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.