turns out it's that time of the year when even stale bits of sentences get entwined in that trifle called a writer's block for me, so here's a task for you all --
i'd like you to mention a word or a phrase in the comments' section - basically anything that you'd want me to write on - and hopefully, i'll be able to rise up to the challenge within an acceptable time-frame!
Under the crushing weight of the inevitable, Keats, in the evening of his life, expressed how he could feel the daisies growing over him; underneath the moist green and gold of the earth, underneath the weeping, weary sky.
With all essence dissolving in mortality, (like the empty cadence of a fading symphony) memory raptures like the seeds of a dandelion, suspended in the air. An umitigated desire to resort to stupor weighs heavier than the frailty of trying (with a frantic head and a heaving chest).
a concert of ragged breaths laded on your lungs.
outside, the tiny, timorous branches of shal hang like wobbly arms along its length; searching for a rusted souvenir lost in the realm of anamnesis, a jagged smithereen of a broken memory, a calloused memoir of aching familarity - misplaced agony embroidered in the air.
tonight, there's a smidgen of rain across the grey skyline; a searing agony wading from the pagan sky to the parched earth. the wind carries the sillage of borrowed dreams in its palm, a lingering scent that used to trace your path here.
in molten reminiscence, your fingertips trace the warm contours of my pale back, skin against skin; flesh against flesh; trembling with desire, bones straining under the weightlessness of grief. my spine melts like aromatic wax, under the glow of a candle, flickering on the bedside. The warmth slides off my skin, too feeble to thaw the winter within. I am left untouched, a pair of sinuous limbs falling into a graceless heap.
outside, another swollen evening rises and cracks at the threshold of summer; the air smothered in defiance as you caress my face (cold and coarse) and arrange a row of violets, neatly along the curve of my back. flowers bloom in the cracks of my calloused skin.
(you say it's a flowerbed, I call it a tombstone.)
As the dusk melts away into nothingness, all we have is the haze of the night. in the radiance of the tapering light, we render the bones of desolation naked tonight before melting away into murky somnolence. a river parts to make way for your departure at dawn,
half-baked moonlight falls on your face, (a crescendo of a half-lived life reverbrates in the arch of my spine), the words roll off your tongue,
"Where do we go from here?"
a wave tosses its crest, rises and shatters at the shore. the shal trees bend their crooked backs and sigh as a memory breaks like a piece of porcelain in clumsy hands.
(parted waters seldom find their way to the sea here.)
tonight, loneliness aches to touch peace with its bare hands, and as the rain traces its path to salvation, ever so gently; betwixt the wet, gold of the earth and the weeping, cerulean sky-
I can feel the daisies growing over me.
- Kainat // of flowers fading away in youth __________________
Your arms wrapped around my back. Our hair being gently ruffled by the wind. I could feel you smiling against my back, savouring each moment as we cruised through the empty streets. Tinged with silver underneath the moon, it felt like you were an angel who held me close through every moment in this life.
Walking back down the lane from where we began, I can still retrace our steps. Crossing a street, where our eyes met, it was the most innocuous of meetings. We both were strangers to each other, yet felt as if we'd walked a mile in each other's shoes.
I recall how we built the blanket forts and spent the entire day within them. Ever since the beginning, we held a warm affection for invisible things. From beliveing in Hogwarts being real to Frodo dropping the Ring for us. Invisible things held us close, for that's where we found our home.
In promises without fear, secrets with hidden emotions, the warmth in our hearts when we were near each other, those were the things which held us close in this tumultuous world.
Often we noticed odd things around us. People stared as if we'd gone against the rules they stood for. They termed us as freaks, not being natural like the rest of them. Yet, we didn't think about it twice, for it was us against the world, always.
Joyce, you were and still are my entire world, with your rugged smile and warm, crinkled eyes. With a penchant for being faded and forlorn, we shared each other's sorrow, for I could never see you sad and broken, with with pearls of silver dropping from your eyes.
It took me a while to realise, what the people murmured about, what they were going on about. You never pointed it out, yet I noticed the little signs, from not feeling overtly hungry to barely feeling the need to sleep, I remember you slipping away, bit by bit.
And it all boils down to the bike ride, where with a heavy feeling in my heart, I head towards our destination at four in the morning.
It all starts to make sense now, Joyce, how you always had a reckless abandon for your own safety, how you always took care of me yet never about yourself - just feeling grateful that I was there.
For this was it, wasn't it, Joyce?
I see your name engraved on the stone, today's date from a year ago. With a sorrowful smile upon your face and tears rolling down mine. I realise now that even after you were gone, I never let you go, did I?
For all our love of invisible things, I made you one.
the sky hangs above us like a cracked ceiling; an unravelling tapestry of grey warping along the edges. Birthing in the embrace of quietitude somewhere, raindrops trace the spine of a river and it swells under the weight of gentle fingers, caressing the rough contours of its being. the cold cheek of the moon against a rusted window, and the shivering skin of the ocean reminds me of how love is just another metaphor for loss.
in the warmth of this molten longing; your breath falls unflinching on my cold skin, this weightlessness too heavy to carry. your hands cradle my whims to slumber. tenderness unveilied in the arch of a palm and it dawns upon me that how even when every touch hollows me out, bit by bit, I want to fill every crack of my being with this emptiness. the words escape your mouth half-fractured - jagged pieces of tin. this is our becoming, our unbecoming.
I shatter hopelessly in the arms of the moment, and crawl upto you in this wretchedness nurturing us in its shadow. a broken smithereen of porcelain in an endless sea of yearning, how no one handled you with care. your name tastes like tar against my tongue and this love is a language I will never learn.
the sky murmurs softly to the crevices of the earth - the anatomy of a conversation falling out of the realm of words. this longing too pronounced in the moisture of my eyes; cascading down into sheer affection. your fingers breathe life into my otherwise barren body.
What do we stay for if not the familiarity of grief? the bare bones of a memory we have spend our lives cradling, an agony we lull to stupor each night, a loss that ripens in the warmth of our arms, every season?
what is this pain if not a dull symphony playing out in an empty background, receding yet never fading away completely?
Outside, raindrops caress the face of a river; a cold sliver of silver against the December sky and a shivering desire. despite the storms the moon wages under her skin, the ocean never stops holding on, does she?
- Kainat // of shivers and slivers // _______________________________
In the daylight of translation, all Shahid longs from love is its beginning; the bittersweet taste of liberation in the embrace of annihilation, with the pigeons flying away in the sky, the skyline melting away into dusk, the pomegranates on the brink of explosion (seeds scattering like a handful of memories) and the night illuminating with darkness.
this grief is a pain only pain effaces.
on the brink of the disintegrating hour, your existence is an eulogy recited from dusk to dawn. this loss, like an apricot in the evening sun, ripens in the arms of a dull warmth every year, every summer. this ache - hues of crimson greeting the edge of a pulsated vein; the shroud of nostalgia smeared in longing, the lucidity of an obscure memory that blossoms in the tenderness of the night; one's inability to salvage a fading moment, another's venality to reinforce the non-existent.
the essence of a forsaken form, of meaning cloaked in the realm of time, like holding a wrinkled hand, with fingers hanging like stubs of cigarettes, is feeble in all familarity. in the country of hopelessness, eons melt into transience, like salt dissolves into water and futile are all attempts to undo you from this deluge of blood that pains me (alive and brimming like a brook in my veins), both the stain and the colour, the indelibility and the ichor.
(how do you mourn someone who's still alive?)
quiescent in a morass of yearning; you, a late winter's moon; bereft of radiance in an envelope of mist, hung on the dormancy of a broken night. you, a wistful reverie, a fractured hourglass, an expanse of barreness, a dandelion caressed by the reckless wind, a remnant carved out of the banality of time, a restlessness that taints the essence of my being, a rusty, tangible ache that sits still for ages, a singed fabric (coarse in its velvet), a rusted clock, pieces of charred wood, a pulse against jagged tar, the cadence of the last song, reverberating in the air.
(you, the unforgiving hour of midnight, the yearning smothered in grief, the affliction called hope, you, the pain only pain effaces.)
In his sparkling brilliance, Shahid longs for the beginning of love (before the pigeons fly over the last sky, the sky falls under the weight of the dropping stars, pomegranates crumple to dust) because at the end we're left at the mercy of wondering:
Sometimes, you find yourself walking the streets at 6 AM, when the sky is still dark and there is no other soul in sight. Your feet sound unnaturally loud and a smile travels from the edge of your eyes, down your cheeks before dying at the edge of your lips.
It is a kind of wildness that exhilarates you, sending a surge of dopamine flooding into your brain. For a few precious minutes, the city is your oyster, and you are a king who doesn't know the first thing about being a ruler.
Sunlight falls gently on the old buildings, and the shadows are strangers, shifting swiftly from one church to another. You don't say anything, because there's nothing to say. You simply wait and watch, as the new day takes its first steps.
Time slows down, imperceptibly. Before the deadlines come crashing down, you must find the split second of silence, that evanescent peace that exists between the end of one song and the beginning of another. Your heart must live in that moment, before if flits away like a mockingbird embarking on its last flight.