Love, they say takes an understanding to build, how can you claim love if you haven't seen the object of that ethereal feeling. But I feel in my heart and know in my mind that I don't know you, I have been with you for years and yet if someone ask me what you might be wondering, I couldn't figure out. Your thoughts have been cages of your own and no one is allowed to look. When I watch you sleep its then that you look what my eyes can decipher, blank, every line on your face sitting silently, your breath as even as ripples on a calm lake, but dear I love you not more or less with your eyes close as with them open.
If I could write what love is, I would add that sometimes you love without knowing, sometimes you love for love's sake, that sometimes you are okay with not understanding.
When all your life you wandered not knowing what you were after, if you climbed mountains only to go down and climb another, if you travelled miles not knowing your feet were bleeding, if all the tiredness sat in your bones and someone comes and offers you a little rest, love is what that rest feels like.
Its the warmth of the sun that springs life in your skin that has been cold for too long, its the kiss of a child on your cheek when he doesn't know what it means, its the hope of a seed for the greatness of a tree it will one day take pride in being, its the silence of mountains when you stare at them for a while too long to find their green exact same shade of the diary you once had in your youth.
Its the colours you wanted, never had, never knew you really wanted, but when finally one day someone sits beside you as quietly as someone can, and you don't feel the need to say anything, cause they fill you with something that's calm, soft but strong, make your heart smile, the kind you never knew existed... know that you are falling in love.
Tonight I sing all my screams into the wind release all the tears to drown in my sadness stay silent for all the worlds that crumbled inside tonight I get drunk on my sorrow, stumble on grief and let the poems come pick me up from where I fall.
Your name to me sounds like the home of my childhood, a place where I smiled with my eyes glittering in the sun, hands warm with love, hair loosened for the wind to whisper. Now whenever someone says your name, oblivious to what it brings to me, I get sucked in the world of rusty memories, the shape of your hand against the sky when it protected my skin from the summer sun, the grin on your face painted with compliments I showered on you when you played music, or the autumn day you turned to me, with a wilted yellow leaf, tucking it behind my ear, telling me I remind you of fall , a silent sadness of something I lost sits in my eyes but its colours aren't dark, they are all the shades of bright that gives you a calm whenever I am near, I smiled and then you smiled too.
How do people cry? With tears filling their eyes, throat that's hurting, a face that's on the verge of crumbling? That's what the first image of crying paints in our minds, right. But is it just that, isn't their a way where your tears are invisible, the pain in your throat transported somewhere else, where the crumbling is taking place inside , a slow metamorphosis towards a fragile ball. Maybe there are more ways a human grieves, mourns, suffer, more ways that doesn't always meet the eye or ears and sometimes we spend our whole lifetime without knowing that the person sitting next to us who smiled often, had the funniest jokes, stories to tell was in so much pain. There are so many ways that are isolating in their nature, in the sense that they happen in a place no one can reach, your mind, your heart, like a hammer constantly beating your sanity. And if that suffering makes a home out of you, you won't even realise its there like the stars that aren't visible at daytime but they do exist, even if you cannot see them, and just like the stars appear once the twilight approach, your pain finds you sometimes in the pits of darkness at 3 am, or the moment you start laughing and realise that something is filling your voice with a hollowness, or on a sunny day you look up at the sky , its bright blue , smudged at parts with white clouds and even when the view holds a calming spell , you feel immensely lonely at the sight of something so far away. People may try putting that voiceless crying into words, metaphors, but no one really knows, for suffering remains the one thing that cannot be shared completely, every one carry the burden themselves and try not to let the tears come, the throat hurt, or their face crumble.
Heheh well as you must have noticed I'm a murakami fan! Well I just love Kafka on the shore and many a times I've used that reference. Well here it is again:) ... So are you too a murakami fan? #wod#onomatopoeia
When the idea of Love first blooms like a Rose in the hitherto unadorned garden of the mind, Love tends to be associated with poetic lines, like "My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep", "What's in a name" and "Parting is such sweet sorrow", but Love is always sad, because it is an entity with multiple forms and only one, is celebrated by artists, poets and musicians alike. You see, Love, is an ancient library that was born when was Time was born, and Romantic Love is only one of the books that constitutes it. It is the book that is most often borrowed from the library, it is the book that is always written about, worshipped, celebrated, even cursed at, it is the book that is treasured. All the other books that constitute the Library that is Love, gather dust and is allowed to fade. I'm a writer of the uncelebrated. I'm an advocate of the unseen and the beautiful, left to fade and I'll tell you that Love also lingers where best friends crack jokes at the expense of the other. Love, is platonic pink as much as it is romantic red. Love, wanders through the halls of a small home, it lives in the smile lines of grandparents' faces and the worry lines of a parent's. Love can be found in the shade of an oak tree, in the life giving embrace of a rainshower, in freshly baked cookies, in the texture of grass and soil; Love is omnipresent. Love, is a complex person, like you and I, but Love is only discussed with regards to one aspect of its personality; Love laughs, it sings, it dances, it throws tantrums, it cries, it sleeps, it gets angry and is sometimes stubborn, but only its sighs, caresses and sadness are written about. Love is as much the Sonnets of Shakespeare and Romeo and Juliet, as it is the tempestuous paternal love that shines in King Lear and the platonic love that governs The Merchant of Venice, and only when we understand Love, in its powerful, raw entirety, can we actually surrender ourselves to it completely.
(The lines in double quotes are quotes taken from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. )
A laughter so contagious that if it were a drop of water, it could make a barren heart bloom into a bouquet of flowers. His eccentricity stood out. Not in a dark twisted way but rather, mysteriously. I could never have fathomed him to be a church goer for I can't remember a time when he wasn't engulfed by smoke rising from the cigarette dangling between his fingers or a time when there was no whiskey on his breath.
I could have easily concluded he belonged to the likes of me who were forced into this weekly tradition had I not seen him alone. Always.
He never stood in mercy or bowed in prayer. Just sat there, every Sunday morning, on the last bench during the service and stared ahead as if he was trying to dare Jesus into a trial by combat.
The gossipers whispered about him. About his dark and seemingly damned soul. "That arrogant fella never opens that mouth unless he has to be downright ghastly. Why even insult the lord by coming here at all? Brings down the atmosphere of the entire room with that foul expression." But that's what they were. Gossips.
For down at the Fusion bar, round the corner at the end of the church street, he was the life of the party. Always talking. Always merry. Always making people laugh. Always laughing.
Remember how I had mentioned that he never smiled? Well, there was once a time when he surprised me. On a windy autumn night when I asked him about love.
On that cramped porch, surrounded by empty bottles and rising smoke, I saw his blurry face look up at the dark sky, his lips curl up into a tiny, almost oblivious smile, just for a moment before blending into a smirk. A softness had flickered in his eyes before it was replaced by the intense hollowness I was more familiar with.
And before another word could escape me, he took a long drag and turned all possible answers to my unuttered question, into smoke. And then, he never smiled again.
They say he loved a nun who despised cigarettes. Hated them more than she hated his tattoos. More than alcohol. More than his impertinence. But, she loved him more than she hated cigarettes. They say, she loved him more than she loved God. And perhaps, God couldn't stomach that.
Too many heartaches that I've been experiencing in life, from betrayal to grief of death, at the moment, I don't think I'm able to write a gratitude letter.
But one thing I'm sure of is my gratitude of poetry. It has been the place where I can write my sadness into a poetic writing.
"I wake up and I am grateful, that I get one more day to write you. The fragrance of excitement the moment sunlight approaches my window, and gently touches my skin, warming my soul. Reminding me of our rendezvous. The one that has been going on since the day you left, the one that happens inside my world of words.
I am still here, sweetheart… and I don’t have a plan yet to leave.
We were something, our tale was not just a love story, it was a soul connection. For once I believed that soul mate existed.
As I spill my first letter, your reminiscent starts to pour in, and I let them to rhythm with the rain on my face.
Under warm sunlight, together they flow. Inside these words, I am knitting my blanket, letter by letter, words by words. A blanket that would warm my soul whenever it feels cold for it’s longing for you.
Inside this ink, I waltz, I jive, I cha cha cha, and I slow dance, with you. You are here, too, sweetheart, we are here.
You are alive inside this ink, the one that I have been spilling from the moment sun says hello to me, until it bids me goodbye, letting the moon and stars to appear and lighten up my midnight melancholy.