friends all over the world
successful, significant
working a dream
job, satisfied and justified
the work
that went in
skyping, texting
every year
happy birthday
dear
and on it goes, the wait
365 days more
for another 3 words
i wish i could
talk about the school
parties, month in advance
drop by your homes
just to say hi, and
stay. long.
conspire against teachers
bear the burnt
snickering.
be unabashed
without care or
regret.
be kids one more
time.
Long road, gorgeous twilight
Happy, content. No iota of care
I loved the moments I missed her
I miss the moments I loved her
I keep waiting for adventures. Someday, something great will happen and I’ll have a great post to write.
It’ll be a perfect day for doing stuff. Everything will align with the stars. I’ll grab that perfect exotic bite.
Jumping off the mountains singing with birds. Crossing great oceans swimming with dolphins.
Living like a nomad with no destination. It’ll all be so glorious, even the stale rice and beans.
But all that fun, all those stories, just that. Stories. Waiting instead of making. Busy, not free.
The least I could do is get out for a day. Forget the troubles, embrace the world, or just climb a tree.
Is anger a friend? Every so often I find myself getting extremely angry about something or the other. It makes me want to say some things, do some things. It feels like an obsession, possessed and singular.
Something someone said is offensive. I can’t tolerate what someone stands for. A myriad of things, really. Is it my ego? It might be my ego. I think it’s my ego!
How can people be so stupid not to see what I can see right in front of me? Oh, I see red. How can people be so smart to see what I can’t see right in front of me? Red, again!
It’s a constant battle, this feeling. I lash out. I say something awful. I overreact. And then I feel like shit. What a brat. Couldn’t remain calm for a minute. Now, everyone is laughing at me for being a jerk. And I feel it too.
After it’s all done I feel a strange calm. The realization that I need to keep the bubbling feeling of rage in check hits me and I feel strangely at peace. In some ways then, anger helps. Shouldn’t it be considered as a friend?
What is it that sometimes feel important but just gets away from you right at the last moment? The burden of not knowing that very important thing becomes so huge, it encapsulates the entire mind. Limbs stop functioning, eyes stop blinking and breathing takes a nosedive.
Just give me a second… it will come to me. I know it’s very important. Lives depend on it. If i could just revisit the place where it happened. If I could just start the chain of thought that lead me to the information.
It’s on the tip of my tongue. The song stuck in my head. IT. IS. IMPORTANT. I just need to concentrate. See, I was told to do this specific thing by someone important. Or I told someone to do something important. Maybe I told myself.
Maybe if I exercise a bit. Some yoga, yeah. Nothing like some ancient asanas to get the juices flowing. Apparently it’s good for concentration. I need to just figure out what I am doing here. My mind feels so foggy, I am unable to process anything.
Internet! I should try some new products recommended for me by this fine algorithm. Why yes I would love to buy ‘The girl with the dragon tattoo’ with ‘Fight Club’. Thanks Mr. Rithm.
Wait, what was I talking about? Was it important?
There’s a trunk I know. A trunk full of terrors. A trunk full of scares. Buried deep somewhere.
There’s a key I know. A key that opens the trunk. A key that answers all the questions. Buried deep somewhere.
All I have done for most of my life is to keep the two separate. I don’t want that trunk open. Because I’m afraid.
I am afraid to face the realities buried. I am afraid to see my deepest fears come to life. So I try to forget them.
But every now and then it leaks the scares and run. Every now and again a quake shakes it open.
And I face fears inevitable. Monsters running wild, watching me fall through the void. I am rubble.
So, I reach for the key, deep within. And I get to the trunk. Maybe I should face them.
Nah. Someday though. Someday, I swear. You don’t know if I’m lying. You can’t tell.
Have you ever wondered the cravings one might have? Sudden, inescapable. To be consumed by that one thing to such an extreme you forget everything around you, including yourself. I am not talking about the kind of consumption that might be considered good for you. I don’t think “good for you” consumption exists.
I talk of the myriad habits one gets into with the best of intentions but dig themselves so deep that it becomes almost impossible to come out. Even when the realization strikes, it becomes clearer that it’s better to keep digging instead of quitting and just get out of the other side, for better or worse.
To get that one hit of the object of your affection seems to be the only goal you wake up for. every time you want to quit, you find it in your hands. Clutched tight. Walking home head down, full of shame. And yet you can’t bring yourself to turn back. To give it up. To throw it away. You hope desperately for someone to stop you. To talk to you. to get it away from you. But when you look around, you are all alone. The only solace you have is right in your hand. And you give in…
Every time you want to stop, the cycle repeats itself. Every time you find yourself alone, desperate, unable to control yourself. I don’t think these are happy endings. The way these things work, all they seem are sad beginnings.
I dream of it. I think of it. I aspire nothing more than to acquire it. I live for it. I pay for it.
I dream of it. I think of it…
In the quest of leaving behind an indelible mark after we die, we leave behind a lot of people when we are alive. Is that fair? Do we have to do that? Can’t we have the best of both worlds? Running an unwinnable race just for the hell of it. But then again, when has happiness meant rewards? Somehow, having the most difficult life seems to be the only way to matter.
‘Do you see him? Yeah, that guy. He went through a nasty break up. He wrote all about it in his latest article. It was so good.’ Somehow the tinge of real life sadness makes it more worthwhile for people. And so it goes… The more you hurt yourself, the more you suffer, the better it is for the consumer. I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t have any study to base that on. However, I’ve never heard of a successful artist who never had to go through it.
So is sacrifice the only way to go through. A ritual that all have to go through. To have that pain flow through your every vein. To channel it into your work just so it’s not in vain. To insist on your sanity even if its insane. To bet it all even if there’s nothing to gain.
Dear dia…
Hahaha. Do people really start off like that? Seems a little weird. It’s fascinating how an inanimate object can be so full of life. The deepest desires of heart, the darkest secrets, the goriest thoughts, the coldest confessions, all inked on blank bland pages. But somehow, that’s what makes this otherwise unimportant object the most valuable.
It is an allegory to life itself. We are, at best, vessels. Empty. Noisy, without purpose. But as life happens, these vessels become a treasure chest to all the good and all the bad. The vessel starts to fill up. Becoming less noisy. It gets a purpose. the proceedings of life that happened all those years ago stand erect right in front of your eyes. Living and breathing.
And when that vessel finds another inanimate object, all it wants to do is empty up those heavy burdens. Free itself of the sadness. Just so that it can start filling again. And maybe in the process, start feeling again. A life, making a life living a life, and that life living through a thousand of them, just to live another.
