Tag Archives: thought

A Plea For Help

You know how I’m going to end?
I’ll die dissatisfied.
That’s what is going to happen.
I’ll spend my entire life like this.
Looking for things,
Connecting them.
And eventually, I’ll realize that it was never the answer to anything.

We’re meant to learn to love and to be kind;
To heal and to help heal.
And here I am,
Collecting things,
Like souvenirs;
As if I could always carry them around,
Or wear them
Like a prize perhaps.

I know, I tend to know,
I always do.
But I have so much inside
Which is neither focused nor channelized;
And it oozes out of me,
Like blood out of a pin sized prick,
My thoughts are everywhere.
All over the place.
And I need help controlling them.
Please help.
Save my soul.

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Ghost Hunter

For a man who spends his quiet nights chasing ghosts that lurk around corners without a motive, for someone who walks quietly into the shadows of a dark night, I wonder if there’s any part of him that believes that life exists outside anymore. Beyond the dark corners of his heart? He walks into the cemetery and searches frantically, and weeps and weeps on the tombstone of a man he once knew. Rumor has it, he killed the man buried under the tombstone. Then why does he cry? What is he looking for? What have you lost? Whose dreams were you chasing that you let go of yours?

Let’s rewind 5 years of his life now. “You came to me a long time back, like a friend should, like a friend would. All I see now is a faint shadow, which crawls back in and out, afraid of quiet sunsets and dark nights. I remember a time when you walked the shallow streets like you owned every sleepless night. Now you’re merely one to walk amongst it. No different than any ragtag junkie or a scavenger. A bitter irony, this story, of a man, reduced to nothing more than a faint shadow of the man he once was. It’s not often that you see a man burn and come back as nothing but ashes of his own reflection. No, it’s not the Phoenix. That return was triumphant. This is just sad to watch.”

“This is my dream! Raise objections, ask questions, shout, shudder, ponder, abuse me! But you raise a finger and I’m taking your arm for it.” I remember you shouting out to the world. You were on fire.

Then you made a mistake. You decided to walk away. Leaving behind an empire of dust and sin. You left it to rust, you looked away and you walked. I remember the anger, the cries of a million dead dreams, and they all surrendered; frickin’ surrendered to the roar of a lion. The wild untamed beast that you had become. Welcome to the dark side! You asked us to embrace it. The lifeless nights on old forgotten roads and empty streets. What happened to you, man? A man of quiet anarchy, a man of fire and wind and magic. How could you forget everything and walk away? I know the inspiration runs dry, I know that the music doesn’t sound good anymore. But you have to come back. You deserve more, you deserve better. You’re frickin’ better than everything you’ve put yourself through. It’s a tombstone of a dream you once killed. The ashes of which you scattered over the face of a broken-down, faceless society. It’s a thousand stories that you massacred. Come back, man. The anguish of man crying over broken dreams is one that this world can relate to, or maybe not. But that’s not your problem. That doesn’t matter. Come back. The dead have been known to bury them out. Don’t give up just yet. These ghosts haunt forever. Come back! Rewind! Watch the world go backward, watch time turn back.

Yesterday’s dead. Yesterday’s buried. Sing your songs of tomorrow, you’re only young until you tell yourself you are. We can’t always walk away from ourselves. We can’t always stand on thin edges and stand by what’s right. Sometimes you have a story to tell. Tell them your tales. Never kill a man who has a story to tell. Our todays are yesterdays’ stories and ‘tomorrows’ become stories too. Tell them a good story. You tell the world a good story because the world needs one. When you tell them, a lot of them will relate to it. And you ask them whose dreams were you chasing that they let go of yours?

Never let them tell you that you can’t stand on thin edges of an abyss without falling in. It’s the inner depths of reality that you can never come back from.

And so, “On the day to the last, when all eventualities come to pass, you’ll know it has been a good life and one hell of a ride.”

A Writer Will Understand

For days and days
I feel
That I cannot write anymore.
My words don’t convey a meaning
That frustrates me even more.

On and on
It goes
Till this tide sweeps all over my face
Making it hard to breathe
Only then does my mind
Decide to release it all.

Back and forth
The tip of my pen
Oozes red; filling paper;
With the blood out of my veins.
And then I am at peace
After letting it all get drained.

To write, is a gift;
They say.
But I would like to convey
‘Tis more or less a curse
To live like this.

To choke on your words
Before you can finally cough them out
To know more,
Than you need to know
To look around and absorb all emotions
As if they were your own
Feel strangled with their presence
Lest you find the perfect words to release
All that you feel.

What I say,
You cannot understand
Lest you feel; and write.

What I say,
You will not understand
Lest you feel; and write.

The Jewelry Casket

Glistening, gleaming, high-profile gems
That adorn Her Highness’ charm
Enjoy the bubble-like life of glamour
While outside the jewelry casket.

In light, they sparkle
And glitter with delight
But once the party is over
To the dark depths of the casket, they are exiled.

Like these very gems,
Are you and I, my friend,
Like these very gems,
Are all of us.

Taking pleasure in short-lived things
Then returning to the abyss of life.

The darkness, we ourselves have caused
The web of despair, we ourselves have woven
All of this
Is exactly what we ourselves have chosen.

Thought, expression, freedom; Encaged.
Like little canaries.
Enslaved, bonded and shackled
To a life of insanity.

Veni. Vidi. Amavi.

We Came. We Saw. We Loved.

I.

“Tell me something about yourself,” he said, with his young energy bubbling to its zest.
“First day of office?” she asked, veiling her familiarity to its answer under the cover of the very question.
His eyes widened out of bewilderment for her experience as he confirmed her belief.
She went on with telling him what her name was, and described herself by her schooling and job profile. While leaving the office, she looked at him, wishing that his energy never vanishes.

It was weekend, but she hit back home at her rock bottom, not knowing what lay ahead of her. After feeding the family and completing her daily course of work, she walked towards her room wondering if she would ever be able to know herself beyond that description. This very uncertainty of never being able to, was crumbling her heart. Tugging the sheets, she hemmed her body into a foetus, as tears forced themselves out of her. In the safe custody of the vicious blue of that night, she sobbed.

II.

“So you save lives?” The girl smiled.
His face, covered in grey beard, twisted into confused expressions as he broke his deep silence and reassured himself, more than her saying, “Yes, I am a doctor in practice”.

It is sad how we choose to feel about ourselves as Doctors, Professors, Advocates, Architects, Actors, Public Accountants and Ministers, and not as humans. Not as people who save lives, people who help human generations succeed, people who help bring harmony, people who make manmade wonders happen, people who make other people happy or people who make it easy for all of us to live together. It is sad how the means of living have superseded the feeling of being alive. Sad, how we have become so indulged into this urge of defining ourselves, when we could go on with living to what we really are with no limitations. Sad, how the sound of breathing, the crinkles by the eyes, the curling motion of lips, wet eyelashes, pulsating nerves, pounding chests, hormonal imbalances, adrenaline rushes, cries of joy, words between gaps, silences between words, among other things that are tangible and have life, have reduced their meanings to lifeless and intangible labels like Doctors and Public Accountants . Sad, how life and energy despite being alive, present around everyone, all the time, fails to make its presence felt. Sad, how we need the blue of the night to curtain us while we can be human and perform humanly things like crying and repatriating back to our real selves, the persons we have been underneath for all our lives. All through the day, we indulge into the false convictions; hide our sad faces behind our empty smiles and then, covered by the blue veil of night, humans and babies sleep alike.
Just like the Cinderella story nights bring along a magic with themselves, we can be ourselves, we can be humans, just like babies, we can talk our hearts out, cry our eyes out. Then, the morning comes and we turn into pumpkins, again!

VENI: We Came.

Humans are nothing without other humans. Many people won’t buy it. However, no one can deny that humans are made out of other humans. We come out of love, for, the human who goes through a prolonged period of mental and physical anguish, never, for once complains about the enormous turmoil of bringing you to life, as the joy of giving life to you supersedes the enormous pain that she had undergone. You are blessed with love, even before you could know what love is. Therefore, we must appreciate the fact that everyone is born out of someone. That everyone has at least once been loved.

VIDI: We Saw.

We all work so that we, the carriers of love, can persist; but at the end of the day, no one can deny that love centers our lives. For, Love is what keeps us alive. What I feel is that life is too underrated a concept; because everyone has it, no one values it. No one cares to see how finite it is. Most of us believe in keeping ourselves, our love and our finite lives reserved for our family, or, at the most, for our friends; shutting our doors to the energy, the life, that surrounds us. Without knowing what we are stopping from seeping in, we stare blankly at it like we have seen it all, when no one has seen it all. But the ones, who have seen even bits of it, cannot undervalue the endless sight that it has got to itself.

AMAVI: We Loved.

No matter how much they deny, even the people who claim to not love anyone must have loved at least one person in their entire lives. I don’t think there has been even one person who has never loved. All of us grow up with people who want someone to love them in a certain way. But it is beautiful how some people want someone, not to love them, but whom they can love, for taking love is an art that not everyone can master. We all say that we want to be loved, failing to acknowledge that it can be hard to take. Despite all of these complications, it is beautiful how we can love each other, especially, when we love with our broken hearts.

We don’t know why life was given to us. We don’t even know when it will be taken away from us, for, one day we are all going to be transformed from the sound of breathing, the crinkles by the eyes, the curling motion of lips, wet eyelashes, pulsating nerves, pounding chests, hormonal imbalances, adrenaline rushes, cries of joy, words between gaps and silences between words, to stones. To stones and dust and ashes. All I know is that, right now, life has been loaned to me. I don’t want to deceive myself into the false conviction of owning it or having it for a very long time, for it belonged to someone or something before I had it and will belong to someone or something after I have had it. So, while I have it, I want to make sure that I live it to the fullest. I want to be certain that I came, I saw and I loved.

Two Smokers

Under a starry night,

Down the old deserted road,

In the ruins of a tavern,

Two smokers smoked.

 

While soft paper edges burned,

Souls were set free,

Of the mind’s worries

There was not even one to feel.

Eyes were awake,

Thoughts had slept,

Memory had returned,

Heart had wept.

 

To one, asks another,

“Why do you still come here?

It’s gotten old, it’s all broken;

Got yourself no place elsewhere?”

 

Follows a voice with soaring fumes,

“In the brokenness,

Of this place,

There is a solace.

Yesterday, I bought a mirror,

It broke today.

In the cracks of it,

I saw myself. Broken.

Into distinct shapes.

So here I rest, in brokenness,

Homely brokenness.”

 

“Oh, boy” smirked the listener,

“You must be high,

Don’t let this smoke get you,

Like it has got me.

It got all of me.

Once I was a spirit,

Full of life, high on smoke.

But then, I became full of ash,

Low on life, in and out,

And I thought who am I,

To question God’s great plan,

So I let this smoke,

Consume me.”

 

Cough, cough, cough,

Coughingly, both laughed,

Making sense of each other.

So, they stopped talking.

And tried floating on the air.

Just like an overhead cloud of smoke.

“Ya know man”, broke the silence,

The broken fellow.

“Everything that’s in pieces today,

Will be used to build tomorrow.

Ya know, build buildings,

build cars, build people.

‘Cause, nothing’s wasted.

It’s just time and place,

One always searches the other,

And when they meet,

Things get themselves all right.”

 

“Sure do, young fella”

Spoke the lowly spirit,

“Ask a man, who doesn’t know,

All the things you said.

Sure do things fix ’em up.

You see those stars?

They were a bunch of crap too.

At a time.

And see ’em now.

They rule the mighty skies.

So, yeah. You got the truth.”

 

Both laughed and passed out.

So did the night.

So did the smoke.

And so did the inner fight.