Ode to the human condition during early winter

Pitter patter pitter patter
The sound of raindrops gently peppering the wooden roofs
Cold, so cold
Like angels' tears that froze.

Rain dots the bleak landscape,
The last, sparse patches of green,
Living their final days,
Yearning for light and glory,
But shrouded in grey,
Before the whiteness takes all.

Just a month ago,
The world was set ablaze,
In a riot of colours and hues.
A tribute to life,
An effort to be vibrant till the very end.

The bare branches stand silent now.
Sentient beings, going back to ancient sleep as powder falls from the heavens.
Sleep, sleep, sleep oh children of the great mother,
Sleep till it's time to live again.

But alas, we the race of thinkers,
Of ponderers, of philosophers,
Of narcissists who think we are better than life itself!
For us there is no sleep,
Only a wait, a long wait,
For the whiteness to fade and the colours to come back.

Ennui

So, what do you call someone with questionable dreams, no marketable skills and no ambition? what do you call a serial procrastinator who dreams of things that are impossible because the possible is  too difficult to achieve? What do you call a person who is so unsure of themselves that they are convinced that their whole life is a series of accidents- both serendipitous and devastating? How do you convince this person that they are worth something, that their presence has meaning, that their existence is not an accident? How to you convince this person that some activities are worth losing sleep for, some people are worth giving up unhealthy food for and some things are worth fighting for, dying for? How do you validate this person's life?


You don't!

Life

Who are you to tell me that my dreams are stupid? Who are you tell me that I should think practically, tangibly, realistically? Who are you to tell me what I can or should or must do?  I am the dirty-mouthed, sexually aggressive, socially awkward, child-woman, who doesn't have an idea about who she is or who she wants to be. She is the girl who goes to sleep with stars in her eyes, dreaming of globetrotting, from London to Rome, to Sao Paola, to Kingston, to Kuala Lumpur, to Laos, to Bangkok, to Goa. Oh sweet Anjuna, with your shimmering waters and white sands and spires of sweet hash smoke, transporting your inhabitants to transcendental states. I am a dreamer, who doesn't want anything in particular, except love, sex, drugs and rock and roll. I believe that Lana Del Rey and her melancholic songs of lost glory, sordid sex and drunken regrets are the answer to life, the universe and everything else, not 42.

I am a social misfit, even more out of place here: Where everyone is an over achiever, a princess, a brainiac, a genius, a virtuoso, someone special. This is no place for someone like me- an ordinary, dishonest, unscrupulous girl who literally believes in the adage, “Live fast, die young, bad girls do it well.” I am the crazy one, the one who would probably make a better porn star than a scientist, the one who prefers a night flying high on hash rather than the sweet joys of coding. I don’t belong in this band of special people. But I am here. And I am going to make it alive.

Not because I want to.

But because I have to.

Sometimes silence screams

Sometimes silence screams and only silence answers. The echos of silence, like heavy somber footsteps, weigh down upon one's heart, the crushing load of a thousand elephants. One considers screaming, a shrill long drawn vibrato, cutting through the heavy veil of silence like a blade, but realizes that it is futile. All sound is enveloped, ingested and digested. All sound blends into that inky blackness that is complete dark. One grows desperate now! The agony of being unheard and of words left unsaid is too much of a burden for a frail heart. But what can one do,except wait! Wait for words to break the spell, or for a peal of laughter to shatter the silence, like ripples on a dark glass. Wait, one must; one must wait, patiently for a song that will never be sung.

Silent Night

Its a cloudy night
And yet there is a calm breeze.
A girl sat up on the roof of her building.
Alone.
Feeling alone is one thing.
But being alone,
That's a different thing altogether.
She paused for a puff.
A new habit.
Acquired by the lack of her usual drugs.
Friends, alcohol and of course sweet Mary Jane.

She smoked the last of her cigarette like a joint.
She had no idea why she was so sad.
Perhaps denial worked better when one says it out loud.

She paused, contemplating one more...
Then she decided to wait for a bit.
What was it exactly?
Not the oh so cliche lack of a man?
Pictured spoke a thousand words.
She had a man a while back.
She didn't need one now.

What was it exactly?
The feeling of helplessness?
Impotence crushing?
The inability to make others feel better?
Or the lack of someone to make her feel better!

She looked up and saw no stars.
Nothing above.
Somethings left behind,
And everything in front of her.

She lit up another cigarette
And blended into the night.

Silence

Empty Silence
A night sky with a white field of stars.
The silence stretching infinitely.
Confusion, emotion, rushed verbal effusion,
at times, unexpected!
But mostly a reverberating silence.
A white canvas,
A desert,
A road through fields of dreams,
Corn stalks rising man high on either side.
No direction.
No destination.
Just a quiet rustle.

Sometimes I look into my soul
and ask myself where my voice went?
Where did my dreams go?
What was it that I was always looking for?
I am greeted by silence.
The cloying silence of having so much to think about,
But nothing to say!

My voice, my soul, my dreams, my song,
Has been silenced.

Forgiveness

An old town square.
Cobbled streets stained with blood.
The new regime had abolished killing!
Preached forgiveness,
but how can one slay ghosts!

She stood, in the noon sun,
wrapped in a white shroud,
white as snow,
cold as ice.
The sinner,
the reviled,
the lady who betrayed her own kind.

The high magistrate,
in magnificent robes of gold,
looked down upon her,
repulsion mingled with pity.
Her punishment,
he cried,
is life!
Because our regime is a merciful regime,
our king is a forgiving king,
our people are a kind lot.
Yes, she shall live,
Live she shall!

The crowd eventually dispersed,
some cheated of blood,
their red lust still awake and roaring,
but the girl in the white shroud,
with a heart so black,
with her head hung low,
her eyes flowing over,
her arms tightly wrapped around,
knew she was punished,
beyond redemption.
Because she was the one cheated of death.
Her punishment was that,
she had to live with herself.

Glass Walls

Seems like centuries ago,
that I felt what it feels like,
to be wanted and to want
something I cannot have.

I built my walls,
of stone and ice.
Walls so deep,
and unforgiving.
I try to lock myself in,
and not feel a thing,
resisting primal instincts
and signs from above and beyond.

And then you came along,
and pushed your way through,
battling the ice,
breaking through the stone,
right till I can see you,
beyond a wall of glass;
a shiny veneer,
of what is real and what is not,
standing between us

The glass fogs,
as you put your hand on it,
beckoning to me.
I follow,
trancelike,
as if I'm surreal,
a ghost,
I am not sure what I feel towards you,
but I like being wanted.
Oh, the elixir of desire and attention,
awakens ghosts of the past!

Then I realize,
that I feel what it feels like,
to want something that I cannot have.
So I plaster the glass with mud.
Opaque now and dark again,
I blot you out of my heart.

I hope no one reads this, but I couldn't resist the glory of being a fallen warrior.

I just finished reading an article on a friend’s blog about heart break. She talked about how her life changed after her five year relationship, of who we are before and after that significant remarkable person comes into our life and turns it upside when they leave. She spoke about how all that is left are memories, memories that we want to forget but still choose to not let go off, because they give us strength. Its ironic how our first serious relationship defines us, how the identity of the couple molds the identity of the individual. It’s even more ironic how we let these shadows; these mists cloud the bitter reality of our failures, just so that we can go on with life. But we need to move on, and I guess there is no shame in choosing the comfort of false pretenses in order to pick ourselves up, or rather to numb us to the pain.

It’s been more than two years. Since, my relationship itself did not last for two years I certainly did not anticipate that the hollow created by its breakdown would linger so long. Truth be told, I never wanted to be a helpless broken spirit and I certainly am not anymore. Yet, small things, like the smell of a particular cologne, the memories of frantic whispers, a particular date and time, do bring back a flood of almost visceral emotions. The distinctness of the memories has faded with time, but the feelings associated with them linger. Today, the sixth of January, was the day I had given him a dark green shirt, four years ago (It’s been four years!) and I remember that indescribable feeling in my heart and stomach, when I saw him in it. It was also the first time I received a T-shirt from him, which I wore till the writing faded away. With an almost audible sigh, I realize that I can sense the imprints of these emotions perhaps because a small part of me still yearns for him. Or probably it’s more of a yearning to be in love again. Over time the lines get so blurred, that we lose track of what we really want and grapple around with fantastical ideas and concepts. Again, I suppose this is just another coping mechanism, because we humans hate to face the truth and prefer to voluntarily live in a dream, much like the matrix.

Listening to sad songs, and reading about the most iconic movie characters of all time, I keep thinking, “We should have done this together”. Him and me, cozy in bed, under a blanket, his arm around me laughing about R2D2, debating nay agreeing, about Agent Smith being the most awesome bad guy ever. Walks on the beach, staring at stars, going to the movies, grad school, choosing majors, waiting anxiously for long weekends so that we can meet each other in some idyllic city or town- That’s what it should have been. That’s what should have happened. But it never would because it never was.  Why do I still feed my poor idle mind, these fantasies of an ideal love story, when there really wasn't one? Are we lonely hearts, all part of the same schizophrenia? A multitude of people living under some sort of mass delusion!  Finally, I begin to question, “Was any of it, any of it real? Was it worth “living under the influence” for four years and God knows how many more to come?”

I suppose some questions have no answers. More plausibly, we know the answers we seek but we choose to ignore it, choosing instead to live in a bubble. I can’t speak for the masses, nor can I be the voice of people who have seen many more real issues in their relationships or broke up under harder, more trying circumstances. But as for me, I know, I’m hanging on to something that I cannot quite place. Clutching at straws, holding a fistful of sand as it drains away slowly. Is it the glorious feeling of misguided martyrdom, or the fear of accepting failure, the fear of being alone, the anger that things did not turn out the way I wanted them to? Is it the fear of growing older and realizing that nothing is quite what it seems, and fairy tales are merely just that- fairy tales? Is it the fear of the possibility of never finding that person who I can happily and willingly give myself  to completely and unconditionally, without second thoughts or inhibitions, a person who would reciprocate that and give himself to me completely?

Whatever it is, I guess the songs and the movies and the books and all the clichés are true. When a heart breaks, no, it doesn't break even and a small, little, tiny part of you is gone forever. Of course, it’s not the end. In fact, there is a strong likelihood that the entire cycle will repeat again, at least a few times. A tiny spark, exploding into burning, crackling fire, illuminating everything, until it burns itself out, fading away, till only glowing embers remain amongst the ashes of what once was. And maybe, one day, they will come by. They will come by, carrying a spark that sets your mind, body and soul on fire, feeding your flame and growing from it, to burn on forever, eternally, warm and comforting. Until then, I guess we got to just hold on to the spark within us, waiting patiently, biding our time, till the magic begins!