It was neither in your intention, nor my choice. It was in the wind that felt cold which struck me with a realization of an echoing emptiness residing outside and within.
The stars that look like pieces of glass, once in a while falls over the horizon of an abandoned desert, So worthless, when devoid of eyes that admires its beauty, Same as the heart; so languid, when devoid of love.
This, the world of love, Onism a constant incompleteness, You, a permanent scar on my memory, And things like these - etched on grief; too hard to be talked about, Yet too often grieved upon;
I'm afraid, most of all, Of an infinite half, that can never be whole.
Blurring hopes decay your heart, yet you tell people, love is what keeps you alive. Grief of love weighs heavier than the happiness. Broken dreams make you cry instead of the ones you never dreamt about. And you tell, dreams are what keep you alive.
Life must have a sardonic algorithm. Ready to fill your heart and emptying it, as if it were its favourite pastime.
In every sunset, I see myself drowning within the depth of oceans, and pieces of me scattering away with the evening breezes. Somedays, I feel, that's how it'll stop. When I'll vanish in parts, and nothing would remain to bother me anymore. Yet every midnight, the grief swims out of the ocean, and sleeps peacefully by my side, keeping me awake.
Where had you lost yourself in the rainy night of a gloomy limbo? When had you returned? Did you find yourself again when you had returned or were you lost a little more? Your lover has left you a letter in the unopened mailbox. She said she misses you. When was the last time you looked her in the eye and told her that she was beautiful or that you loved her?
Canvas on your tabletop smells of old paint. You forgot to repair your roof last autumn. The raindrops dripped on them, blurring and smearing the lines, untill all the colours mixed to give off a fresh stale smell. You should have seen the mess it created.
The cat you used to feed has settled in a different home. A home from where there's no road that reaches your house. You should have seen how it had waited at the doorstep before leaving. Waiting to purr out a goodbye.
The fallen leaves unswept in your porch covered up the path. All those who walked down your house were convinced that the house was empty. Not that they cared about your existence before, anyways.
The town had celebrated an event last night and the corner where your house stood spoke of the melancholy to be mourned. It reminded every merry man to count his happiness as long as his gloom hid in the deep ocean.
Monsoon plays the gramophone Its tender echo against my windowpane The rains have a saviour complex It checks on me every while You don't explain feminine tears, Or rains in tropical zones But it's so humane to leave Yet so natural to stay The thunder knocks upon my reverie, You're never here when it rains.
I etch drenched poetries, For a man in Egypt, Who folds paper boats In a land, where it rarely rains He's unaware of the symphony of rains But I wish I could tell him, The song of rains is silence in its utmost beauty It never goes noisy And while he thinks, he's an outcast to this land, I cry him an oasis in secret
I've been to vernacular ruins of the city that witnessed cobalt skies through barbed fences and tangled skyscrapers. Civilizations lose their essence inside cracked cements as this city watches the world through grey filters and opaque glasses. The skies there, taste like the briny tears of a poem who tried too hard to hold on to smiles while a storm brewed in decayed cold hearts. Far beyond the monochromes of the fringes of this lost suburb, there lies a pale horizon that shares a jargon with the splintered skyline. I write about wastelands that look like an array of discarded poetries aligned together in a monotone. Here, the sunsets hold their colours till the time poets find their muse. I'm seeing the welkins run out of blues so I end up writing another sky-poetry for skies to bloom like wildflowers, unapologetic and those cold hearts to heal.
In God's grey reign Where perfection Is a lie, I stand 17 summers later Nurturing a sunflower in my palms And grey promises on my forehead Growing up Feels like painting a sunset On wooden fences, You never get the colours right Or planting a skyline On both sides Of an uneven smile Growing up is a story Whose end is a two-way street, But your feet are heavy From carrying the weight, Of faint memories While your name Is baptised by the clouds Growth knocks on your foggy windows An apocalypse disguised as home Growing up is a poetry Metamorphosing to a song A Vangogh's sky in the making, A dried paintbrush, A dull panorama And it's okay, If your painting, Is not an art Remember, In God's grey reign All artists Have a story But growth, Is an abstract poem
~M e g h a / Growing up is like painting a sky picture
Life is becoming a shadow of a continuum. The beginning and the end are miles apart, yet it feels so mundane with the tick of a clock. Light scatters aimlessly around the room, skipping the dusty corners as if the eyes should be kept away from the horrors of it all. How can you comprehend the beauty of the world when you cannot see the ugliness lurking in the shadows where the lights failed to touch.
How can you trust a person's feeling when the feeling itself has no validity outside of the internal model of reality that the brain creates for them? It is changing, more often than the seasons that fall upon them.
I wonder when the rain will stop falling, you never know when it's going to drown you to the depths or when it's going to remind you of a familiar touch that you are missing in the cold of a night. There are always memories that we've buried deep inside, waiting for a downpour to bloom. You are unsure what to make of certain feelings, especially those that visit you late at night when the world gets quiet for a while, except the endless rambling of rain.
We are running around trying to be accepted by one group or another, not because of an internal identity we perceive as self, but a mere evolutionary need to belong somewhere. Who are we, if not this continuous computation that takes us from one place to another, till it all starts to decay like everything else? Like a broken twig in a decaying tree that looks at the dwindling dusk, you know how it ends, but you hope that it survives the fall.
I belong in an era that I can barely remember; I was born so long ago. My own existence is alien to me, a paradox that I cannot wrap my head around. Sense of time is in dismay, the night and day separated by the few hours that you passed out on the couch. What matters the most, the moments or the regrets that follow them?
Invisible strings connect us, strong enough that you can feel the warmth of another but fragile enough to leave you astray. Like stars, worlds apart, but in the same path with another, delicate enough to get thrown into the endless darkness.
I wish I knew how to write, so endlessly as the thoughts that light up when you walk into the neon lights-filled cafe and fall for a stranger's gaze; every line and word entwined to make you feel something. Some eyes can make you fall, sometimes a smile, sometimes a warmth on a cold winter night, sometimes words, words that fall from your head to your lips on lonely nights. And sometimes, gravity, you cannot help it but fall.
Art is what art makes you feel. We don't know what reality looks like, all the simple set of rules beyond our reach. All we know is this story that we keep telling ourselves, every moment becoming part of a casual lineage, getting stacked on top of each other, waiting to be opened up again in a late-night conversation. Abstractions of a world, little things that we've seen and felt on a long walk, lips that sink into yours like a sunset, the way waves washed your feet, whispers of the wind, and its kisses that remind you of someone. Every cliche moment somehow becomes so personal, becomes a part of you that you look back and smile, a sense of melancholy in the chaos.
We are stories that we tell ourselves, words, and lines that meet under the starry night. And, like Van Gogh, we dream about the world beyond its mundane structures that feel so disconnected.
"Once upon a time, I, Chuang Tzu, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of following my fancies as a butterfly and was unconscious of my individuality as a man. Suddenly, I awoke, and there I lay, myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming that I am a man." -Chang Tzu
When the music dies, steps stop, across the crossroads, on the crossings, in the lane, all those souls who had music in their mind, humming patiently in their scenarios, unknown to the myth of music, a child's cry is taken to be the first music again. a great soul, would reinvent thoughts in wooden carvings, naming them as instruments and begin to allow the cuckoo to replenish the empty bowl of scholars.
the day her ship sank, neutral memories float up, while the hard ones get drown into her bosom. surpassing clouds, she swims to the east knowing the night's long gone. when the horizon lures her into the twilight, she weeps onto god's palms staring into endless blues, unknown whether skies or waters reflect her tears, for now, she lost her map.
when the leaves turn brown, he closes his diary full of notes for someone, unable to withdraw from past, he stirs his brown coffee with foam brimming up. the way maple leaf left in his diary, after catching the flying leaf along with her, was meant to fulfil his wish, is left in his diary, while she leaves.
I wrote a fairytale, after more thoughts and more scribblings, it turned out to be a life with music and dance being dead and alive at the same time. meerithic mermaids surf in oceans to find pearls loosely from chain of the lost soul, who at last sails to the shores. plaxondry when she gets back to the city, to watch the same man with the same maple leaf, still after thirty years with the same diary, carried around for their tours. aurora gets kicked out of the skies too, when it's not the time, but that doesn't mean aurora isn't shining bright in her time. "not world's meridians collide with yours, but you still have the time to wait without losing your shine."