Catch my drift if you can.
If you can keep up, anyways.
The moment I start to cease
The day. The night. My cruise.
It floats.
Drift away from my grip.
Catch my thoughts if you can.
My very dispersed bits.
The distorted truths
I craft in my head.
Keep up if you can.
Because I can’t.
Catch me while I’m falling.
Keep me up when I’m drifting.
Wake me while I’m hazing,
For my thoughts are dispersed.
And my days are not seized.
Barely hanging on to the whims of the world,
The rushes of the crowd,
I twist my way forward.
Propel ahead to the front.
Meanwhile,
The whelms of my chaos,
The rues of my abyss
Poises my lungs.
Thomps my heart to the beats.
And wind the webs in my head.
Suffocation.
The stifle.
The whimsy of my scream
Turns into a whisper of realm.
I halt.
I breathe in.
Yet I keep going.
I breathe in.
Then, I run.
Yet, I never breathe out.
I hold on to it.
Everything I devour.
Adding to the suffocation.
Building up the complexion,
I keep roaring inside.
Screaming from the far side.
To never let it out.
Not to shout it out loud.
While I rave and rant,
I hold the thought.
But sometimes,
On the rare days,
I BREATHE.
I breathe like no other day.
I let it all go in a puff of air.
And I fold my serene
Into the creases of my brain!
It’s life after all, they say.
It happens in black and white, they claim.
But also, they refrain.
For some, it happens in colours.
For others, life fades within the shades.
However,
If life were to reflect
The turmoil and infarcts,
If it was to pertain the illness,
To caricature the abyss,
Then, life must be
A li’l bit of black and white.
If life is all about the goods and the bads,
The wrongs and the rights,
Happening between the oscillations,
On the scale of the extremes,
Then, life is indeed
A li’l bit of black and white.
If life is in the beyond,
Beyond the colour bound,
Neither in the reflection,
Nor in the absorption,
Life, then, must be a cohesion
Of colours and shades.
After all, it’s life.
Isn’t it?
It’s never bound.
Yet, it hounds.
It is not a façade.
Nor is it a deceit.
I am what I am.
And what I will become.
What I already have become.
The things I love,
The psyche I bear,
Is not thoroughly figured out.
Thoroughly refined.
It is a work in progress.
Unfinished derails of thoughts and memories.
So whatever I say,
The love or hate I utter,
Is the perception of my (current) opinion,
The fragment of my understanding,
Of my own becoming and growing,
(Hopefully, maturing).
In the process of growing,
For the sake of progressing,
Behind the shade of the unveiling,
It is not a façade.
No, it is not a lie.
It is an ode for becoming!
I keep falling apart.
Year after year –
Time after time –
I keep breaking apart
Into pieces and piles.
And I wonder,
Have I not been falling,
Would I be in one piece?
If I were not descending,
Would I have thrived?
Or could I have survived the cracks,
If not for the fall?
And all I do is stare,
Stare into the abyss of the fall,
Time after time.
Year after year
Doing it all over
With a fresh start over.
Perhaps falling apart is the art,
And I am an artist.
In a sheer search of being understood,
Utter despair of being heard,
Or seen – not presumed,
I found myself in a void.
The valley of understanding-
Is far-fetched and beyond.
Doubt and fear brood,
Over the alley of fraud.
In the land of the imposters.
Is Percption;
Recognition;
Validation;
The reality of existence?
If it’s not perceived,
Does it not exist?
If it’s not recognized,
Is it fraud?
If it’s not validated,
Is it horrendous?
In the alley of doubt,
Existence is fought.
Reality is denied.
In mere quest of understanding,
I rave on life.
I rage war on myself.
I fry truth.
I worship doubt.
I rever death.
If it wasn’t for the land of doubt,
Or the walls of misconception,
What would the world be?
A raid or a bliss?
If understanding reigns,
Wouldn’t that make the world
A real work of art?!
What are you afraid of, they say.
They ask. They wonder. They speculate.
I pose. I think. I ruminate.
Most are afraid of death.
The thought of losing a breath.
Almost all are scared of loss.
Losing themselves.
Feigning personalities.
And frying of their ideal selves.
Am I not scared of loss?
Am I bold and fearless?
Have I not wandered to find the pieces of myself,
I would argue otherwise.
But death can’t scare me away.
In the sea of the abyss, I live in.
In the warmth of the loss city I have conquered,
I thrive and prowess in the valley of despair.
I can’t be afraid of the splashes
Nor the flashes of death and loss.
Yet, I’m scared of life.
Life in and of itself.
It is life I can not bear.
It is life I can not face (even when I’m facing it)
It’s life and the quirks
I can not condone
Nor I can frown upon.
For I it goes on and on.
Life scares me to death.
Death brazen me to life.
And fear unfolds the dark & the bright.
Quiet mornings,
Silent evenings,
Chaotic days,
And forever long winters.
Have I ever changed like seasons,
I would’ve become a better person,(Maybe).
After all, change is the only prison
Or the only constant
In this world of ours.
I feel nothing, yet everything.
From the slightest smirk of a stranger,
To the ache inducing speeches of my mother.
From tiniest scratches,
To my unhealed wounds and scars.
If I am numb to everything,
How can I feel anything?
If my heart is hollow, as they say,
Why can’t I stop feeling everything?
Would you feel like you have nothing,
If you had everything?
Or the vice versa?
What beholds the power?
The nothing in everything?
Or the everything in nothing?
If all be crushed under everything
Or nothing,
If there is no in between,
To act like an iceland or a haven,
I, then, yearn for nothing.
But needs everything.
Did the world happen to me?
Or have I happened to it?
Am I the centre of the world
Or is the world the centre of me?
If I create my world within the world,
Am I considered sane or absurd?
If I was not of this world,
Would I have become good?
Or worse?
Where do you locate the foci
Of existence?
In this world or your own self?
Or your own universe?
Would the world get better
If I wasn’t in it?
Am I the mistake that happened
To the world itself?
Or was the cosmos
The giant blunder I stumbled upon?
If the world wasn’t made of
A great if,
What would have become of me?
I don’t contemplate or fret,
Nor do I complain or frustrate.
Nor do I write or speak of it.
I just sigh and get on with it.
For my life has become
Unending loop of whelms,
I endure it like a robot.
Floating in the sea of denial,
Thriving in the land of irritation,
I rather not think
Or ponder.
For today is not any better,
Or tomorrow shan’t differ.
It’s a mundane cycle.
Unkind and brutal.
It’s a busy life.
A programmed strife.
So I sigh. I exhale. And I live,
My robotic life!
Tear it apart!
Take my heart and tear it away.
It is full of sham, anyway.
Break it into pieces.
Bash it hard with no kindness.
Wreck the pretence.
Crack the hypocrisy,
And wash away the vanity.
For my heart is the temple,
The centre of my haven.
O tear my heart apart,
And cleanse it away!
So it happens,
It doesn’t go your way, sometimes.
Almost always.
For every step you progress,
There’s a step or two in reverse.
But then, here you are.
With all that you are.
Unlocking the bizarre.
Buffering the despair.
Brewing and wondering.
Terrified of ever trying.
Trying without faltering.
Or entirely breaking.
Here goes another one.
A day of being a human.
Constantly sticking.
Continously existing.
So it happens,
And you reminiscence
How it become what has become,
Only for you to succumb
That too shall pass
This, too, will press
And force you to embrace
The truths of our lives.
Both the perks
And the nightmares.
If life is a dream within a dream,
Then, it is ridiculous
To dream in a dream within a dream.
If one cannot tear apart the real
From a dream,
One must stop dwelling
In, yet, another dreaming
And float in the real realm.
But, if one must dream,
In this escaped realm,
Then, create the illusion
Of a world of perfection
In your own version.
Allude yourself to illusion
In a world full of dreams.
If I killed myself today,
I wouldn’t be alive tomorrow, right?
For living is an art
Dying must be a fine craft.
But, if I didn’t know how to live,
How would I know how to die?
If I were to kill myself now,
Would I be able to breathe later?
Knowing that I have held my breath for a while,
My last sigh should falter through my soul.
But, if I didn’t know how to breathe now,
How will I give out my last sigh?
If I were to live in the now,
Would I die in my past?
If I were to die in my memories,
Would I live in my present?
If I killed all the ifs,
Would I finally get my respite?
If I lie to love life,
Could I start to hate death?
If I stopped asking questions,
Would I begin to live?
Or would I start to die?
If I were to kill myself today,
I wouldn’t be alive tomorrow, right?
Unabridged Manuscripts 