Wednesday, January 4, 2012

Questions



Do you talk to yourself? 
Do you see slowness? 
are you willing to die for your friends?
Do you believe in love? 
Do you still remember that smell?
Does it still bring an overwhelming-ness in your throat? 
are you curious, or do you blindly believe?
are you light?
are you free? 
are you forgiving?




Picture: My imaginary friends (Drawing ink on paper)

Monday, January 2, 2012

What I Used to Imagine About You


I used to imagine that you were made of lullabies or of something rare, treasured in a jar of spices. Your every touch releases a thousand doves into the rarefied air. Yet you preferred to unravel the tightly knotted shadows of trees and explore the inky singularities spreading all around. The cosmos was an enormous kaleidoscope for you which you shook, prodded, tilted and turned and stared and stared, finding new perspectives, colours and exquisite patterns in the shape of ordinary things. I put mirrors around you so that you could look inwards within you away from the world and in the process find me too, a quiet shadow watching you, watching you...trying to see if I might catch you watching me, atleast once. But you were too engrossed in how the light bounced off your ebony curls, in the hypnotic depth of your twilight eyes and in the bronze glow of your arms. I knew you had a tendency to stand too close to the edge of the ocean unmindful of the waves, or to walk off through some tangled, forgotten paths leading to snowy peaks, no matter how much I try to hold you back in the desperate ardour of my embraces. I interlaced you then, along with all the pomegranate-scented days, into a dark wall - an air-tight wall around my soul so that I am immured in my secret wilderness along with my convictions.  The truth is unbearable.  I would like to smoke up, get high on a heavy joint of delusions. I know you might find it silly, sitting stoically at the edge of the cliff your skin tasting of peanuts and warm bay leaves. But it’s not your fault; you see, I know you are incapable of seeing me as I am - with all my unicorns and all my wounds. 


Picture: An interesting picture I found on my paper cup sometime back.

Sunday, January 1, 2012

Turning 26



Sometimes I feel that I am part human and part made of some forgotten allegory, perhaps a trick question a bored traveler discovered or a delicate move in a chess game. Instead of growing up and getting sucked into the serious, responsible task of adulthood I seem to drift along… a torn wing caught in a gale at times, at times a still piece of sky reflected in a pool or in a child’s eye.  Some days back I woke up imagining that my insides had turned into clouds, another day, three of my imaginary friends brought the rain clouds into my city just for me. Today, for some obscure reason, I am filled overwhelming gratitude to everything around me, the cobwebby posters on the wall, the clock whispering to itself, the soft glow of the monitor and the inky night outside. I have lived another year, I turned 26 today and somewhere in the vast universe strange things are moving, shifting their position and softly singing just for me.



Picture: Drawing ink on paper.