That night shall hide in the hidden closet and would be left to dust. Along with the day that swirls with the cigarette smoke and lies heavy in my heart. The questions it raises shall never be cast into words. I am too cowardly to find answers for them.
That night shall be buried with other such nights, behind the “Lessons of Forgetting”
The art of writing is the art of discovering what you believe…
So what do you believe in?
Its funny how we fit into the same patterns. I wait for questions you never ask and you wait for answers I never give. And yet, to find comfort, we somehow reach out to each other time and again. Knowing for sure, it would never last.
You dont have words to comfort me and I dont have that special healing touch and yet we muddle through and find that somehow we are comforted along the way.
Its really funny how we fit into the same patterns and cannot find a way to hold on to it.
Oh to love a siren,
To crash and burn
To sail to the dire and churn
Through eternity
Oh to churn!
With every living breath
To the very death and burn
Through eternity
Oh to burn…
Through the bottomless night
In a glorious flight
With a certainity
That must be something….!!
I love old books. There is something about the golden yellow turning into spotted brown that entices. I love the smell of it, the feel of it.. and if it has some random notes tucked within, it fires my imagination like nothing else.
I love reading the same book again and again. Its like journeying through something familiar and yet there are hidden surprises- few turn of phrases you missed, a new thought to twaddle on, a new perspective. And when someone has scribbled notes about it, I get a chance to have an imaginary conversation about the characters. Some times, its a personal note and I get to feel the pleasure of a voyeur. Of knowing an intimate piece about a stranger that I have never met and never will. I dont exactly know what that is so satisfying. Like holding a secret and never betraying it. Then reading a book becomes more intimate.
I love old books more , because, every one of those have a story . The story of how I acquired them. They hold memories of old dingy places strewn with newspaper and assortments of discarded stuff and me, sitting there with abandon, sifting through unwanted, unknown books to find one that catches my fancy and my budget. Yes, this is how I could afford to buy books long before I started earning. Somehow, those books with curled endings and much threaded, partially crumbling binds are more dear to me, more intimate than the sparkling new ones that smell of the printing press. They dont have a story. May be they do, but they dont entice me. Not like the mystery of spotted brown ones.
Or may be I just too prejudiced!
Sometimes, all you need is to realize that you are content. Sometimes, all you need is a moment for yourself to realize this.
I realize that complaining has become such a habit that I didnt notice how wonderfully content I am with my life.
Have you ever experienced a moment thats perfect and yet can never be recollected?
A moment thats not important in any sense, yet is special. This moment, not defined by what happened, is happening or will happen.
A moment — an island in itself. Absolutely self contained and perfect.
Perfect, not because of someone, something or even yourself.
Perfect, because in that moment, you neither dream about future nor remember the past. In that moment you are alive. In that moment, you are you and you are the world. A moment thats content to exist.
And yet, in that moment, there is no you. There is no I. The world cease to exist. You cease to exist.
This moment is so elusive that it doesnt even register.
And it exists just for a moment. It exists just for itself, fleeting it may be, but complete in itself.
Have you experienced this moment?
What does one do when one is lost in one’s own “losing” ?
I stumble as I climb, as I get down. I dont know if I am climbing or alighting anymore. It would be easier to stop, but I no longer know what stopping is.
What does one do when one question’s one core and find it a fake?
I scramble through my much fond musings and find nothing to be fond about. I take my sadness and find nothing to be sad about. I glory in my happiness and then find there was nothing to be happy about.
I surprise myself with smiles as often as I do with tears. And yet, I find no reason for either.
I find myself quite unreasonably reasonable. Quiet in quite a noisy way.
What does one do when one unravels the questions and find oneself grasping for straws to answer.. and failing at that.
I find myself quite unquestionably lost and yet, I have no idea why, wherefore or how I am lost.
I am here and yet not. I am….
yet… not…
Who am i?
Rather what am I?
Sometimes I wonder… am I ?
I am so many adjectives, so many metaphors, mine and others, so many nouns, fond and quite forgotten, that I no longer am familiar with this unshakable, quite easily transferable, a much definitive pronoun I.
Interestingly, for someone who is so lost, I use a lot of “I”.
Photo Source: Googled.
