Monday, December 31, 2012

The problem with the way we fight

(photo by: cYabari Shrestha)

If you’re asking what it takes to rebuild yourself, I’ve heard it takes a few more hurricanes that are merciless enough to reduce your castle to sand, it takes a few more witches to make you buy ephemeral  add-ons for your reconstructed castle, it takes a few more admirations sugary enough to hypnotize you into staying dazzled and working no more, it takes a few more visits from Midas until he changes everything to stagnancy, it takes a few more attendance in parties and gatherings until you grow too busy to talk to you yourself, it takes a few more accidents that hit you in your heart. It takes a whole lot of things.

So you can just wait for pure stagnancies that will make you miss life for real. You can wait for everything to be lost until you don’t have anything anymore, if that is your idea of a new beginning.

But because I have seen hurricanes, and witches, and illusions, and phonies, and accidents, and emptiness, and I’ve been too hung up on trivial details for long enough to have made my existence almost obsolete, I’ve come to know that they don’t leave you once their job is done; they happen anyway, whether or not you are in your best form.

I’ve learnt that devastation once lived is no guarantee of defense against one more.

So what it takes, what it really takes, my friend, is detachment. 

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

An Open Invitation





To be eaten and to let myself be eaten are not the same thing. A difference so huge should have hit your head, it's Invasion versus Invitation. 
Haven't I always given all of me? Hasn't it always been an open invitation?
And yet, you have ways to make me feel like being invaded. But even if you go nice and slow from violent and voracious now, I doubt that will account to anything.

I never intended to be an exemplar of sacrifice.
I ever intended to experiment on the science of selfishness.(Thankyou for confirming my doubts.)

P.S. Did it never occur to you that it could have been an invitation for needle and suture instead?

The oldie at the Garage


Someday, knowing that it’s not one of those yesterdays, it will painful for you to regret not having turned around and that someday, it will be useless to turn around. Those who were actually listening, someday, knowing they have waited but only been taken for granted for too long, will already have driven away.

That’s the only way you realize what (who) you had.

***

Sometimes, realizing that you're not a piece of junk, that life is not just dust and insects and spiderwebs, that you can do better than accepting the stagnancy, it's okay to run your engines on your own and in those sometimes, you will see, not listening to their rules also comes naturally.
It's really okay to walk away sometimes.

That's the only way you realize what (who) you have within you.

Sunday, September 9, 2012

The underground business

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I aimed right, but the air resistance made my arrow look like a feather swaying helplessly under its command, while my target grinned back at me. Abrupt in my decision, I'm not shooting anymore, regardless of what all things are expected of me. The audience are still watching but with an austere look, the delight all gone. Being watched doesn't bother me as much as being set up does. And their supra-additive effect could make me surrender to my temper. I have my own way of reacting to extremes.  But right now, I'm still watching the feather dance as the wind keeps tickling it and gravity looks helpless. There's something else going on underneath and I have to postpone my temper show to switch to my detective form.
So yes, I'm studying you; someone was born out of me at some point because of something you said and everything else you hid.

Saturday, August 25, 2012

The camouflage


Dear Me,

This is not it. Things are yet to happen.

This is not all that you are. It’s just that you have had too much of people. Of course they’ll push and bully around and barge into your privacy and play with your identity and talk you into leaving what you love and trick you into walking their walk without letting you know that the truth isn’t that they’re walking with you but that you are walking with them, until you start seeing each of them nibbling big chunks of you they’ve made you cut yourself into.

That’s their job; they take in individuals, one at a time and make them a part of people. Come on, that is what they do. Didn’t you know that already?

But I’ll tell you a secret, what they don’t know is they’re only adding layers around you. The good news is you’re still there inside. Safe. And you’re still you, in there. And I’m on way to rescue you. 

Friday, August 17, 2012

How old is your silence?



And once again, we curse the big bad world. And once again, we cheer at our union. Once again, we keep talking about everything (or so it seems).

And just as it is, our voices will keep sloping up and down as we narrate the graph of our lives. And we’ll find we have identical boxes in our graphs. And we’ll pretend we’re close.

It is when we retire to our non-composed selves, when I fill another page of the diary that I spill out my true blood; it is when you text somebody else that you finally say an important something else.  That we realize all our empty talk is just an exaggeration of our silence. That the defining lines that run through those boxes remain to be our tactical secrets.


Sunday, July 15, 2012

Nobody likes hanging in between



Okay. I will allow you to kill me.
Only if you promise me that every part of me will die.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

The Loud Horn



Thank you for your sympathy, if that’s all you can give.

It’s uncomfortably loud: the horn and stuck here as I am, you would expect an obvious adrenaline rush, alternate gasping and yowling, and frantic fluttering, and desperate wriggling, and intermittent, outrageous banging and impetuous thrusting against concrete.

It’s uncomfortably loud and stuck here as I am, I was under the impression that you’d act. For me.
 (Almost dead I may be, but I know you can hear it too.)

The ants have already gathered to claim their share; the train is ready for the final blow, and you stand there, right there agape as if the bolt of the fatal lightening has already struck me, as if nothing can be done. (You make a good spectator.)

May be everybody else is listening to it, not as a warning but, as the final notification.
So be it. But when I’m done for, I’d like some black roses from you. I could take your color to the other side, ask them to purify it. For you.

Because sympathy, my friend, is NOT all I can give.

P.S. I was a rare species, you will miss me.

Thursday, May 31, 2012

The autonomous Expectations




I can keep turning around; searching and trying and waiting, you know.
But I won’t always keep turning around, you should know.
Call my name. And I shall answer.
Pat on my back. And I will turn.
Silence and coincidences are nobody’s all time’s favorites, you know.
And me calling your name isn’t the only way it works, you should know.

And I’d like being reached out for too, you might not know.


Thursday, May 10, 2012

The reproductive assumptions need a pill

Not only was I trying to reach out for your hand, I happened to be trespassing and exploiting the resources meant for somebody else and because it never seemed enough, I planted myself there. Sprouting up under your skies, alternately black and blue, I now stand deeply rooted, abundantly dispersed.
It all started with a weensy seed of assumption that I mattered. That I should contribute.
The truth as it is now:
I am but, a trespasser.
My forest is but, a cursed illegitimacy.

Deforest me when I am asleep. And remember, the fruits of hope should not know they could have had a chance. You owe me that, at the very least.

Sunday, May 6, 2012

The Short Cut



Withdrawal of my words from your memory could help me deceive myself. I don’t always give in to desperation. But today, interference seems to have more gravity than how I should just be a spectator. If I don’t, I’m just a puppet of principles, fearing which I’d rather barge into the sacred hall of hell and rescue my ball of fire, let it know it could be polymorphous. I’d rather experiment. I’d rather live and learn. I’d rather try, at the very least, to alter the consequences. Than waiting outside the gate. Than watching my words being cross-reacted to form a different race of devil. Than reassembling the ashes after the explosion.

Or you could just give me my words back.

P.S. Assume it’s a straight line.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

What It Means To Me

Missing the everyday anthem for a day to pay tribute to my secret song is more than playing truant. It's survival.
Are you really going to ask me why I'm trying to survive?

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Always meant to belong


“I’d want to believe I’m not under any spell, but...”

“You’re not.”

“So what is this paralysis about? Why can’t I make things different? Better?”

“Nobody can undo things.”

“But they can have things done. They’re resilient and they can switch to a new form, like they’re evolving.”

“Resilience does not always mean moving on. It could imply running away.”

“At least they can bear the weight of their heads. What’s with them, it’s like they’ve no memories of what happened and no afterthoughts?”

“And you call that evolving?”

“No, but…”

“Comparing never helps, you know. You see what they don’t, nothing’s wrong with that.”

“What about the burden that comes with it? What about the differences that pull me away?”

“That’s entirely up to you, you can tell yourself it does not exist and be one of them. Or, you can unfold the pages; find some clarity for your head. Whatever floats your boat.”

“You’re really showing me ways to see it; the light.”

“And you can always count on me.”

“Of course, and you are…?”

“I am you.”

“ …“

“You just didn’t realize you have me in you.”

Purgatory


You can count the stars in my constellation, but you can never tell if they are just pieces, because all you think is I’m in one-piece.

You can show me the line, but you can never tell where exactly I’m standing, because all you see is me moving.

You can send me letters, but you can never ask the right question and comfort the right corner, because all you know is you’re supposed to send them.

You can prove your commitment, but you can never convince my heart when it’s no more surrounded, because all your proofs are in the pages of somebody else’s book.

I tried not to put a label on the missing connection in-between. I tried to respect differences. I tried to avoid judgments.

And you tried to make sure I give up.

I’m yet to see the light.

Sunday, February 5, 2012

Never meant to belong


Here again, weak again.

We have different vocabulary, you and I. I’d want you to be a good listener, you’d want the same. As we keep clashing our swords, it’s the language that’s confused.

We have different eyes, you and I. Why can’t you see the signs of the universe? How can you look at the crowd and lamely follow what’s been said about living? As we keep forcing each other into different dimensions, the roses rot, doubtful about their existence, let alone beauty.

We have different regrets, you and I. Consumed by assumptions; you can only diagnose scars while my actual hole keeps draining life out of me. Consumed by assumptions, I can only fetch you bandages. As we keep locking up different memories, it’s past that’s confused.

We have different skies, you and I. Alone against the clouds, I miss my strength; so do you. As we keep demanding light, it’s the sun that’s confused.

We ARE different, you and I. And I can’t dictate my words to incompatible ears.

So I’m writing, again.