Voices

Standard

Yes, they said that the cities were broken
And dust had gathered on our window sills
The voice of Freedom shrieked–until the cities began to reek
Of decapitated agendas and ideologues, their fairy-tales
Which they all hummed in a chorus
And those who heard, clapped and cried
They chanted of dreams together
Until there were none!

The cities were left burning
And the crowds had gathered outside
In the open field where ideas were bought and sold
They were there and they were watching
And they laughed and danced
The voice of Rage, was impaled
They screamed of ideas together
Until there were none!

And dawn had come and it had gone,
So night lingered on
But the voice of Silence was muffled
There were Messiahs, only too many of them
And there were slaughter houses, only too many of them
So all gathered under the sky
They prayed of wars,
Until there were none!

Yes, they said the cities were dying
And that people were drowning
While all the Messiahs failed to salvage,
The dying voice of Reason
Yes, it was all true
And heroes were born, and then they died
Again and again, into the abyss
Until there were none!

Parts of Us

Standard

You know it is strange–how we go on pretending to be one single entity, while carrying the broken pieces of each and every part of ourselves. We go on thinking we are one whole being, yet we have many voices within us which mirror the selves which are either hidden away or have yet to appear fully.

We have that part which is not healed yet, which is still broken–which does not cease to be. It holds no secrets, only fear and remorse and sometimes even shame. It is vulnerable–so much so that it becomes vulnerable even from us, if we are not rushing past it.

We have that part within us which is still not fully matured, it still clings on to hope and laughter and plays around with the wind while it yearns to dance in the rain. In the open ground of beautiful colored vines, it jumps and sways.

There it meets its match–the part of us which has is either taken by age, pain or circumstances. Occasionally it gets taken by all of these. All it does is stare with a hollow look at you–maybe beyond you. As it is covered in hues of grey which keep spreading like the plague taking everything within its fold. It makes no promises–it keeps none.

And while the ghosts around us are busy in their melancholia, the part of us which died a long time ago also stirs somewhere. Perhaps rattled by the conundrum outside–it tries to wake up but it is bound by time. And you know you are not the Messiah–you cannot revive it.

SO you sit with the part which is hurt and you sit with it for a long time. The same time which seems scattered now into a million specks of dust and doom and glory. And you both are frozen because that is what it all comes down to.

There is heart and there is the mind and there is no conflict between them–but only what we imagine and cannot fathom. When we can no longer fathom it, that is where we feel lost. These parts, no matter how scattered are still all us. And this is what makes it all so grim, beautiful and scary. And when we become tired of all these parts, they play hide and seek with us. They do that even when we are not tired–sometimes, they simply do that because that is all they know.

And then there are fireworks–and the ghosts–they turn out to be our own shadows. Either we run from them, or they run from us. So all the parts of us–they become whole, singular–only to get dislodged into a vacuum.

Loss

Standard

Loss is hard hitting since it is followed by grief. We lose people and things and it is kind of like a displacement. Momentarily we lose chunks of our minds and bodies and control. We lose parts of ourselves.

We lose parts of ourselves. Sometimes we lose all of our self. We no longer remember who we were, are or ought to be. We keep being stuck in a void, in bewilderment because we cannot recall why we were such and such–how to get there. In that moment, which lasts eons–it seems like we are passing through a chasm of thoughts and emotions and who we were or who we want to become–seems like a distant dream.

Brain locked, mind boggled, perceptions awry–we can only stand and stare. We ask ourselves–do we go back to this or that. Should we or should we not. And those are the only things we know of, the only experiences, the only clutters and we have nothing, we are nothing. We move nowhere.

We become so aloof from internal and external confusions. Where do we go, why do we go there? Who do we follow? Days become a war, moments and hours become a battle–an nothing wins at the end. That is great loss indeed.

Grass-Skippers

Standard

It has been a while.

The grass in the forest is still green and there are daisies growing all over it. The solemn looking trees stand tall and breathe clean. The blue sky has a dozen clouds and the sun seems hidden away. Nothing seems rushed.

There are grass-skippers–two of them. Grey, small and unhinged.

They sit on the daisies and the grass and the other weeds and then they skip away. Are they the same ones from yesterday or the day before that? Is there a way to tell them apart? Where do they skip away to? Do they know they exist? Do they know I exist?

Life experiences–do they have any other than coming to the forest and flying away? Going from one weed to another? Are they finding purpose? Maybe they are just reclusive? Or maybe, they have a purpose?

Do they hear all the sounds of the music too? Is that where their rhythm comes from?

Are they aware that time flies alongside them?

Do they know how plain they look? Do they envy butterflies?

Do they know where they are going to next? That this world is so big and they are so tiny?

Can they feel too? Are they happy or are they sad?

Look at them—not a worry in the world? Or maybe they are worried too, like all of us!

To you, they are grass-skippers but to me, they are stories and story-tellers and actors and dancers and art of another world, another time–another wisdom.

To you they have wings but to me, they have arms and legs and they wear glasses and they dance in the rain and yearn to fly away.

To you–they are are silent but to me–oh the songs they sing and the things they say and the music…always the music.

There they go–flying away, skipping to another time, another world, another life. And I stand here–smiling because I know I will see them there soon.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The year was 1995 and a little girl ran outside as the door opened to a portal. As she was scavenging around and seeking treasures amidst the hills and trees and streams and flowers and shrubs—she saw a cluster of tiny butterfly looking things. Fascinated, she marched to see what it was. And as she came close, all but one flew away.

The little girl reached out to pick the grass-skipper in her fingers. But it flew away. So she ran after it, hoping she can catch one. But it kept skipping away. It always did.

So the little girl twirled and ran after it–into the forest, skipping away.

And it has been a while.

Of Sick Loves

carview.php?tsp=
Standard

Once again we come running to the threshold of the unknown. It is like a solid gateway to something uncanny, almost dead burden that we may or may not want to carry. And those burdens are sick loves–the syndromes we never wanted and yet we get them and have to carry them on. The sickness which does take us out of our misery for a short while–only to leave us profoundly alone, dis-interested and in a haze. And yet we chose to clothe ourselves in the same attire–because of this familiarity. Since we only knew how to be familiar with dark shadows which are always there. And the clouds which follow us around–because why not? And it is a burden–to be constantly sick and without a remedy. Because not everyone is lucky enough to get a remedy. And often–remedies available to us are not what we actually want. Often remedies are the actual maladies. So we think–what if we leave our sick loves untreated–what about it then? Maybe they will spread to other areas, other places, other distances. Because we have this fear–of abandonment–and abandoning. We had been abandoned so much that we cannot abandon–especially the untreated wounds and the maladies. SO we carry on these sicknesses and learn to love them and cater for them and fall into a cycle of remorse. And it is a profound burden–to feel remorse for a lifetime. And sick loves are burdens. That is why we cannot let go off of them because we have been so accustomed to carry burdens that we do not know what we would do when we have none.

And in the end–we open the heavy iron gateways and try to make a run for it.

Shor Ka Sanata

carview.php?tsp=
Standard

The orchestra fills the air, with a hundred different melodies
And the nightingale sings a forlorn song in the still night
The crowds chatter away, even the empty road has something to say
Millions of miles away–the stars tell stories of death and fire
The neon rain falls and breaks the silence
Two shadows linger on in empty bewilderness
They have no where to go and no place to hide
They talk over each other–there is commotion
There is frenzy and an odd disillusion
The Settlers from the Sea–they are lost once again
They cannot find the waves–which crash and broke them free
Two shadows—cast away from the stillness
Into the broken seals of silence
The two shadows–they lingered on
In noisy streets–where Silence secretly roamed
One which they could all feel

Red Hollow Dot

carview.php?tsp=
Standard

I had that recurring dream again–life was happening to me and I could not stop it.

I set sail in a ship made of rotten wood–into the angry sea and there was turbulence. I was alone–as I always was because that is how I want it to be. And the void was searching for me. And what was I searching for? I had ceased to search for anything a long while back. Because everything was the same. I stopped looking for people in people–I stopped everything — but the world does not stop for anyone. Yet it seems to have stopped too–this time.

Everyday I hear sirens–from far away but they seem to be calling me to the great oblivion. They aren’t ominous–but they are not happy either. It is like clockwork–you can hear the crescendo at a particular point–until you cannot. They wake people up momentarily only to have them sleep again in a sombre, vapid dream like confusion.

People are faulty. They probably have recurring dreams too–of life happening.

On my roof is a hollow red dot which connects me to a sublime absurdity–it looks back at me as I stare at it. It is a red dot and there is not much to it.

Outside are people carrying themselves alone–in hopes to share that burden–but they never allow anyone to share it. They think that it will rain red glitter for them and they will feel again–but they never do. They become birds–always fleeting. And we don’t feel anything anymore–so we don’t imagine anything anymore. Because as it happens–all the while we long for a home–but we are a world full of homeless people who live in shabby houses with others, who live in windowless houses with others, who live in rooms which have red dots on the roof.

I had that recurring dream again–life ceased to happen to me–and I stood outside in the glitter rain and I laughed until I had tears in my eyes. And life was a festival but I was not invited.

There is a red hollow dot on my roof and it seems to be growing. One day it will take the fragile roof with it and I will be exposed to the open sky which is so close yet so far away and it has nothing to tell me now, because I stopped looking for answers. I stopped.

I had that recurring dream again–the blind, deaf man stood in a field of red leaves and danced to the what he thought was music in his head, thinking the world cannot see him. And he was only halfway out of the dark.

I can hear airplanes going to places I have never been to. I can hear them glide through the sick sky–going to places I will probably never go, taking people who I will never meet. And I wave it goodbye because I know it will not return. Nothing ever does–and that is how it is supposed to be.

I had that recurring dream again–about the red hollow dot on my roof. I kept looking into it and found myself at the very ugly core of it. That red hollow dot had always been me. But I had forgotten–as I was supposed to.

Tonight I will not sleep and the void searches for answers within me. But I am a red hollow dots and answers do not exist anymore.

Ring of Fire

carview.php?tsp=
Standard

And we were tired–of running in circles and falling down the same rabbit hole over and over again. The tepid blue and those flickering city lights in a never ending loop were never meant to be taken seriously because they only instilled nostalgia–one which we erased a long time ago. And yet we both sit here–looking at empty screens which scream to us with so much emotion which translates to silence.

In all the trust–or the lack of it–all we do is run around, faltering words–which are just words. They mean so much and yet they mean nothing. One can change water into wine–and then stare at it because we never wanted wine. We just wanted to do a magic trick. That is how things happen–how we sell ourselves for a dream which reeks of a stale death.

That is how it is—we sell ourselves, until no one can afford us. Until we run out of ourselves.

That is when we realize–there are no longer any butterflies. They all went away because butterflies do not come on rotten flowers. How quickly did they move on–they do not stay and linger.

And under the water–we thought we would breathe. We thought we could! And thus, we dived and splashed but when it was time to dive deep–that is when we drowned. And to come up to surface, that is the real art. But who is kidding who!

And the lilies all wilt–because they were meant to. So do we–because we are meant to. And in our broken down walls–we live and linger on. Never letting anyone in–the ones outside can see everything–yet we never let them in and we do not know the reason as to why.

And the skyline–it left its ugly marks which were beautiful and we must stop now–before the skyline takes us. But I see how you recoil–as if you are stuck in a nightmare which makes you suffocate–as if you are caught and trapped. But it’s just a dream, it will be over and soon you will be free.

And I will be here–fighting for finality.

And we were tired, we are tired. Of running in circles which were perhaps never meant for us. Perhaps they never will. And the blue, everlasting commotion with flickering city lights—will be there. It will be only thing here. It always will be–it always was. We are tired, because we were charged. And that is what it is.

Parion Ka Shehar, City of the Fairies

carview.php?tsp=
Standard

The purple city lights, we could see from afar
As we ran towards the unknown, fragmented land
With green statues of strange faces–we would never meet
And roads made of orange glitter–so we can run all day long,
Away from the broken, dismal dreams which we never meant to keep
And we ran wild within the unknown, retro land
Where the rivers were golden–so we can swim all evening
And break free from the deathly pale glances
Of wooden people, like dead twigs or broken down trees
Oh that giant red velvet building
From which music played all night long–
So we could dance and dance and dance
In the shadow of the pink opaque moon which could never sleep
How we danced in the unknown, neon land
Turning our backs away from the figures which brought us doom
And under the silver sun—we stayed forever
For it was our turn to clean away the white dust from our feet
And we were all alone, we were all alone

Jasmine

Standard

The painter sleeps in a room without colors today
And the writer looks outside the window–just like every other day
What is it that makes the world go by in such a twisted way
The red room smells like jasmine–because she picked some today
She saw a fleeting ship–as she stood by the quay
The clouds and the commotion fill up the air–intertwined in a dismal play
It is harrowing because the people all seem to have gone astray
Their faces have a numbness–their dead arms swing and their legs sway
Even today, the caged bird has forgotten to fly away
We all sat and wondered about the doomsday
How our shells will become numb once more and our faces will turn to clay
Yet the painter sleeps and dreams about the blurry bay
And the writer looks up at the sky and questions it–just like every other day