On Love

Nobody can truly ever love anybody.
This is what i think.
It's a selfish and highly overrated emotion.
Like every other damn thing in this world.
Everything about love is about that individual who is in love.
Whether it's two sided or one sided is hardly the point
And am not just talking about lovers, every relationship whether it be a mother- daughter or brother- brother is like that.Not even one exception.
Not a single one.
Now you know what, I know what I am talking about.
That is why, this is my next point.
Love is perhaps the most beautiful thing ever, it gives you happiness and hope.
Being in love, being really in love is like being consumed by fire.
But not a raging one, contrary to popular belief, no sir.
It's more of a sighing type, and sometimes it crackles.
Love is neither this nor that.
What is love then?
It just is.
There is no dissecting it, there is no cryptic message scrawled across in a messy handwriting underneath.
It just is.

Bad Poetry

The world is filled with bad poetry.
Bad poets are everywhere, they are inside you and they are inside me.
Writing bad poetry is as simple as writing poetry is difficult.
What the world really needs right now is a good poem.
A poem that tells how miserable life is, how much misery there is all around.
Poetry never has a solution but at least it can spread the word of misery around
Make people aware of things, like life.
Of those who do not have it good.
  

The World As We Know It

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This is the world as we know it.
Full of chaos and disordered mayhem and trouble.
We live like this and we will die like this.
There is no escaping.

To Be Or ...

What it must be like to know and experience happiness every moment of your life?

To be unafraid of anything, to live life with an unbending faith and love?

To brim with shining confidence and to have the sheer determination to do the right thing?

To be loved and respected for what you are despite of who you are?

To forgive and ask for forgiveness and finally to get it?

To be not timid,shy or embarrassed for little nothings?

To be yourself, only a better version?

The version which you have always dreamed you would grow up to be?

Strange and Stranger

There is a huge beautiful tree in a faraway land, it always talks to me in my sleep.

It is the tallest tree i have ever come across, both in reality and in my dreams.

It's branches are strong but not very broad, just the correct width.

The trunk of the tree is a lovely shade of brown, always reminds me of dark chocolate in all it's perfection.

The leaves are the greenest shade of green, as if they have just been watered. Shining and brimming with the beauty and life of nature.

The tree always tells me to come and visit her frequently but i always laugh it off.

In the dream it’s not only me and the tree, there are other things which force me to think of that dream often and i do (think).

Besides the tree, there are a host of other people present. People i know and also those i don’t. There are pixies, elves, wizards, witches, fairies, dwarves, all kinds of fantastical creatures imaginable. Animals and birds too. 

They are all there having fun and enjoying themselves with not a sign of worry on their faces.

I always walk in the dream towards the tree and while i am talking to it, these other creatures start appearing magically out of thin air and they all start chattering as if i do not exist.

But nothing bothers me, nothing at all for in the middle of such happiness can any kind of trouble upset anyone?

I am amazingly happy in my dream, i am witty, charming. I am the best version of myself in that dream.

But suddenly the dream breaks off and i am transported into this other dream.

In that dream everything is dark and the sky is always a queer shape of grey.

It starts to rain in the dream and to my utmost horror it’s blood and dirty mud.

I hear somebody howling and i look around to see where the noise is coming from and then i look upwards, towards the sky.

Three massive clouds have joined together and taken the shape of a huge wolf-like dog.

The thing opens it's mouth and i break into a run almost immediately.

I am running, always running until i wake up from the nightmare sweating...  

Faith

After months of reflecting and questioning, i have finally found it.
It is wonderful to know that despite everything, good or bad, you have that one thing to comfort you.
I am still sort of struggling with mine but it's there and hopefully will always be there with me.

Flying

If only i had wings
flying would be so much easier.
I have always wanted to poke a tiny cloud.
I have always wondered what would happen if i did (poke).

Life would have been so much better with wings.
I am almost certain of it...

Half and Half

Every moment is as beautiful as it is forgettable.
The paradox is funny in a cruel kind of way.
That we are all doomed is certain.
That we have all been or will be in love at one point or another is also a fact of this life.
So is it okay to cry and brood about the loss ? It is.
Then this weird thing called life happens and we forget.
About love lost,the friends and the dead.Everything, it's that easy.
Like snapping fingers.
The pain of losing somebody,the sight of the poor.The helplessness of the whole situation.
All forgotten.
This mind,the way it works.It is magic.
Because you can always dig up and retrieve whenever you feel the need.
Forgotten but not completely.
There but still not there.Divided and breathing through life.

?

There are so many questions left to be answered.
To be asked.
Dreams that have not been dreamt and those which will always be that.
Babies that have not been born and seeds that have not been sown.
Games yet to be played and a life half lived.
What is the meaning behind all this ? And can it ever be known ?
How does things matter ?
The why of whys and the what of whats.
They are all there and yet we live as if they are not
haunting us every second,eating us up slowly and relishing it as they do.
And they will continue to torment us ( these things,these questions,the nameless whatnots )
until ...  

Of Writing and Bleeding

He picked up the innocent pen in his cold hand
and sat down to write in his diary,a list of important things he planned to do the next day.
Suddenly out of nowhere- out flew a poem.
It was almost magical.
His heart was in control and not his hand.
The brain was in a hyper active mode.
Everytime he would write a word,his face would become red.
He wondered how writers did it night after night.
How did they write about painful things without feeling it (the pain).
An act of suicide,the death of the soul
letter by letter,word by word.
A pen or a sword in disguise? Who can tell ?

Things Not to Remember

I tried not to remember anything unpleasant.
I tried my best not to look back.
Everything failed.This guilt.The pain of carrying it around for a million years.
Fists clenched and lips pursed, i tried not to cry.
After sitting for uncountable hours on the green bright bench,i finally got up.
I could feel the heat coming out of my ears like a steam engine.
I could also feel the rude stares people were giving me as i tried walking steadily.
This is what hell feels like.This is hell.
The burden of the past,the blunders of a seemingly okay person.
The horrors of reliving the ugly memories.
How am i still alive?

  

Disjointed

Turning over the morning paper frantically,searching for nothing.
A little tea and am too lazy to go for work.
I go back to bed,thinking whether it would be okay to skip.
It is nine in the morning.
The door bell rings,it is the milkman.
It rings again,the house helper.Thank god for her.
"What should i cook for breakfast?" she wants to know.
"Anything you like", i say.
I am new at this.
The sound of utensils clashing against each other before they hit the sink.
The smell of the half cooked food.
I am late,too late.
I call in sick at the office.
They understand that i am faking it,in their hearts they know.
They don't say because i am too good at what i do.
I hate my job and my life.
The phone rings,it is my father.
That is odd.He never calls at this time.
"How come you are not at work?"
I feel brave and stupid.
So i say," Did not feel like it."
Silence.No one speaks.
Feeling braver still, I lie that i have to go to the loo and i hang up.
Nothing makes sense but somehow everything does.
When did i become this person?

A Sad Day

They came.They met.They laughed.
They cried.They talked and teased.
They smiled and fought.
They missed.They lived.
Their luggage,they dragged behind them.Heavy and unwilling (to move).
The wheels of the suitcase,stuck to the ground.A mighty push.
And then they left.

A Writer ?

The room is filled with it.
Is she crying?
"No.It's the dust", she retorts angrily.
The bookshelf is half empty and a thick layer of dust covers the title of her favourite novel.
Nothing is out of the ordinary except for the unusual amount of dust.
Everything else is neatly arranged,piles of shoes and clothes.
A rack of stupid little things.
Untouched for years,sitting with the same bored expression in their correct positions.
She is there,on her desk ,typing energetically on the laptop.
The phone rings.Once,twice,thrice.
"Hello".
"You know you don't have that kind of talent or imagination.You are not made of stuff that dreams are made of.You know there are millions who are so much better at it than you are.You don't believe in it.You are weak.Very weak."
She hangs up.
Panic and frustration,a strange combination.
She swallows loudly and whispers her swears.
A writer's block,her brain is locked.
She cannot focus,lacks courage and determination.
And then there is inspiration.
Why? And how ? When ?
She knows the answer to the what.
Pauses,rethinks and twitches her head to the right.
What?
Who is she kidding? She does not have a clue.
Starts typing again after a few hours of monotony.
Eyes, red and puffy.Hair,a bundle of mess- a reflection of her life.
Shapeless,formless ghost.A vapour of the person she used to be.
Will she or won't she?
I do not know but i hope she will.

Someone I Used To Know

She stood there.Waiting for the train to pass her by like the wind.
She was young and innocent.
She had dreams and hopes.About things that mattered.
She was shy and timid.
She did not know what it was like to be alive.
Be wild and to live life on the edge.
But she knew about the boy who liked her and helped her with her mathematics.
She cared about her parents and the tiny brown leaf which had lost it's youth.
She wanted to help and be loved.
She was not bothered about clothes or how she looked.
She lied but she also told the truth.
She listened and cried.Her laughter was the sound of a thousand bells jingling in unison.
One day she left .
Now nobody knows where she is.
She is lost.Lost in the woods of time.   

Conscience

Who died today?
There is silence everywhere.
Who is dead?
The lips are sealed and the nervous tic is working overtime.
She is fidgeting with her marriage band.He is busy staring at his dusty shoes.
The baby is hungry.She is wailing.He is ashamed.
Guilt is written in bold across her face.
She is too scared and he is too greedy.
They are having a secret affair and everybody knows.
He was drunk that night.She does not remember a thing.
The uncle was sleeping and the old couple cannot hear anything.
They are all petrified.Nobody is ready to speak up.
Or maybe they do not have that kind of courage?
They are made of stone,they cannot feel anything.
Their conscience is dead.Died a long time ago.

Staying Awake

Lying down on the bed.
Not sleeping.Thinking about things.
Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Ah! the sound.Something is off.
The wheels of his brain.
They are rotating.Yes, that is what is wrong.
It is 2 in the night.He should not be awake,thinking about things.
The wheels should rest.The brain needs oiling.
He forces himself to empty his mind.
It is not working.He starts counting dogs.
He likes dogs.Thinks they are smart.
1,2,3,4,5.No,it is a no go.
He sings to himself,closes his eyes.
All in vain.This is stupid.
He is not a child anymore.There is no time to go to bed.
He has tried everything.Watching movies,reading,the whole drill.
Nothing seems to work.Ah! the wretched sleep,these sleepless nights.
They are driving him crazy.
He tosses and turns.Finally he decides to sit up.
He gets up from the bed,pours himself a glass of water and starts pacing about the room impatiently.
He is suddenly inspired by his lack of sleep and decides to write a poem on it.
He writes that poem till 4 in the morning.
It is a long poem and it does not rhyme.
He gives it a hurried glance for the last time around fiveish.
The house helper knocks on the door and then bangs loudly.
It is now nine.The sun is shining and the wind is sighing.
It is a perfect morning.
His head is bent over the flying pages of a colourful notebook.
Aniket has finally succumbed to the charms of sleep.

Change

Everybody wants it.
Most of the time they don't.
He changed.She changed.People change all the time.
Sometimes they don't.
Places change and then everything changes.
Friendship-different forms of relationships.
Seasons,the weather,time and traditions.
Love,hate,anger,revenge,disgust,happiness and contempt.
Trust,faith,bad times,good times.
It is a never ending list.
What about things that do not undergo any kind of change?
Like the sun,the moon,the mountains?
Maybe they are changing too.
I secretly hope otherwise.
What kind of change is good?
What is good?
Is there anything like that?
Or is everything just contextual?
I do not know.I am not sure.
  

The Train

I hear a whistle like sound.
The rattle of the wheels against the rails.
I open the door in a hurry to see it before it vanishes.
I can barely see anything,there is smoke everywhere.
This is ridiculous.everything is.
How can the smoke blur my vision?
Of course i am imagining this.
Ha! there it is.I am finally able to see it.
The sight depresses me and i can never figure out why.
I see it going and suddenly it strikes me.
Like a bolt of lightning,a flash of truth.
It reminds of the time passing by and how helpless we all are.
Not able to do anything about it.
Despite everything,the sadness and the hopelessness.
I still want to see it and now i know why.

    

Death

One minute you are there.Somewhere.Another second nobody really cares.

He is waiting for the right moment .A few minutes pass.He slowly steps out of the car.

Donned in a black suave suit.Hands joined together as if in prayer.

The face is pitiful.Pain,sorrow and guilt.A sadder face had never walked the earth.

It was pitiful and hauntingly beautiful.

She closes her eyes,waiting as he had earlier.He lifts her chin,examines her face closely as a tear rolled down her cheeks.

She was confused and cold.

He kissed her lightly on the forehead.She fainted in his arms.

He gently laid her down on the road,turned and walked off into the night.

He was thinking along the same lines as she had been thinking before his icy lips had touched her skin-of not dying.

The Night

A star twinkles,the one to it's extreme left winks.
The moon laughs and the old man smiles.
The sky is a deep shade of blue.
Somewhere near a dog barks and the street lights blink in confusion.
The mother scolds but the boy refuses to go to bed.
It is a little after nine.A girl is talking to her boyfriend over the phone.
Suddenly it starts raining heavily.
The auto is speeding away into the night.
A little girl kisses her father goodnight. 

Time

Time to catch your breath.
Time to dream or to set a new goal.
To watch a movie or to read a nice book.
To joke,chat,laugh or sulk.
To regret,to apologize or to shop.
To relax,to stare and wonder what shade of blue is the sky.
To cry and complain about life and to do things that make you happy.
Listen and share.Love and fight.
There are so many things to do and there is no time.
I want more time.

Photographs

Pose.Smile.Click.
Sometimes unaware.Working,talking,lost.
Thinking of a distant place,far away from the crowd.
Captured in a moment.Trapped forever between the torn pages of a rusty old album.
Time passes by.A second.A day.A year.
There it stays,static and not changing.
The memory with the photograph.

First Time

Do you remember?
The first time you had dinner alone.
The first time you oiled your hair.
The first time you burped in a public place.
The first time you stood up for something you really believed in.
The first time you kissed.
The first time you flunked.
The first time you tried cooking.
The first time you made a stranger happy.
Do you?I hope you do.

Conversations

Two naked trees are whispering.
The wind is sighing.A breath of relief?
The lamp posts are having silent conversations.
A group of birds are rounded up in a circle.A family discussion perhaps?   
Everywhere i go,people are talking.About things,you know serious things,stupid things,smart things,unnecessary things.They always have something to say.
I am surrounded by people all the time.I am alone and they are too.