Worn

You enter through my mouth,
And exit through my soul,
darling, you're wearing me thin.
Like the garment you wore eve before last,
You're wearing me thin.

Push at the back of my throat.
Down into my stomach,
churning in my gut,
like masses singing choir songs,
in the temple of regret.

I'm knocking on your door,
like I'm knocking at your ego,
Inviting myself in, because i'm looking for love tonight.
I'm knocking on the pavement,
Like I'm knocking at myself,
losing self respect.
Because I was looking for love tonight.

Enter through my mouth,
and exit through my soul,
darling, you're wearing me thin.
Like those scraping noises in the gutter,
you're wearing me thin.

Cement, Six Buildings, Circles.

Everything he touched was cold. Winter had penetrated all and nothing around him, freezing every last bit of warmth into a clear, sharp cold. He dug his hands deeper into his pockets, clenching and unclenching his fingers to heat them with some blood flow. He had never imagined winters to be this way. They were always portrayed as beautiful, white snow-capped scenery with people in pretty winter coats and scarves, laughing and playing in frozen solitude. Instead, he found it out to be dry, harsh, with a searing sense of reproach toward anyone who dared to stand before it. The winds that escaped into the collar of his jacket were edged and they hacked at his skin, making him shiver like he had been immersed in cold water. It was lonely too. He’d been walking in circles for over 2 hours around the same 6 buildings, shuffling his feet over cement, hugging himself tighter with every passing minute. He narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth, pushed against the winds. His body only wanted to be inside again, his mind however, refused to comply. Every now and then, he’d sneeze making his entire body convulse into a jittering bag of bones. But he kept on walking. There was something so hateful in that weather that translated his self-loathing for him. He need not despise himself; the seasons were doing it for him.  Something bitter stirred inside his mind, something to match the lack of warmth in the air. He wanted to be home so bad. He only wanted to climb into his double bed under his window that let in the sun and birdsong each morning. He closed his eyes for a moment, and sought the sun’s yellow light. First there was nothing, his mind was dark and blank. Then slowly a shimmer of pale light convalesced into a bright burning yellow fire.

He opened his eyes slowly. The pasty cream coloured ceiling patched and burnt was the background of his focus. The periphery of his vision was sparkling bright. Turning his head he noticed everything was tainted golden sepia. He heard birds! It was morning, he smiled. He was oddly aware that his entire body looked golden. Rolling his eyes to the back of his head, he was blinded by the light filtering in from the window, onto his hair, his face, his body and what he believed, his soul too. He had no memory of his dreams, but was certain they’d been pleasant. He rose slowly and deliberately enjoying the awakening of his muscles and bones. His favourite sheets slithered off his legs, his favourite painting hung on the wall to his right, and the table before him was just as chaotic as he’d left it. Stretching in bed, he yawned and closed his mouth in a goofy grin, not different from the ones he’d seen make as a child in photographs. He felt ready to start a new day and hopped off the bed. He rushed to his door and swung it open. He grinned again. The dining room was flooded with that gorgeous golden light; it made even the dullest object sparkle. He smelt food on the table and guessed there was even more food to come. He ran into the kitchen and hugged whatever figure stood in front of the stove from behind.  He clutched it tightly and murmured his thanks. There was no response. Something felt out of place about his. He stepped back to get a proper view of whom he’d hugged. It wasn’t mother, it wasn’t anything at all. There was no one there. Then whom had he hugged? He heard his lover call from the living room. Thoughts of his mystery mother dissipated and rushed to the other end of the house, smiling idiotically once again. He heard echoes of his name, and teasing laughter which he followed mechanically. The voice led him to the drawing room and then stopped. He looked frantically around the room and saw nobody. On the table in front of him was a crystal ashtray, with a half lit cigarette breathing wisps of smoke into the room, one glowing end flashing red, orange, yellow and then black.  Something rose and fell in his chest. He fell silent and walked out the front door.

The road was paved with dried leaves, bold blocks of sunburnt orange that crunched underneath his feet. As he walked, he passed under the shadow of a tree, temporarily banishing the bright glow on his skin. As he passed out from under the shadow, the glow did not return. He looked up and saw the sun had concealed itself in astonishingly grey clouds. He looked back down at the tar and kept on walking. He could not remember how much time had passed when he looked up again, it was cold now, and he was back where he had begun; cement, six buildings, circles. He clutched himself for a minute and stopped. He closed his eyes again, concentrating hard.

 A minute later he opened them and looked around:

Cement, six buildings, circles.

Call It What You Want.

Who is he to question or admonish him?

He who holds him tight, are only his hands.

He who cradles him, is only his ghost.

Who are you to defend his reality for him?

Who is she to tell him he is naked when he cries?

Only when his soul is drained, he cannot speak.

Only when he is pampered, he is lonely.

Who are you to measure his flesh, in that kind?

Who were they to push his buttons in summer?

Can he not speak and be heard at the same time?

Can he not hold up a mirror to the sun, and shine?

Who are you to colour his eyes a dirty brown?

Who is he, to hold him in gratitude now and forever?

He does not carry a heart on his bloodstained sleeve.

He does not carry his shoes on his shoulders either.

Who are you, to provoke him into being beautiful?

Who are you to question and answer for him at all?

He doesn’t begin with a favour, and end in a paradox.

He doesn’t write your name on his pillow every night.

Who are you to vitiate his existence, by talking about it?

The Cold, It's Killing Me

If I cry and give out altogether, turn to nothing.
Will it be enough for you to hold me again?

I can't hear my own soul screaming anymore.
I can't hear my own voice beating me anymore.

If I jump off this cliff down into my conscience,
Will you be swimming there, waiting to catch me?

I can't see my own face in the mirror anymore.
I can't feel my toes on the ground anymore.

It's getting too grey to breathe.

Loneliness, is the fickle manifestation of all I'm lacking.

An ubiquitous fire, all consuming the very depth of being.

Open the doors and windows, turn open the showers,

Blow this fire out, drown it in a feeble cry of joy.

Father figures, mother figures, shadow figures,

Silhouettes that wander on my wall at night,

Demanding that I love them, plead them in plunder,

And then smile and let go of imaginary shoulders.

So simply they assume their roles as they can,

Unbecoming the trivial picture they painted before.

Repairing, mending, heeding to every need,

Becoming a crutch, ill-disposed of necessity.

Then just just as smoothly as was the arrival,

Is the exit of the medication that holds you.

Compels me to believe that I am helpless,

Compels me to pine for their existence.

And suddenly, we are withdrawn addicts,

Narcoleptics that wake screaming for love,

And hunger for sustenance in bitter sleep,

Men that are bitter for independence forsake them.

Reminiscent of what loneliness began with,

Cognizant of why lies healed temporarily

Immune to words of comfort, and endorsement,

But still consumed by every bit of our own being.

Full of your own soul, or empty of another's,

The fire keeps on burning, the light of day,

Sending us searching, barefoot and mind,

Till we can somehow extinguish it with someone else.

Sounds of the Earth

The day was half done; the golden orb in the sky mocked him, tempting you to rest, for slumber’s deep calling. Sweat dribbled down his face falling into the cracks in the mud, disappearing into the fine black veins that covered the ground, like a capillary system carry nought but emptiness itself. A giant organ was this breathing earth, venous and pumping, if only people could listen to it like he did. He felt it pulsate, even under the glare of the sun, when his mind thought of nothing but the distance between him and home he did not know, he couldn’t resist stopping and listening. Deeper and louder it got, with the passing of the afternoon as he sat there with a stick in his hand drawing figures in the parched brown. It was sighing, what at first seemed like rasping agony was actually just thirst. He nodded. He understood thirst, it was not just the debilitating need for water, it was nutrition, it was hope, and it was life. One could achieve so much, if they only had water. Little seeds sucking on the drops of milk moist earth mothered into them, asking them to grow, whispering words of calm motivation, saying, Drink! And you shall be. To repopulate this barren wasteland, to decorate these once beautiful green blossoms that now were wretched crooked women, hunched in the sunlight, their witch-like fingers grabbing at weary souls that sat underneath them. He understood this too, and he tapped the earth three times willing for something to grow. The cloth wrapped around his head undid itself and fell to his shoulders. He looked much smaller than he was already without it. His frail frame, naked in the heat save for a loin cloth and his head cloth. He was the son of the soil; his skin was a piece of it, like dark cocoa baked in the sun. His eyes were small but accommodated the entire landscape, taking in every little detail, every contour or lack of it.

He unstrung a small satchel of water tied around his waist and sipped from it. There was little water remaining, he sprinkled a few drops on the cloth and tied it back on his head. This water would have to last until the next day, until he could find somewhere to refill it. He noticed a thin dried root protruding from the husk of the earth, like an umbilical cord between a long gone mother and its dead offspring. He touched it and it shivered, dispelling dust into the burning air around it. He stared at the root for some time, smiled and then poured the remainder of his water into the soil below it. The soil drained the water and in seconds it was as if there had never been any water there to begin with. His smile disappeared as he realized that his brother was dead for there was no hope. The dull ache in the back of skull became stronger, as something in his guts plunged. He began to breathe heavily, but continued to listen to sounds of the earth. Now they mimicked his breathing, raspy, dry and forced. He only listened through the deafening silence of the land, his own breath and the song of the earth. The deeper each breath was, the louder the earth responded. He forced his lungs to pump their hardest and his skeletal frame trembled as he heaved his chest trying to get the earth to reciprocate, to coax it into a duet. The answer came, this time with a drumming, a thumping beat in synchrony with his own aching. His eyelids drooped over his dry eyes and his head began to spin for the lack of oxygen in his brain. But his soul was alive, wailing with the earth, crying for every loss it had ever begotten. His body began to sway to this sound, this only sound he now heard. His mind called it deliverance; his soul called it the earth, the earth called it life and they all cried for it. In unison, his body, mind and earth all shook, daring somebody to stop them. They vibrated in the still air, until they all fell silent, for his body gave way first, and he collapsed to the ground. A cloud of dust rose with the impact of the body and settled back down upon his corpse. His eyes lay open, glinting in the sunlight, face packed with dirt. His mouth lay open, red on the inside, his lips a black miniature of the landscape. The earth rumbled a last time, and fell silent.

 Only the quiet remained for a while roasting in the sun, until the evening came and skies dimmed. Clouds began to gather, and it began to rain. A grey pallor tinted everything and his body seemed like a ghost, grey under the thundering sky. Water washed over him, down his face, clearing it of dirt, down to the ground where his body touched the earth, where a single, green leaf protruded from the soil.

[Please excuse any grammatical errors or lack of talent thereof]

Tired

Summer came. With the tired hands of a mother, it lifted me off the ground, playing upon a breeze. Carrying me this way and that, through fields and trees, above children that play everyday in the sun, above towns and cities,
and I smiled.

It lay me down among my friends, they told me stories of their past and enigmas of their present, they scolded me for my lack of scrutiny towards my own life. They sang, we danced, under smoke and fire, somewhere beside the rain and I felt home again. I drowned in the simple decadence of bliss and I smiled.

The wind picked me up again, forward this time, blew into the hands of a lover, that comforted my fears, magnified my hopes and thawed many winters in my mind. I smelt the earth after rain, the aroma of my favorite food, the tobacco on my breath and I smiled once more.

Another scene, this time I descended with the sun, with the back to the west and my eyes to east. I landed in the garden of the house I grew up in, and the Jasmine tree in the yard began to shed it's flowers. My mother stepped out, handed me a spoon and invited me in. She told me about her day and doted over my hair. I laughed and told her I was tired, that I must sleep because I'd lived a full life. I left for bed and as I fell asleep,
I smiled from ear to ear, immersed in joy I could not explain.

I woke today morning to find myself sleeping, and when I woke myself, I had stopped dreaming.

2 AM.

Dead dogs sing songs for living men,
Fighting for what they believed in then,
Mundane street lights
Need to stop flickering.

Dirty, desolate, signs without meaning,
Withered under seasons fleeting,
Without direction
For those who heed them.

Hurried footsteps convey more than they mean,
Flapping to the sound of the idyllic unseen,
Yellow, all yellow,
In artificial sunlight.

Glass tumblers pressed to grateful lips,
Company shared to those without bliss,
Silent crickets
Lurk in no empty corners.

Temptation beats the itching will,
To rescue the self from bleakness still,
Keep tempting the universe
To joke with you.

Breathing through, a silent night,
Dark acquaintances to take away the fright,
Still walking though,
As if the dawn isn't far away.

I did not know you, but I wish I had taken the time to do so.
But then I fear I would not be able to bear the grief of your absence.
Knowing you would have been a gift, for thinkers like you only come along once in a century, so young for their age, but too old for this generation.

I admired you for your brilliance and what you could have been.

Wherever you are, I hope you're happy.

A flame died last night, and you caused the world a loss it cannot repair.


Love and respect.


Rest In Peace.

Hole. Part 1

"You'll never make it that far."

I heard those words again. I'd been saving my thoughts for my evening walk home, like I did every day. Today was no different. I stopped at the skybridge that stretched across one of the many highways of this immensely large city. I love cities. Cities spoke to me of life, of vigour, of energy only the human spirit could imbibe into otherwise dead cement. As I leaned over the railings and closed my eyes, I imagined viewing the city from a bird's eye. Its geometrical structure, divided into boxes and rows delineated by gold lights that seemed to flicker when I wasn't looking. It looked like the top of a giant maze, made of walls that caged rats. Millions of them. These rats buzzed in a harmonious discord that made the entire box tremble, waiting to explode, into something, into nothing. 

I took a deep breath and opened my eyes, and hung my head in a wry smile. Trails of orange lights zoomed past underneath. My head began to swim as vertigo kicked in and I jumped and took a step back.

"I told you. You'll never make it that far."

Today was different, actually. The evening was darker than yesterday's and today's sunset more solemn. I was tired. Thoughts weighed upon me like metal bricks, and the tension had left me undone, a bundle of torn nerves trying to keep it together. I relished my time in this city. Every second I spent complaining, laughing or feeling anything at all, I kept fondly as a memory. If I thought about it, giving this duration any affectation of love was quite absurd. I hated the people that surrounded me for their passion for unintelligence, their pretentious ways and in general the facetious manner with which everyone treated everything. I enjoyed it because it was normal. Here, I was excused from all decision making that was detrimental to mine and my family's existence and  was free to indulge in my petty emotions associated with day-to-day existence. But today was different. I felt the floodgates of suppressed emotions burst open and flood my mind with questions, answers, decisions and bitter resentment. All this among the sensation of drowning loneliness. The nights were especially difficult. When the lights were out and the people asleep, the demons of your fears clung almost too realistically to the foot of your bed, inviting you to join them in your hellish nightmares. There were nights when even crying wouldn't help. Expressing sorrow of the issue in quiet isolation of the dark neither relieved me, nor smoothened the creases it had left on my conscience. Issues I had never given passing thought to, suddenly raised their heads out of nothing and threatened to invalidate the entire purpose of my existence. The ethos of my duty continued to prod and poke every unattended second of my consciousness and fought me with guilt and rage. I fought back with empathy and logic, refusing to budge from my selfish stance. In this battle, my mind was in turmoil as was my soul. Every day I contemplated stopping by this bridge, and every day as I walked by, I pictured what it'd be like to jump off it, down into the roaring traffic. 

Today, I had stopped.

"Are you going to do it, or not?"

The evening had gone and the night began to unveil itself. As it did, the number of people dwindled, each hurrying home to a family, or the lack of one. Soon, there was no one left on the bridge but me. I ran my hand over the edge of the railing, it was made of cold steel. Underneath, the number of cars flashing past fell too, it was almost as if the area was slowly diffusing its inhabitants. I only saw silhouettes leave, none come in.

I took another step toward the banister and felt the still air vibrate as I cut through it. Sounds boomed through my skull, unknown vowels and consonants came together in the chambers of my brain, conjured up by the pent up soul I had refused to relieve. Letters became words and I as I stared down at the black tar road, words turned into poetry I never wrote.

"Your man is made of mind and sin,

And intertwined they are the Devil's wrote.

You feel 'nought for the hand that you take,

And feel 'nought for the fear that you stroke.

Come with us, we will set you free.

Come with us, we will tell you your tale,

Follow us down, we'll make you see,

Where judgement left you weak and frail.

Into the night!

Into the dark!

The Larks are singing down below.

Dive into our world of hellish fire,

This unanswering land to be let go.

The Larks are singing, 

They do no wait,

The Larks are singing,

For you, of late.

Into the night!

Into the dark!

For your man is made of soul and sin."

I leaned over, breathed in, and jumped.

Hollow.

Child, the crackers are burning bright,
Why don't you celebrate in red and blue?
Mother, I have nothing, not a flicker of light,
Nothing to smile for, you know it too.


Hush child, 'tis not the end of the road,
Many more towns to come, much to see still.
Mother, I'm trying. But this handicap wont go,
My solidarity is shaken, and my manic is ill.


I hold your hand, see it doth not shake,
For perseverance lingers on inside your heart.
Mother, this stillness is lacking, 'tis not the make,
Of courage, but soulless in whole and in part.


What can I tell you? You will not listen,
For the glasses you wear of tinted grey.
My purpose was not to drown out the din,
But to merely  hear you smile and say;


I cannot smile, not in this yellow sun,
It beats too harshly upon my chest,
The ground is dry, the water has run,
And the shade is reserved for the blessed.


Child, I cannot reason with your kind,
That detest the present, though future be bright.
Then leave this room mother, temporary defined,
And as you do, turn off these wicked lights.


I cannot chase their shadows anymore.

If the times are changing, then why are you still standing still?

Failure shows no empathy for cause of its own existence.

I am one,

I am far,

I am none.

Turn out the lights and what are you left with?
Open up your hands and find out they're empty.
Press my face to the ground, I've got a find a reason,
Just scratching around for something to believe in.

Something To Believe In - Aqualung.

Aegri Somnia (A Sick Man's Dreams)

"Wake up. You have a text."
Drowsily, I pick up the phone to read:
"My mother died... :("
I fall back to sleep.

......

I jump out of bed with a start and run across the room. It's red, with beds and belonging strewn across itself haphazardly. I'm getting dressed. My roommate steps into the room. He looks at me and shakes his head. He's laughing now, "What kind of a friend are you? Go. Go now!"
I run toward our door with is a metal mesh that opens into the corridor, sweat breaking from my brow.

......

She's running. She holds out her hand and smiles as I give her chase. She's still holding it out until I clasp it and she pulls me along the road, a childish game. Now I'm ahead of her, running backwards,her head is turned skyward behind her, she's pointing at the Moon, saying, "Look, it's the Rabbit! It's the Rabbit! Smile for me, please!"
I can't help myself, I laugh and stare at Moon and her in the horizon as I run. Suddenly, she stumbles and falls.
But I keep on running, feet falling back after each other and me receding. I hear laughter, "What kind of a friend are you? Go, go NOW!"
I stop and run back forward, she's only scraped her knee. My phone rings in my pocket. It's a text:
"She's dead, and gone.... "

......

My heart is racing, I keep hearing the laughter. I walk down our hostel corridor and men in their rooms that have grills for doors lunge at me. They walk funny, some of their growth is stunted. Some mumble in their sleep, others circle round me, never touching. I'm walking more briskly now, two of my friends appear, they look just as terrified as me, "Where have you been? Don't you know she needs you? Go. Go now!"
They lead me down a set of stairs that opens into the metro. I run out the metro into the streets of Delhi, it's empty, all the neon signs are on and there's music in every shop, but it's deserted. I see some strangers walking by, I ask, "What direction is the girl's hostel?"
They're a pretty couple, this man and woman, they look at one another and laugh, that same derisive, haunting laughter, "We wouldn't tell you if we knew. It's not like you have anywhere to go."
My limbs feel like dead weight as I continue to sprint, blood filling my head and what felt like water, my lungs.
Another boy, who looked 17,
Boy! Where is the hostel?
His lips curve from a gentle smile into a sinister toothy grin that unsettles my gut, I'm only more afraid. I see the entrance of a metro, I scramble in and ride the escalator. People look at me, stare at me, and grin. I feel helpless, hopeless and lost.
My phone rings, it's my mother:
"Son, I'm leaving. It's over."
"Mother, no, let me talk this over with him. Don't Ma-"
She hangs up. My mind is racing. It's a flurry of grey and white memories. Why wasn't I there sooner? Why wasn't I more sensitive? Why wouldn't I believe her?
With every rhythmically placed foot a drum beats in my ear, the volume of a foghorn, followed by that laughter. I try to cry, I can't. Two days ago I'd told her not to bother me anymore, yesterday she's told that her mother visited and I said I didn't care. Three days ago, she told me her mother died.
I see a metro and dive in.

........

"Is she here? Where is she?!", I storm into a dark room with a broken lamp and liquor bottles. My roommates are waiting, "She's inside with her grandfather. He wished to console her first. Where were you? Why weren't you here sooner?" That same laughter. It rings so clear in my head I want to tear it open, seam to seam.
"He's left some food on the table, there's the cutlet, and inside is the Chutney. Have some. We're leaving."
My roommates got up and left, just like that. I feel stranded. I pray. This is just a dream, this has to be a dream! Yes, nothing has happened and  I will wake up soon enough and tell my friends all about this. I begin to cry. I tear open the food packet, but there is no chutney. Panic. The chutney must be inside with the grandfather. If this really isn't a dream, then she's inside with her grandfather and he has the chutney and her mother is dead. If there's no chutney, this must be a dream, without it, this madness has to be!
Immediately, the packet becomes the center of my universe.The true and only reliable marker of  the nature of my state.I try to rationalize this plethora of sorrow I feel, the hate, the self-loathing, the anger, the despair, the helplessness and utter devastation of myself. Surely, this can't be real, surely, I'm in someone else's tale? There is only one way to know now. Yes, no doubt, the existence of the packet will discern reality.
 As I edge closer to the door, the laughter resumes now accompanied by screaming. It grows louder and louder, culminating in a wail that fills my being to the brim, as if replacing my very soul. It consumes me and yet I proceed, my ears bleeding, and my pores dilated. The door opens.

......


"Tonight, we're re-inventing language,
He says he loves you,
He's full of hatred.

When you dance with the devil, you dance in the street. 

Come on then, kick up your feet."

.....

"Wake up! You have a text!"

I start and sit right up in bed with my eyes wide open clutching my brow.

"What?"

"Are you all right? You're shivering."

"I'm fine... fine."

I check my phone:

There Are No New Text Messages.

Happiness.

I am diametrically opposite of where I want to be.
But my destination and I are connected by a chord.
When I move left, it moves right,
And we run, madly in circles.

Were you breathing smoke into my lungs,
Or love into my soul?
I can no longer tell,
your part from my whole.

Make the Screaming Stop.

Tell me I have a home to go back to,
Tell me my mother is waiting with open arms.
Tell me my father will tuck me in another night.
Telling me he'll keep us safe from harm.

Just tell me that I have something to hold onto.
Just tell me something.


Please.

I am.

I am,
Tired, of too much thought,
Corrupted with too much regret,
Filled on too much fear,
and too little wine.

I am,
Bored, of these subtleties,
Constricted by these yellow walls,
Deluded by these picture frames,
That will remain empty.

I am,
Aggrieved, by my mother,
I'm suspicious of my father,
Still smitten by my lover,
and inconsiderate of my friends.

I am,
Disillusioned, with marriage,
Cautionary with love,
In love with cynicism,
and myself.

I am,
Inconsiderate, of the past,
Belligerent with my present,
Addicted to my future,
and everything in between.

I am,
Covetous of my lover,
Desirous of an unempty home,
Anxious of the evenings,
and the daylight's early death.

I am,
Content only with my dreams,
Terrified only by nightmares,
Comforted only by arms,
that belong to one in absentia.

I am,
Irritated by constant longing,
And titillated with random joy,
Awaiting the beginning,
to the end of what I am not.

Oh, Fame.

"You're in the paper?
You must be glamorous!!"


"Nono. Just ugly. Just very, very ugly."

If I woke up one day and read a text congratulating me on making it to a local newspage, I automatically would like to assume it has to do with some underage illegal indiscretion or scandalous criminal activity at the very least.

But nope, no glamour, no murder, no felony.
Although it is a little flattering and highly ironic to be the poster child for Student Suicide.
Albeit uncredited.

Sigh.
Always Uncredited.

If Shakespeare were alive, I'd be his fanny-pack.

Somebody recently informed me, that I delve too much in unnecessary melodrama, and that I place too much importance on the creation of tragedy.


I told her to flail not her viper-tongue at me, but instead spend her wicked mind on endeavors more fruitful such as plotting the gruesome death of her first born and pinning it on her mother.


Hmmm.

My Mind Tirades

I am filled with no such piquancy,
Or wondrous sense of joy,
When child wraps his fingers round mine,
Or rattles at me his toys.

Adolescence does not hamper me,
Nor working men in clothes,
Your psychology seems redundant,
In the light of worldly woes.

Tired of wishing, sighing and cursing,
For things have long, grief overcome
You cannot wish for pitchers half-empty,
When the wine in your cellar has over-run.

I do not seek thought, or after-thought,
Nor seek solutions etched in trees,
I can no longer run errands for intellectual minds,
Whose conclusions are dichotomies.

Philosophy, I can no longer bear,
It plagues my mind, too stark
It makes no sense to ponder light,
While your feet are stumbling in the dark.

Provide me with answers, ask no questions,
I will not indulge in such levity.
Supply me with hands, not with words,
And engage me only in brevity.

I can no longer pocket inane dilemmas,
That enquire into worldly thought,
When the world itself is burning,
In the midst of a heathen drought.

Since pensivity, has turned me cold, unfeeling,
Revealing truths in shades of grey,
I refuse to delve further into dusty books,
And rather labour in this light of day.

Oh, but darling, this ain't no murder mystery.
I had a knife in my hand, and your back to my face.
And that quite simply, is your tragic history.

What do you write about, when you have nothing to say?

So as the title suggests, I'm conceptually broke. But I will relate certain events, that were a pleasant break from the monotonous cycle of sleep, sleep deprivation, and more sleep.

I was never very fond of Bryan Adams. I mean sure, he had a few good hits like Summer of '69 (which is apparently bursting with sexual innuendo), Everything I Do, Here I Am, etc., but he never really got to me as an artist, partly because he sounds like a horse. Or maybe I just think so because he voiced one in some animated movie. Anyway, I have this tall lanky,but immensely pretty friend, who would go nuts about him when we were in school. Refer to him as God and what not. I never really agreed with her and told her that the only reason she loved him was because he sounded like a horse, the only creature she'd successfully be able to copulate with.
I beg to differ now. About the Bryan Adams being ordinary part of it. My friend is still searching for her Fine Equine.
Almost everyone I knew who was in the city at the time was attending the concert and I decided wasn't going to buy those steeply priced tickets and that I'd only go if passes somehow miraculously fell into my lap. And fall into my lap they did, because the next day I overheard  eavesdropped on my brother asking my dad for passes, and yes, miraculously enough, he said he'd see what he could do. Luckily one of the sponsors had some connection with my dad so he said he could get us passes. I immediately jumped in and demanded that if my brother was getting passes, I wanted one too. Now this was partly because I did want to go since my friends would be there, but mostly because I am filled with a sense of wondrous optimism every time I'm able to successfully ruin something for my brother. Reminds me that the world is still a beautiful place.

Ugh. This is getting long, so I'll cut it short. The passes turned out to be VVIP passes, i.e in a section cordoned off from the regular crowd. For once in my life, I hated being privileged. And the seating sucked too. It was filled with these celebrities and and the floozy Page3 crowds who spent the entire concert fidgeting with their hair and makeup and trying to look elegant yet candid enough for the many cameras around. To make it worse, I showed up wearing a Kurta and jeans (courtesy my afore-mentioned friend, the bitch) and had literally everybody stare at me like I was The Thing from the Swamp. I spent the the first half hour frantically scouting for a familiar face that I knew in person and not from a magazine. I hit the jackpot. I found a classmate from school who was with another guy I knew along with 3 other people who seemed incredibly nice. Oh oh oh, and did I mention? OPEN BAR. It felt so good to have some rum and vod after 8 fucking months. Not too much though, I had to get home sober.
The concert began and soon enough I forgot about how my friends were an entire section away from me or that I was wearing a Kurta at what seemed to be a Page3 event, and Bryan Adams just took over. Man, that guy knows how to please a crowd. And he didn't even have to take his clothes off or anything. Now THAT'S talent. Each song was more heart thumping than the next and the company was as good as the alcohol. We decided to do the whole shout out to Adams when the crowd was silent. We yelled, "WE LOVE YOU BRYAN ADAMS", which was followed by "I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABIES" yelled by this one incredibly Gay and incredibly awesome friend of ours. All in all it was an insane evening that assured me that life didn't have to suck as long as there are concerts like these every once in a while.

The point is, I now find Horse-Singing immensely sexy.

Nevermind,
I'll find someone like you,
I wish nothing but the best
for you too.
Don't forget me,
I beg,
I'll remember you said,
sometimes it lasts in love
but sometimes it hurts instead.


Someone Like You - Adele.
Beautiful.

You turn into the pages of a story,

That you've never heard before.

But it'll break my heart,

and it'll break your heart,

to find,

it's never been told before.

tick tick tick


Our minds are fickle. Our dreams, fickler.
We let them grow from a pocket of fire, that we carry around in our hearts.
Do I dream when I'm awake, that we'll be together, with the dresses we wear, knit by our fate?
When I'm asleep, I can only hope, that the bar around the corner, is as warm as we want it to be.
I take comfort in your mind, as you do in mine.
And entwined, we'll wait for the clock to strike eleven,
and for the chords to turn into heartbeats.
Because we wait, with the patience of a timer, that's unwilling to go off.


tick tick tick


But if not wait, what are we to do?
Our lives are those little timers, waiting to go off, so we can burst forth in colour, like they do in the movies.
When it does, I'll hold your hand, and we'll dance in the City lights, till our feet are bare and souls alight.
Because with you, there is mirth,
in your words, there is joy,
and in our dreams, there is eternity.


Till then we'll wait, wont we,
on this kitchen floor,
and stare at this timer together,
waiting, willing for it to go off?


Because we are together,
what we apart,
aspire to be.


tick tick tick

Blackbird

Blackbird, you come to my window every evening,
To listen to the sound that is my heavy breathing.
You put a wing up to the sun,
And said the world is sleeping.

But Blackbird what of the Sun & the Moon,
What of this morning that has come too soon?
Do not tell me of white trees in September,
Do not tell me of fast cars in June.

Do not fix my head, or begin to mend my errors,
And do not teach my tongue in forgetful forevers,
That when my lover left, he left hope behind,
And the heart endures what the heart endeavors.

And if you must sing to me, sing me the blues,
Sing me the sadder of the golden tunes,
And if you are to fix me, Blackbird,
Make me the object of another man's muse.

So leave me your feathers,
Blackbird, on my window sill,
And I'll write that epic letter,
the one to my lover,
And have it laden with goodwill.

But promise me this, with my letter when you roam,
You'll leave me behind a heart-shaped stone,
One I can cradle and caress,
Till you somehow bring me, my lover home.

Lazy Wednesday

Sometimes,
My hands cannot keep up,
With the things,
My mind wants to complete.

Thoughts move,
Too fast for my heart to grasp,
To measure,
If the passion meted out is enough.

So I,
Stop mid-way, and stare at my hands,
Willing them,
To get more done, without moving at all.

And technically,
Shouldn't I be accomplishing more,
If I do,
Absolutely nothing at all?

Because,
In my mind, I have done them,
And the world,
Is but a reflection of my mind.

So I will be happy,
By achieving with my thoughts,
Because delight,
Is that purple Sunbird, on my morning walk home.

You Only Keep Me Here, So I May Not Keep Myself.

As the evening grows louder,
I cannot take any more of you,
As the city grows cloudier,
I doubt I'll see this through.

Because my heart,
It belongs outside the window,
It follows the breeze,
Go where it goes.

You cannot hole me in here,
There's too much I haven't seen.
You cannot hold me with fear,
Once my mind has been set free.

There's a busy station somewhere,
And I must be a passenger,
Be a part of greater equation,
The begins here and ends nowhere.

But you keep me held down,
Telling me you're keeping me safe,
You only hold your ground,
So you might not lose face.

My world grows emptier,
Darker, and smaller each day.
Would you hold your ego greater,
While you watch my mind fail?