Balloons

The little Aaru, grew fondness for balloons. She would play with them all day. She would walk with them, talk with them and even slept hugging a couple of them. 

Her fondness kind of grew into an obsession. The desire for few turned into demand for many more. And her very loving father made it a point to satisfy her wishes at all cost.

Day by day, her adamant need became so compulsive that the supply of balloons dried up in the block, then in the area and eventually in the entire city. But there was always a demand for more. 

 

So her father decided to take her to another city in search of more balloons. Once they boarded the car, he would buy her balloons all along the way. 

She would say more, he would buy more. She would say some more, he would pull the car to buy many more. More, more, more...she would say, and he lost it at a point. 

He lost it completely and crashed the car into a wall. 

Amidst the chaos, her bloody face made way for her fluttering eyes. And hugging the airbag and she said, some more.

Conquest

Took a train. Then a bus. 48 hours after, found myself in Dharmashala. Five hours of trek, then on a mountain top.

The thirty rupees tea. Bread omlet, hundred each. Watched the sunset. Pegged tent and slept early.

Middle of the night, when mountains were asleep and the moon was awake. Peeped out of the tent and shivered to the cold.

The valley looked stunning. So did my insignificance. Maybe that's how it is, when you conquer yourself.

Atonement

The pain you've stashed in that box. The dark shades on the walls. The nightmares you've grown fondness to. Buried in contemplation, the way you count the ticks of the clock...

The pillows you fight. The way you think about right and wrong. The times you made shapes with your fingers wishing they were a loaded gun... 

The tear stains, blood thump and the labyrinth you traverse full of regrets. The emptiness you bask in and sadness you romanticize.

Everything needs an atonement.

Don't stare at the fan. It's not worth it. Don't try your wrists. It's not worth it. Here, have a hug. Let everything melt away for good. Here, have some warmth. You don't deserve cold floors.

The sky is yours, so are dreams. So is pinch of happiness against the load of hopelessness. May you carve a smile on your bed and have a happy sleep. May you liberate yourself from your own embrace. 

An Oblivious Day

This is a good day. A normal day. A content day. Also a very very insignificant day. No politician has died today. No major war or a tragedy to tag it with a name.

To be attached to a ritual..No demon was slayed or a god was crucified on this day. Neither I was born nor did she. And everyone in my family did fine I guess..no one has to mourn.

Pretty much no one will remember this day. Down in the history, this will be day written in water on glass. An oblivious day. A forgettable day. A day dreaded by everyone.

Gods, because they're not needed. Demons because they're forgotten. And humans, because of sheer boredom. They've to deal with their individual selves today.

This is a most insignificant day because on this day, time is truly dominant. It doesn't let anyone steal any souvenirs, any memories. It has just swept everything in the abyss of oblivion. A job well done. 

Heart Shaped Mistake

Maybe one day. In a far a away place. I will randomly see you. Like I see you daily in million other faces. This one time, fortunately, I suppose it will be really you.

Maybe you'll greet me as a familiar stranger. Like the fading traces on an old paper, you faintly recall my name. Or maybe you'll remember just more than that. 

I might fantasize for a while. Those strands of hair that run beside your brows. The eyes that knock down the shyness in mine. And the faint carve of your lips that bruise my senses.

And in that moment. While it lasts. While the nostalgia rushes cutting all the walls. While the sanity takes a back seat to believe what's infront of me is actually you.. 

A car would honk to invite me back to the actual reality. And I would realise again, about my heart shaped mistake of seeing you everywhere. 

Rehab

The letters you had written. Black trails etched on light blue paper. I've stashed them in a box upstairs. Maybe they're dusted. Possibly decomposed. But they're there.

The greeting cards. Flowers that I've dried and preserved between the pages of diary. Your aroma as scars on my skin and your caress in my humility.

I have preserved your smile too. On a shabby sketch on the wall of my room. There's a photo hung around to poke me in the night. Then lot of bits and pieces in the cupboard.

Sometimes, altogether they simmer. Go top, bottom and sideways and take a toll at what's normal and mundane. I get elevated or go down in an abyss. But I don't complain.

My days are long stretched fights with you in my head. They start with you and end with you. I don't like it. But I'm addicted. And I write about it daily. My diary is a rehab centre I guess. At least that's what I believe. 

Russian roulette

 And when the bluebird rides your thoughts and there is no way out. You take your pen and paper and scribble everything down like you wanna bleed it all out. But It's just a trail of mental diarrhea on paper. Nothing redeeming.

Then the bluebird pokes, chokes, and churns you to find a way out. Hours, days, weeks at the cost of coffee; you just waste ink, mocking, the trees lie in front of you as paper.

From morning to evening. You hang to the shades of despair. Hoping for some Redemption, but it's all just buying time to bottle up more frustration, but the bluebird demands and you have to obey.

So you decide to play Russian roulette. You have to. You against the bird. You put in a bullet, roll the cylinder and hold it to your head. A pen in one hand and in the left, the gun, to keep you at the edge. 

Then the pen moves.. some winds...some stars. moon rain. Fuck. Same Loop, and there is nothing new. The other hand takes and clicks. It's a blank. Deep breathe.. The right one goes again.. scribble.. scribble.

The dark the light and insecure nights...Then. What? Wait, wait what. That's all the bluebird demands. Then another click. Fucking Deer Hunter flashbacks, and then the right-hand moves without even waiting for a gasp. 

The lonely. The only... then what? Christiana Perry to George Clooney? you fucker, don't bring clichés curses the bird. Before you ride another thought, it's over. But not really. Three down and still not a proper sentence?

Writer's block, writer's block, I feel like a stopped clock. Hahaha. Let me complete that for you says the left one.

 Writer's block, writer's block. If not, by claustrophobia. You shall be killed by... There... No word. Click. Game over.

Laid back

I imagine myself rolling from over a hill. Down over the slopes then to a flower laden valley. Just like a rhyme-less melody of a budding guitarist.

I imagine myself diving in the sea. Feel the cold and brush of the liberation. Everything washed away to come up clean.

I imagine myself living in a well. Walls collapsing, bringing upon me, all my fears. Then just flapping my wings to escape the demons.

I imagine myself in the sky like a kite. Wind at the helm and birds as companions. The clouds shower rains and thunderbolts applause. 

One of those days of June noons. When I'm confident enough catch moons. I imagine myself not doing anything and just watch the pouring rain.

Brought to life by my mom's chai. Thanking life for its vanities. I imagine myself, laid back, full of gratitude. Trying to find happiness in little things of life.

Insomniacs are homeless

In this room where intensity of light penetrating the darkness is dwindling. Where only ticks of the clock fight the deafening silence..

I lay here suspending my animation. I roll restlessly on my bed like I've forgotten to fight long ago. I fiddle with chances of me able to make it or simply give in to fade away.

I don't respond to the mice that run around here. Neither to the suicidal noises that take a toll now and then. It's simply a long run of nothing. Pure emptiness. A vacuum.

Do you ever feel like you belong nowhere? Not to yourself, not to anyone or anywhere. Doesn't that send creeps sometimes? How to find a purpose in these sorts?

Then I look around and take my mobile. Put on the incognito and jerk off hoping to fall asleep. I do. But is that the answer? Or it's the only one? 

I suppose life is a really long journey to fall asleep. Finding ways to sleep daily to pass out ultimately. Maybe sleep is where we belong. Sleep is home. The only purpose. 

Topsy Turvy

Suddenly everything turns dark. Sounds fade away. You drift into a tunnel. A dungeon of unending narrow walls. Life seems to have suspended.

Storm of questions. Mismatched answers. For a moment a streak of light appears, then nothingness. A voice shrieks in head and suddenly throat clenching vaccum.

Then the ground from under your foot slips. What was in head gets a shape. The mindful experience turns physical. Tospy turvey, you just cascade down. Then a sudden jerk. A halt. 

A faint sound from somewhere hits your ears. You open your eyes. What a relief. You wish that was just a dream.

But was it? 

Still Moments

The day has faded into the dusk. Bit of drizzle has absolved the sweaty-sticky disgust of the summer. 

The rubble in the backyard is moist and half burnt. The vent off smoke has scented the freshness around. Smells like childhood.

The crickets chirp. Through the haze, birds flutter. A half-read story from the past crosses my mind. I just smile and let it go.

Life's still. Nothing to look out for or to be bothered about. I just sit. Observe. Smell and feel the evening. Life in slow motion.

Something strikes me. An overrated couplet of Rumi. I can't help but relate to it. Maybe this is what he meant when he said about that place beyond right and wrong.

Then I hold on. Pass that thought and come back to blankness. To feel. To smell and to just breath away the moments. 

I would rather be a Sad Song

When you left me. After that evening. I've wasted myself on god knows how many sad songs. And the unceremonious goodbye butchered days that came after.

It's funny how the dusk I loved was eaten away by the dark. And there wasn't a single reason left to conjure some light. Cool breeze doesn't matter. Rain is a stab wound now.

I deleted the old playlist you know. The Linkin Park, Breaking Benjamin, and Radiohead are all gone. Even I've started writing inspirations poems. No fun there though.  

But yeah, this war I've waged on myself is gonna end soon. All these wounds will heal and I'll endure all this pain to rejuvenate my rage.

A new Radiohead album is around the corner soon and will pen down a poem that flies off my mind. 

Till then, this is me. With a mask and a pretentious playlist.

Thank you tea

It's lockdown and you're home. No worries. No hurry. Everything is just slow and lazy. Life's so cozy that the worst thing that can happen to you is a bad cup of tea.

You just have a tight lunch. You give your life to the couch. There's sweat and heat, just like the shade of sadness in your life. Yet a happy nap conquers the world for you.

Then it rains in the evening. Your drowsy senses are elated and looks like there's nothing more to ask from life. And then your mom brings you a cup of tea.

You take a sip and it's just perfect. You breath out few moments like time's your slave. Then you silently thank Chinese for finding tea. Maybe for Corona too.