagnancies trying to freeze me, I have to keep moving; exploring greener pastures. I have to think beyond what meets the eye.
Dear black skies, however well-spread you may have become, there will be light. At times as I look back at you, my smiles are real. You drag me to light.

Back to the sun


We’ve been grazing in this pasture, green as we’ve been told it is, and damp as we can see it now, for quite a while now. The obtrusive holes in the ground, that I assume can’t engulf you, are nothing but randomly spread intruders.
It’s nice to soak up in the flirtatious rain and sing and dance and laugh over tiny stumbles of each other; to believe everyone will always be around; to live under the impression that it’ll always be green.
With the crowd getting thicker every next moment and the opaqueness of the mist paralleling around and within it, and alien guests showing up from the holes, I can hardly decide if I am to keep giggling with the crowd as we hit on each other or let go of the adherence to passivity.
It’s no longer a tickling drizzle we were naively playing with, but a thunderous downpour hitting so hard it could distort the anatomy we’re habituated with. A torrent of curses isn’t the right technique to adaptation, neither is a plea of sheer desperation. The struggle for existence is on. It was always on.
At times like this, it’s axiomatic that they’ll instinctively brood over their idea of preciousness. I’m not in doesn’t mean I’m out. Late or not, I’ve decided to let go of the wandering tendency in a depleting resource where rescue isn’t fetched but fought for; to let go of blind dependence. Before I get abandoned in a desert of empty dubious memories, I’ll abandon you instead, momentary illusions. Despite the stagnancies trying to freeze me, I have to keep moving; exploring greener pastures. I have to think beyond what meets the eye.
Dear black skies, however well-spread you may have become, there will be light. At times as I look back at you, my smiles are real. You drag me to light.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

Still after it? (2)


As the ribbons continue to strangle the gifts you’ve sent my way, your favorite flavors packed inside exudate from your world to mine through a hole none of us drilled. You can cry over the damaging hole, I will cry over the invasive truth.

Is there no looking-away from the scene under play? God knows I can’t stand any of it; the wrong flavor, the misguided flow, the metastasis of the mess and above all, my persistent being in an all-about-you air. Nobody’s going to sneak out though.

There will be survival crisis. There will be giving-up phases. There will be disconnections. Everything, there will be but ducking out; out of the camera-lights, despite the congestion, despite the suffocation.

“Battery full, please unplug,” my cell phone enlightens me: it’s the unplugging we fail to do.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Still after it?

Because the meaning behind my reason for dragging myself into the apparently practiced-by-all faking hysteria is fading away from a distinct rainbow to a distorted assembly of clouds, I realize it's time I let the green reflect back the light I can't seem to absorb or should I say not meant to absorb. Hither-thither a few emotions take to their heels and swing back and forth with the empty whispers, away from the boundaries I set and back to my door; and I now let them be refugees. That which I cannot control, I cannot take responsibility for too. Peek-a-boo - a shadow tries to scare the secret out of me and I choose not to chase after it but to turn off the light. My territory - can I not define it every once-in-a-while, regardless of how it might, instead, worsen the vicinity that holds me up?
And as you pack gift/s for me again, don't forget to STRANGLE it with ribbons of your favorite color.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Between The Lines

There comes a "What's wrong?" and the job is done.

So, I utter an 'I'm-ok' and justify my part of the wrongly worshipped formality.

And no one cares to read between the lines.

Empty spaces enclose my existence and the rest of the world seems like a story book again, with good characters and bad, with blue skies, butterflies, colors, smiles, struggles, happy-endings… with non-emptiness, whose chapters I can read wherever I am and yet never enter into the pages; just exchanging a few lines every once in a while, not knowing if I am fictional to them or they are to me.

Yet, I reach for and roll the dice to feel something tangible, to have my own story to narrate, to be a part of the real story book. Apparently, I’m way too black and white to complement the flamboyance there.

And the connecting colors dissolve between the lines.

People, I know many. I wonder where do I miss it every time that I get left out within the crowd, why me and my acquaintances seem to be from two different galaxies, like we’ve only collided coincidentally and have our own spins to take care of . The real conundrum lies in why I’m still summoned for every time I somehow convince myself of the dividing line; why occasional apologies and gratitude get posted my way; why a smile is dedicated to me, provoking expectations – if I am to be abandoned anyway.

The abnormal reasons turn invisible between the lines again.

Breathe. Breathe. Move. Follow the rules. Follow the appealing smiles. Smile back. Blink. Blink. Turn around.

Meanwhile, the princess walks away- a business of everybody, and so everyone treads on a new automated path.

Change with the change? Can I? Can you? Originality can’t be so cheap, I bet.

So, it’s me and only me, left behind.

In the end of the day it’s you and only you anyway, with joys and regrets of the day and the world doesn’t know what you think as you curl up in your blanket. What exactly do I think? Read between the lines.