The Original Dream

I claim to want riches, lots of money, exquisite sculptures and paintings, one of a kind of everything under the sun, collector's items, precious things, everything, a fancy house on the beach, another in the city and a third in the hills.

Maybe I want love and happiness, to work on something enchanting, inspiring and motivating, to surround myself with people who challenge me, engage me intellectually.

To be able to write the stories that appear in my mind at the oddest of moments, when I'm walking or talking or looking out the window on a cold rainy day, when I'm laughing or crying, to be able to make words feel emotions, to be able to translate this wonderful magical experience of living into words and sentences.

I want to sing the songs that I make up in my dreams, in time with every step I take when I'm awake. To hum, maybe whistle, to describe what it's like to be in my shoes through tunes.

I want to dance, each step following the rhythm of the beating of my heart, each movement a reflection of the deep, dark corners of my soul. An expression of why I am who I am and what it is that makes up this consciousness that I call myself.

The dreams of castles, gems and riches coexist with those of freedom and expression, coexisting, supporting, growing, not judging. For they are all the same, these dreams, manifestations of desires of grandeur, material and of the mind.

They all spin in a tight whirlpool, the occasional memory or emotion joins in for the ride before going back to their respective areas of expertise. This is the world of dreams, and everyone is welcome.

And if I walk through them, brushing aside the ones that get tangled in my hair, holding back the ones that try to engulf me, push away those that try to absorb my humanity, there is a calm centre. Nothing spins, there is no sound, no feeling. There it is, the one original dream. Pure and untouched.

I'm an artist. Sitting by the street, cross legged on the pavement, on the rocks by the stream with my feet in the water. And I create, paintings of people, places and things. Obscure, abstract images which are at the same time a depiction of clarity. Paintings lacking conventional beauty rather containing some ethereal quality, brush strokes representing interconnected thoughts and philosophies, that no one really gets but everyone pretends to understand.

posted from Bloggeroid

Our Twisted Coexistence

Two little dots once met, one blue, one purple, by chance, bumping into each other, almost not meeting, running over each other, hurrying away in their separate lives. But meet they did, and quite the union it was. A whirlwind romance of minds, bodies, ideas and emotions. They stuck to each other, each reducing to half a dot to form one whole together. And they separated, teaching each other what they knew about love, life and the philosophies of existence, and they each grew, realizing it is better to be two whole dots interlinked than to be half of a whole. And they split occasionally, pain and despair of the worst kind, culminating in a wondrous, almost child-like bliss. Their colors faded, contaminated with the greens and yellows of jealousy and lies, the brilliant gold of the worst kind of pain and manipulation, then the blue and purple shone through and finally it was a bit too much to bear and all at once, their union ended.

But they moved together, spiralling around each other, parallel lines mostly, other times helices around a common centre, increasing in radii until the loneliness of being the only dot in a world of black became too much to bear and they met, a twisted, explosive coexistence, cohabitation, before they repelled with twice the force of their attraction and moved away.

Maybe, just maybe, it was better to exist in separate planes, occasionally interacting, than to attempt to coexist.

posted from Bloggeroid

The Cave of Thought

It was a cold, dark night. A storm raged on with no indication of an end in the near future. It was the sort of night that would serve as a backdrop for many dramatic stories in the millennia to come, stories of bravery, treachery and star crossed lovers. So yes, a fitting backdrop to the story of God.

Three cavemen sat huddled around a fire (yes, they’d discovered the fire, but not the wheel just yet). They were sheltered from the storm by a makeshift cave, a little hollow by the side of the mountain with a jutting roof structure.

They were isolated from their tribe, separated by at least a few tens of kilometres, all dense forests and steep cliffs. They had sneaked out earlier in the evening to harvest some of those strangely shaped leaves that grew in some clearings in the forest. Some of the gatherers had found the leaves and they burned it one night, the smoke was found to heighten awareness and experiences and induce a delirious state of mind.

These three were hunters, and they’d gone into the forests to hunt a wild boar that had upset their settlements one night when these leaves were found and smoked. By the time they got back, the tribe elder had banned anyone from burning them, the effects were too dangerous, unpredictable and uncontrollable, he ruled.

It felt like they were in a whole other world, they said, those who had the opportunity to inhale some of that wonderful, magical smoke. The world felt brand new, the colours were brighter, the air was lighter and it was a wonderful life after all. It sounded like magic and they had to have some, in spite of the warnings and the bans. So, after sunset, they sneaked out of the village and into the forest.

And now they were stuck in this cave until the storm passed. They made a fire to keep warm. When it started to appear as though the rain wouldn’t relent, they decided to burn the leaves.

A few hours later, they had each inhaled a sizeable quantity of smoke and the colours were brighter, the air was lighter and the world seemed less mysterious. Ideas, oh so many ideas were just floating around in the air, waiting to be picked, comprehended and known. In a few thousand years theories would emerge that every idea had already been thought of and everything labelled ‘new’ was merely a repackaging of something that already existed, this story, however, happens before all that and these ideas were fresh, never seen before, brand new, completely and entirely original.

One of the men plucked an idea out of the air, a bright red thought that was vying for attention. He spent a few minutes in a trance, the idea was a little too complex to be grasped by men who had only thought as far as food, water, shelter, safety and sex. When he finally spoke, his voice seemed different, he seemed enlightened, later on, story spoke of a warm glow surrounding his head.

“This world is beautiful,” he said. The others looked up, noticing the large shadow of a moth falling on the cave wall behind him. “Whoever made the world must have had an incredible imagination, and a lot of skill.”

“The fire is beautiful too. That man from the other village made the fire and he isn’t anything special.”

“No, no. The world is different. Hand crafted. Look at all of us, look at these plants, the rain and all the animals.”

The one who spoke about the fire looked sceptical. The other one who was sitting nearest to the fire looked at them blankly. The one affected by the red idea seemed passionate, almost manic.

“Can’t you see it? It was made. Each and every bit. Sculpted, planted, watered, nurtured. Everything bears his signature.”

“His?”

“Yes. The creator. The all-knowing, all powerful being that made you, me and the boar we killed. I don’t know who or what it is. But does it exist? Yes it does.”

The sceptic remained sceptical, the other one felt funny (You are stoned, said a green idea. Stones? He couldn’t comprehend). The rain had stopped. They gazed into the fire in some sort of trance, one searching for the Creator, one thinking of a better invention than the fire and the other watching a moth dance near the flames.

“Let’s head back. It’s not raining anymore.”

“I’m hungry.”

“I want something sweet.”

“Berries?”

They would have preferred chocolate, had it been invented but that’d take a while, so they had to make do.

Not Quite Goodbye

A/N: Here you go. Makeshift poetry. I'm stuck in this rut where I write about coffee and wine and occasionally a cigarette, a gender-ambiguous narrator, one or two male or female companions, a relationship maybe, that is either beginning or thriving or dying and exactly one sentence in the story/poem that is vaguely poetic and used as the title of the story/poem(whichever I feel like writing pretending to write at the moment).
And that's about it. Maybe, just maybe I should write something new.
End of italicized garbage. On to the real garbage.
---

She is still around, I see her the first thing every morning when I wake up and the last thing every night before I sleep. I can't reach out and hold her hand, or tuck in that stray strand of hair like I used to.

We still smile, we still laugh. I make tea in the morning. She makes breakfast. She still makes the things I like. I sometimes wonder why.

We don't talk as much as we once did, it's like we're actual roommates now, now that she has moved into the guest room.

She insisted, I tried to persuade her to let me move out instead. She stopped talking to me until I stopped trying.

It's been two months. Why is she still here? She shouldn't be. Why am I still here? We need space, or so they tell me.

She attempts to leave every once in a while, calling me a callous bastard. I attempt to push her out, the lying bitch. At the end of it all someone cries. Someone walks out. Someone gets drunk. And it's the next morning. Everything is forgotten.

We want each other to stay so that we don't have to see the other with anyone else. That's a reason people assume. Maybe because it is easy, we don't have to think anymore. Maybe. Maybe not.

Maybe in spite of all the lies, a part of me still loves her. Cares about her at the very least. Cares about her enough to know I couldn't bear to see her with anyone else. Not just yet.

All I know for sure though, is that I don't want her to leave just as much as I don't want her to stay. And she feels the same way. And that should suffice, for now.

*

I'm still here. In this house with all our memories. That couch where we'd cuddle watching movies. That bed we used to sleep in.

He still makes tea every morning. I used to like to watch him make tea, clad in his favourite blue boxers, humming a little song as he dusted tea powder onto the boiling milk. I don't watch him now.

I make breakfast for us, occasionally pack lunch. I still make his favourite things, maybe just because it's easier to stick with the pattern.

We still talk, empty conversations, lots of silence. Sometimes fun and lighthearted. Nothing serious though. The word serious screams 'Run!' in his head. Or so I imagine.

I still lie. I try not to. But I do. What does it matter now. It's all over anyway.

We fight occasionally. Someone packs their bags. It's all forgotten once the night passes. Maybe that's how it should be.

It used to be love at one point. True love, even. Whatever that is. But it is not anymore. This had been over for a while, even before decisions were made. So it's okay, I suppose. Very mutual, as they say.

Maybe someday we will get over this and we'll leave this comfortable space we have created for us. Until then this is where I will be.

Stop

Written on 16 June 2015

On my way to the airport this morning, there was a crowd outside a house somewhere near Kayamkulam. The car had to slow down, my uncle saw some kid he knew and called him to the window and asked him what was going on. Or so I thought. When the kid replied with 'Oru pennu' A woman, I realized that he'd asked who died. Thoughts of Mada mada dane, still have a long way to go, floated around for a second.

Was she old?

No, only around twenty or twenty two.

Two nights ago thoughts were of people who are robbed of their lives and loved ones when they least expected it, of how fucking cruel accidents and heart attacks and even more accidents were. And now this.

It's not hard to see why most people are indifferent to or sceptical of the pain of the suicide victim when faced with the pain of those they leave behind. It's their life, really. And their choice whether they want to live it or not, but they've also chosen to take away the lives of anyone that gave a crap about them.

Rumors fly. She was with some guy and he left her, she got knocked up, she couldn't handle failing an exam, she was selfish. Or maybe she wasn't a bad person, maybe she was hurt and abused, maybe she was depressed. All it takes is a second to make a decision and the days following it to plan it. And that's it. You don't get a moment of regret.

It's okay love, it's never as bad as it seems, get help, be happy again. This life doesn't have to be so sad and terrible, there's a lot more to it. A million places to see and claim as memories, a million people to meet and fall in love with, a million experiences. If only someone found you sooner, if only someone has said the right thing at the right time, if only you could see what you have to live for.

It's all a gray area. Sentences float around voicing contradictory opinions. Why not hurt the people who hurt you enough to make you decide to die. What does it take to get hurt anyway, with fragile minds and hearts worn on sleeves. In a few days I'll forget and you will too. The people in this car have forgotten in the time it took me to write this.

All you need is a little bit of love. Or for someone to grab you by the waist and plant you firmly on the ground. A little too late now. When it feels like your world is slowly spiralling to an end, when you want to get rid of everything to find peace, stop for a moment. There's nothing beyond this love, no magical world where the ones who hurt you are punished and you are compensated for your sufferings. Nothing. This is it, this one life. Nothing more.

posted from Bloggeroid

Hello Lonely World

Well. It's been so long that my web browser doesn't auto-complete blogger.com anymore. That the sign in page pops up, almost asking, "Are you sure this is where you want to be? Really? Reaaaally? Would you like a moment to reconsider? Sure? Okay, but if you're going there to make another draft, we're not letting you in next time."

Maybe not so much. Anyhow.

I'm on vacayyshun! I feel happy. There's this tall kid (old man, brat) with nice hair and my son who I've known since he was only 3 feet tall who keep telling me to write and I keep refusing saying I'm all drained out writing love notes for this other fool but maybe I should stop making excuses and share my happiness with the rest of you beautiful people! People? Hello? *crickets chirping*

Yes, yes. This is what I deserve when I desert the few wonderful people who actually gave a rat's arse about what I had to say. Yes, arse. Not ass.

I made biryani today :D It was good, if I may say so myself. What else.

Take a picture of the biryani for now. I'll have another, better structured post in another hour or so.

Hehehehehe I made this :D

Okay, bye.

Windows [Part 2]

If I could put in a window between our two worlds, I wouldn't reach out and touch you. I wouldn't run my fingers through your hair, or caress the contours of your face. I wouldn't tap you on your shoulder to get your attention, to tell you about something I read or some movie I watched. I wouldn't peek at you occasionally just to see you, when I missed you too much. I'd shut the curtains, but leave the window there, we could maybe catch up once in a while.

I Used To Know You

There’s something about the way she smiles that takes me back to the days when I held her hand as we walked along jasmine scented streets to go by the river and sit atop rocks, skimming smooth rounded pebbles on the still water. The way she used to find the best puddles to jump into when we went for walks, the way I used to pull out the ribbon she used to tie her hair with and run across the field, the way she would chase me, with tears flowing down her cheeks the first few times and bubbling with laughter as we grew older, running as fast as her legs could carry her.

She looks tired now. I could touch the crows’ feet around her eyes if I just reached out, but I didn’t. Each time I felt like tracing the lines of her face with my fingertips I gripped my teacup so tight that I thought it would break. Her eyes were still bright; dark, sparkling orbs just as I remembered them. A long time ago they would shine the brightest when she spoke of the places she wanted to go to. I remembered the little girl who’d draw Eiffel Towers and the Great Pyramids in the sand when we went out to the beach. I found that little girl in the souvenirs she had collected from the places she had been to – all the places she used to dream of and more – scattered all around the living room. They weren’t arranged in any particular order, her favourites were nearby, easily accessible and more visible, on the coffee table and by the television. The ones she didn’t like as much were up on shelves, hidden behind heavy books, paintings and mirrors.

She speaks of the people she met, of the boy she met in Rome, the one she fell in love with and married ten years ago, of the children – two girls – that they named after music, art and beauty. She spoke of the disease that took him away from them, of his last days when she spent every minute by his side, of his whispered last words. She spoke of the last five years, just her and her girls, outcasts from her family just because they liked to dream. She is doing fine she says, and I believe her. She talks about her children, they’re at school right now, she says, I’ve told them all about you, they’re really excited to meet you.

I tell her about my failed marriage, of the girl I married who left as soon as a high school sweetheart returned, about my son, who I raised on my own the last six years, he’s nine now, I tell her, a year younger than your elder daughter. She asked if his eyes were blue like mine and I shook my head, no they weren’t.

She reached over to take the empty cup of tea from my hands and I stayed mesmerized by the way she moved. She still had the fluidity of youth in every movement, I had greyed, and my joints ached. She tried to coax the cup out of my grip, it took a few seconds for me to realize and I let go. She looked at me questioningly but didn’t say anything, instead she got up and walked to the kitchen while making fun of herself for having learnt the social niceties she so despised as a child. I found that I was unable to stop myself from following her; evidently I couldn’t stand not to see her, not after meeting her for the first time in eighteen years. I stopped by the doorframe and watched her open the oven and take out a freshly baked almond cake. She laughed at my surprise and handed me the knife while she poured us some more sweet tea from the kettle. We dragged tall stools up to the kitchen table and sat down, I ate furiously for the first few minutes, expressing my admiration at her culinary skills, she laughed and showed me an empty box of cake mix.

Then we sat there, looking at our plates, toying with the remnants of cake, not saying anything at all. It reminded me of the times we spent at my place after school and I knew that nothing I said could express the plethora of emotions I was feeling right now. I wasn’t sure what it was that I felt, was it love or regret or just plain old nostalgia?

I stayed to see her kids come home from school. Her younger daughter took an immediate liking to me, refusing to get off my lap until she had finished her cake and told us all about the kitty she say on her way back from school. Her elder daughter kept her distance initially, watching me until she decided I was alright and then she came and sat next to me. She looked exactly like her mother did at that age, I told her that and she looked very proud when she said that she had been told.

When I finally got back to my car it was another hour later. The four hours I had spent with her felt like I had spent no time with her at all; too many things had been left unsaid. I needed to pick my son up from school, go grocery shopping, go home and make dinner. She packed some almond cake for my son. Her younger daughter stayed glued to me and refused to let go until I promised to bring my son with me the next time I visited. Once I did though, she jumped off and skipped away happily.

She knocked on my window as I was putting on my seatbelt. I hadn’t realized that she had followed me out, like I had followed her into the kitchen earlier in the evening. I rolled down my window, she smiled at me, I smiled back at her. She said that it felt good to see me. I didn’t say anything to that. What could I have said? That I missed her, her eyes, her smile, her laughter and her dreams? That listening to her talk made me think of the times when we sat under trees and spoke of the world, when she held my hand under a moonlit sky and told me she loved me, when we kissed for the first time the day we graduated from high school.

She saw my confusion, I think. Or maybe she didn’t. She leaned in and kissed me on my forehead. Don’t go away again, she said. I nodded. There wasn’t anything else to be said. I watched her retreat into her world through the rear view mirror as I returned to mine.

New Year Resolutions + A Little Untitled Story

I wish I had something to write about. I really do. This mental block frustrates me to no end. Well. There is this one story, but I sort of want the college magazine to be the first place anyone reads it. And the illustrations this kid drew are beautiful. Maybe I'll scan them in.

Anyhow. This post is purely in response to you who commented 'stopped writing?' because I don't know. Somewhere deep inside I guess it matters what people think of me.

I'm pretty sure I've lost some of you who'd check in occasionally because you kept checking in to find 'Pies'.

And that I wrote for someone in particular and that might be why it doesn't make a lot of sense. But it made me happy :)

Anyhow. Happy New Year :)

Since I've said that I'm obliged to talk about my resolutions now aren't I? Well, even if not.

1. Read more.
2. Write more (Yeah wipe that look of fake astonishment off your face)
3. Stop taking things so seriously.
4. Laugh more.
5. Drink more water.
6. Don't get so mad so quickly.

So I had no idea I had all these resolutions until I wrote them down. See, this is why I should write more.

I'm going to stop rambling now. Here's something my brain produced when I tried to force myself to write as per resolution #2.

And I miss that black and gray keyboard I used to type on, I miss that swivelling chair I used to sit on and I miss the voice that whispered in my ear.

---

I see you in the shadows under my eyes.

The way you smile makes me feel so relieved. Because I'm tired, I'm exhausted waiting for you to come home and here you are. You're finally home.

It's in your laugh and in the heaviness in your voice. The feeling that something is terribly wrong, that nothing will ever be quite the same.

Maybe different will be better. Maybe different is what we've always wanted. What we needed.

Maybe being together will be no worse than being apart, that's how I sate this apprehension that fills me. We've been together before, it's not the first time. There's no need to be afraid that things aren't as perfect as they are in our heads.

They won't be. Nothing could ever live up to the dreams I had, because dreams are dreams and this is life. This is real.

You know that too, somewhere deep inside and that is why we're holding back. You reach out to touch me, bring your palm to rest against my cheek. I hold you close, wrapping my arms around your waist. We feel our hearts beating, not quite together but it's okay. We still have time.

posted from Bloggeroid